"Good, you made it," Adrian greeted Natalie back at Maples Pavilion as he came in the door, "Julie holding up OK?"

"She's over at a friend's, trying to find something positive of the whole thing," his assistant told him, "You said over the phone you think there's a chance Wendy might be innocent?"

"Of murdering Shute, possibly," Adrian nodded, "They, they didn't touch anything at the scene, Captain?" he asked Stottlemeyer as he and Disher entered after him.

"I made the calls, everything in the weight room's been reset to what it was when they found the body," Stottlemeyer reassured him, "So let's walk this way and see if we've got this finished, or if there's more to the story than we know. Personally, I think she's just using us for a last chance at freedom, but..."

"Shhhh," Natalie hissed at him as they reached the weight room. Adrian stepped inside and walked in a slow circle around the room, making his familiar hand gestures all the while. He did stop briefly to examine one barbel lying on top of a bench presser, then dug out a pair of wipes and took some weights off it before nodding and continuing his circumference of the room. "Well?" Stottlemeyer asked when he returned to the doorway.

"Sorry, I'll have to do it again; the weights, they were at three hundred eighty-five pounds, it distracted me too much," Adrian admitted, "Had to set it at four hundred even before I could concentrate. I'll, I'll get back to you in a minute."

He ignored the three sets of eye rolls and returned to his business, making another slow trek around the weight room. Disher almost instinctively walked forward and began examining the weights as well. "May I ask what you're doing, Lieutenant?" Stottlemeyer had to ask.

"Just setting all the weights at four hundred so Monk can concentrate," Disher informed him, "Looks like I don't have to worry, though; whoever was in here last was lifting four hundred too," he pointed at the weight machine in front of him.

"Thank, thank you much," Adrian lauded him. He bent down by the vent, examined it thoroughly and nodded. "OK, Natalie," he said as he approached the door, "You can tell Julie she can rest easy; Wendy didn't kill her coach."

"Oh good," Natalie openly sighed in relief, "How do we know, so I can tell her for sure?"

"This wasn't a simple strangulation; far too much pressure was exerted on Shute's throat for a seventeen-year-old to cause," the detective told her, "Plus look at everything around the door; spotless, completely spotless. If she'd been waiting in here to jump him, Shute would have knocked everything over since he's about seventy pounds heavier than her, perhaps even overpowered her."

"So if he wasn't strangled by her, how did he die then, Monk?" Stottlemeyer inquired.

"Well, I do have a theory that sorts of fits," Disher raised his hand. Stottlemeyer sighed loudly. "Oh well, might as well get it over with since you were going to bring it up anyway," he muttered dejectedly, "Go ahead, Lieutenant, how was Norm Shute murdered?"

"It's possible we could be dealing with a Sith Lord here, Captain."

"Sith...Lord...," even having accepted that what his adjutant would say would be absurd, Stottlemeyer still weakly turned away, his hand over his face.

"Well, we have to consider every possible angle, right Monk?" Disher looked at Adrian for confirmation; the detective had his own hand over his face, trying to concentrate on the evidence at hand. "And you have to admit," the lieutenant continued, "This is the perfect Sith crime; he'd never have to go into the weight room, just stand outside the door and use the Force to choke the life out of Shute."

"And you REALLY think that's a theory anyone in this galaxy, or any galaxy for that matter, would find plausible, Randy?" Stottlemeyer asked, his voice seething with total and complete frustration, "Moreover, how come our Sith Lord, if by chance it WAS one, doesn't show up on camera outside!?"

"Well that would be easy; he used the Dark Side to cloud the camera so it couldn't see him, sir."

"That's the Shadow who does that, Lieutenant, if it makes any difference at all!"

"No it's not," Disher said defensively, "Actually, the Sith wouldn't have to have even been standing right here outside; after all, Vader got Ozzel from halfway across the Executor, and if...Captain?"

Completely stiff to keep himself from yelling or otherwise making a scene, Stottlemeyer dug out his stress yo-yo and bounced it around so violently that it broke off and shattered when it hit the wall. This venting method now spent, he took gigantically deep breaths for close to two minutes before his face became much calmer. "OK, now that we've got thatout of the way, what do you think happened if Wendy didn't strangle him, Monk?" he asked the detective.

The killer was in the air ducts, Captain," Adrian gestured towards the vent, "Something was yanked in through here; look at the dents in the grating," he pointed at three bars on the grate dented noticeably inwards. "And look behind here," he marched over behind the front door and gestured with his foot at a small object with rollers--so small that it wasn't that surprising the police had initially missed it--then pointed up at the ceiling, which had a slightly discolored spot in the plaster. "Norm Shute suffocated, but he was hanged, not strangled by hand. The killer set this up and ran the rope through it, so we're looking for whoever knew his exact height."

"I think he's right again," Disher picked up the rollers and examined them closely, "These look like rope fibers here, Captain."

"All right, but how do you explain Wendy's prints on the rope, Monk?" Stottlemeyer had to point out, "And if he was hanged outright like you say, where's the rest of the rope?"

"Give, give me the piece you found," Adrian requested it. Disher picked up the bag holding the rope and held it up for his benefit. "I see," the detective nodded, "Shute was too heavy; the rope broke under his weight just as he died. Look, it clearly broke off at the ends here," he pointed out the fray marks indicating the breaks, "The killer took the rest back through the air ducts with them, but this piece probably got trapped under his body or something like that. Wendy might have picked it up by accident when she found his body."

"Guess I can buy that," Stottlemeyer nodded slowly, "OK, so we're looking for someone who'd fit inside that duct with a busted noose. And a motive to kill him. I don't suppose you know that too, Monk?"

"I, I have a theory, but I'll really need more proof to make an accusation," Adrian admitted.

"Well we'll go look for that proof; I'm calling the I.O.C. back; you're going back undercover, my friend," the captain pulled out his cell phone.

"Actually, Captain, suppose this person strikes again, we might need another person undercover just in case," Disher proposed, "And I'd like to volunteer."

Stottlemeyer glanced slowly back and forth between the lieutenant and the others. "Well," he sighed slowly, "I guess until Monk gets more of a lead, we might have to. Come with me, and we'll see what Mr. What's His Name the chairman has to say about a second undercover guy."

The two of them walked out of the weight room. Adrian adjusted the wiped back over his wrists and started arranging the weights on the racks according to size. "I, I hope he does know what he's doing," he confided in Natalie, "I might argue that I stand out, but he'd..."

"Shhhh," Natalie held up her hand. Indeed, Adrian could now hear the rocking of heels just outside the weight room door. Natalie walked over and opened it all the way to reveal none other than Zlata Tadic the Kosovoan Olympian standing outside, looking quite nervous. "Well hello," the former bartender greeted her, a little surprised, "Can we help you with something?"

"Mr. Adrian Monk," Zlata nervously entered the room, her voice crackling with a bit of fear, "I had seen you coming in, and...if it's not...can I have your autograph?"

She extended a crumpled piece of paper and a worn down pencil towards him. "Um..." Adrian hesitated. Since the lottery debacle, he'd been increasingly reluctant to sign autographs for even the loyalest fans out of fear it would backfire in his face as it had then. "Here's, um, here's the..."

"He would be glad to," Natalie put the pencil and paper in his hand and mouthed towards him, "Don't ever turn down a kid." Adrian shrugged, wiped the pencil down, and signed his autograph. "So, uh, I, I suppose you get the show over there, right?" he inquired.

"At the training center in Pristina, it is the one show from America they get regularly," Zlata was breaking into a smile to get his autograph, "You are an inspiration to so many, you know? To always bring down the big, evil people and help those less fortunate, in spite of what you have, that is pure heroism. You are someone to look up to."

"Well, um..." Adrian couldn't deny he'd been touched by this statement, even though he tried hard to maintain a neutral expression, "Well, you, you do know it is a show, it's not exactly my real, real life--although it usually is as close as it can be to my real life, really--"

"He means he's very grateful you feel that way," Natalie finished for him. She handed the paper back to Zlata. "Thank you," she told the woman, "And I am sorry about Mr. Teeger. I think what he was trying to do was heroic too. You should be proud."

Natalie choked up openly. "Thank you, that, that means so much to know someone like you can think that," she said, trying to hold back the tears, "Mitch, my husband, he did genuinely care about your people and what was happening to them. He would be happy to know you won independence in the end."

"I know he would," Zlata smiled at her, "Don't give up hope; maybe he did live through that crash and may come home yet."

Adrian shuffled about uncomfortably. While it would certainly be nice if Julie got her father back for good, he knew having Mitch alive would also likely mean the end of Natalie's employment with him, and he wasn't sure if he could handle another exhaustive assistant search (unless he'd solved his two hundredth case at that time and thus had good incentive to retire). It was at this point that a large, masculine-looking woman wearing a blue jacket with the Kosovoan flag emblazoned on the sleeves appeared in the doorway and began barking at Zlata in Slavic. Sighing, the girl answered back in her native tongue and headed for the door, pausing long enough to turn back and give the two of them a final "Thank you." The two of them just stood there for a moment, taking the entire experience in. "I really hope she wins the gold," Natalie broke the ice, a lilting edge in her voice, "I'd have to say she deserves it more than anyone else."

"Well Natalie, let's, let's not get ahead of ourselves just because Mitch helped liberate her country," Adrian countered, "I'm sure there's plenty of other well qualified entrants in the field, and if I'm judging again, you know I'll have to be impartial, right?"

Natalie looked a bit miffed as she opened her mouth to counter him, but fortunately for Adrian, Disher returned at that moment, looking a bit sheepish. "Uh, Monk, can I have your advice?" he inquired.

"What, what kind of advice, Randy?" the detective asked.

"Uh, well, they got me an opening in the decathlon this afternoon," the lieutenant told him, "Uh, you did some track and field in high school you said, how exactly did some of those events go?"

"No, no, Randy, you don't throw it overhand," Adrian, now back in his judge's suit, coached Disher--now dressed up for the decathlon--inside the locker room in Candlestick as the lieutenant attempted to throw the shot put in that exact manner, "Uh, around at waist level, like, um...like...I don't quite know what."

"Like this?" Disher held the shot put at arm's length.

"Right, right, I guess," Adrian nodded, "Now turn in circles and let it go at full speed."

Disher nodded and began spinning around in a circle, faster and faster. "Yeah, yeah, I think I got it now, Monk," he said confidently, "Yep, I think this'll be easy enough."

The door to the locker room opened. "Randy," Stottlemeyer said loudly.

"Yes?" Disher abruptly snapped to attention, letting go of the shot put in the process. The metal ball flew through the air and landed hard on Stottlemeyer's foot. The captain howled and hopped up and down in pain. "Oh, sorry sir!" Disher rushed over and grabbed for his superior's foot, "Anything I can do to..."

"No!" Stottlemeyer jumped away from him as far as he could, "Just get your stuff ready; you're on after the javelin throw! And try not to kill anyone, please! Monk, you're on in five minutes for the hurdles," he told the detective.

"Right, just, just trying to get everything straightened out here," Adrian fiddled uncomfortably with his tie again; having to wear the accursed item again was the hardest part of having to go back undercover again. "Randy, your pole," he wiped down the pole for Disher's entry in the pole vault and tossed to him. "Thanks," Disher nodded and started for the door. "Oh Monk, one more thing," he abruptly turned around and accidentally whacked Stottlemeyer in the face with the pole. "Um, never mind," he said quickly, "Just want you to see how good I am at the hundred meter dash."

He raced out the door as fast as he could, clutching all his decathlon paraphernalia. Roaring, Stottlemeyer chased after him. Adrian shook his head and took the tie off completely; regardless of how bad it might look if the cameras trained on him without it, he simply couldn't bear to wear it anymore, consequences or not.

There came another knock on the door. "Mr. Monk?" it was Marissa Whitehurst, looking rather hopeful, "Natalie said you were in here, and that you know Wendy didn't kill Shute?"

"That's, that's what it looks like now," Adrian said slowly, "And to what do I owe your presence here now?"

"I'veheard fromthe I.O.C.; they're going to rule on her eligibility this afternoon," Mrs. Whitehurst told him, "If she's innocent, I don't see any reason she can't be reinstated."

"So you want me to speak in her favor?"

"If you could, you'd be doing her a big favor."

"Here's, here's the thing," Adrian said firmly, "I'm not entirely sure her innocence in murdering Coach Shute counters having used me. I'll need more time to decide, so you may or may not see me there."

"I seriously hope you'll consider it, Mr. Monk; my daughter's come too far to be stopped from the gold when she hasn't done anything wrong. I hope you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Monk," Mrs. Whitehurst told him in parting before striding away. Adrian glanced after her suspiciously. "Oh yes," he said softly, his eyebrows raised, "I'm about eighty-seven percent sure I know exactly what you're saying, Mrs. Whitehurst."