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Authors: Lee Goldberg

Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop (25 page)

BOOK: Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop
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It didn’t make Disher feel any better.
His last hope was that Lansdale’s search would come up empty. But that hope was dashed the moment Lansdale walked in and Disher saw the evidence bag in his hand.
Stottlemeyer’s tie was in it.
Disher bolted from his seat and quickly led Lansdale back into the corridor.
“What are you thinking, waving the evidence bag around the squad room?” Disher said. “Do you want everyone to know what we’re doing?”
“They will pretty soon anyway,” Lansdale said. “We found the tie buried in the captain’s trash can outside. Forensics says the tie is a positive match with the fiber recovered from Braddock and that there’s blood on it.”
Disher snatched the bag from Lansdale and looked at the tie inside.
There was no denying it. It matched the description of the tie that Braddock was strangled with. And he knew in his gut that a DNA test would match the blood on the tie with Braddock, too.
If the suspect were anybody else but Stottlemeyer, Disher wouldn’t be hesitating over what to do next. It was a no brainer. The case was closed. They had their killer.
“I know you two are close,” Lansdale said. “If you can’t do what has to be done, I can.”
Disher glared at Lansdale, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his billfold. “Go to lunch at Sorrento’s and take the rest of the squad with you. And the clerical staff, too. I want everybody out. It’s on me.”
He handed some cash to Lansdale. They shared a look. Lansdale gave Disher his money back.
“No, it’s on me,” Lansdale said. He walked past Disher into the squad room.
Disher hid the evidence bag behind his back and a few moments later Lansdale came out, leading a dozen other people towards the stairs.
One of the detectives called out to Disher, “Lansdale’s taking us all to Sorrento’s to celebrate his first week in Homicide. Are you joining us?”
“I’ll catch up,” Disher said.
When they were gone, Disher took a deep breath and went back into the squad room. The only one left inside was Stottlemeyer, who was in his office. He waved Disher inside.
“What’s the special occasion?” Stottlemeyer asked as Disher entered, his hands behind his back.
“The end of Lansdale’s first week in Homicide,” Disher said.
“There must be more to it than that for him to be taking everybody out to celebrate,” Stottlemeyer said. “Did you close the Braddock case already?”
Disher nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“That’s great news, Randy,” Stottlemeyer said, rising from his seat. “So why are you looking so glum?”
“I still have to make the arrest,” Disher said.
“That’s the best part,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Not this time,” Disher said, and showed Stottlemeyer the evidence bag that was behind his back. “This is the murder weapon.”
“That looks like my tie,” Stottlemeyer said, walking around the desk to get a closer look at it.
“It is,” Disher said.
“I don’t think I like where this conversation is going.”
“I know that I don’t,” Disher said.
Stottlemeyer met his gaze, then looked past Disher to the empty squad room. He put it together and winced from the emotional sting.
“You think that I murdered Braddock?”
“You hated him, sir. The file you gave me documents that.”
“He was a dirty cop, Randy. I hate any cop who abuses people, manufactures evidence, or is on the take.”
“But this dirty cop humiliated you in front of hundreds of cops from across America,” Disher said. “You were outraged. Everybody knows it. You even attacked Braddock at a wake. You had to be restrained.”
Stottlemeyer took a deep breath and held up his hands in front of his chest in submission. “I admit I lost control, but there’s a big difference between slugging a guy in the mouth and murder.”
“He was strangled with a tie like this on the same night that you were in the hotel. We found it in your trash. There’s blood on it that we both know will turn out to be his.”
“It is,” Stottlemeyer said. “I got it on my tie at the wake, which is why I threw it out when I got home. I’m an experienced homicide detective. If I wanted to dispose of a murder weapon, do you think I’d just drop it in my trash can?”
“Maybe you weren’t thinking rationally,” Disher said. “Anger does that to a person.”
“I’m rational now, and looking at your case objectively as your commanding officer, I’m telling you that you don’t have the evidence to make this charge stick. All you have is my tie and I’ve explained how I got blood on it. And, to my embarrassment, I’ve got lots of witnesses who can confirm that story,” Stottlemeyer said. “Yes, I was in the hotel that night but I didn’t leave the second-floor conference room there and I’ll bet that the security camera footage backs me up on that.”
“The footage shows when you arrived and when you left the hotel. There are no cameras on the second floor, but there are in the elevator.”
“And did you see me on it? No. Did you see me in the stairwells? No.”
“At ten fifteen, someone in a beefeater outfit that obscured his face got into the elevator on the second floor and took it up to the seventh,” Disher said. “We believe the killer took off the uniform, stashed it in a utility closet, then went to Braddock’s room and killed him. He then put the costume back on and returned to the second floor.”
“It could have been any one of the hundreds of people in the hotel that night,” Stottlemeyer said. “You have no evidence that puts me in Braddock’s room.”
“There was a broken glass on the floor. Your fingerprints were on it,” Disher said.
“Oh,” Stottlemeyer said.
“The theory is you told him that you came to apologize, you had a drink with him, and when his back was turned, you slipped your tie around his throat and strangled him. The table was tipped over in the struggle and the glass broke. You forgot about it.”
Stottlemeyer rubbed his mustache. “It’s obvious what’s happening here. Someone is setting me up.”
“That’s not for me to decide,” Disher said. “My job is to follow the evidence.”
“Forget the evidence for a minute. You know me, Randy.”
“Not lately, Captain. Over the last couple of weeks, you’ve been a different person.”
“One stupid enough to murder a cop with his own tie and leave behind a glass with his fingerprints on it?”
“You also fired Monk.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“The deputy chief thinks it was so Monk wouldn’t be around to investigate Braddock’s murder.”
“If I intended to murder Braddock, don’t you think I would come up with a better plan than this?”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Disher said, his voice cracking, his hands shaking. “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Paul Braddock.”
“You’re making a mistake, Randy.”
“I certainly hope so,” Disher said, and gave Stottlemeyer his handcuffs. “Could you put these on, please?”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because I’m going to throw up.” Disher hurried to the garbage can beside the desk and gagged into it. Between heaves, he tried to read the captain his rights.
“It’s okay,” Stottlemeyer said, cuffing his own hands behind his back. “I know them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
 
Mr. Monk Goes to Jail
 
M
onk worked on his remaining Intertect cases at his dining table while I tried to hone my detecting instincts by reading the
Murder, She Wrote
novel he bought in Mill Valley.
I can’t say that I learned much about investigative procedure but I discovered that you should stay far away from Cabot Cove. That tiny New England village is deadlier than Beirut, South Central Los Angeles, and the darkest back alley in Juarez combined. Cabot Cove probably has the highest per capita murder rate of anyplace on earth. Even though every killer eventually gets caught by Jessica Fletcher, I still wouldn’t feel safe there. I’m surprised the old biddy walks around town unarmed.
Jessica was about to prove that her second cousin twice removed was innocent of murder when Monk’s phone rang. I answered it.
“I need to see Monk right away,” Captain Stottlemeyer said. “Meet me in the interview room at the Seventh Street lockup.”
He hung up before I could ask him for more details. I assumed he’d made a breakthrough on the Peschel case and so did Monk.
On the way there, Monk and I tried to guess what was in store for us. We decided that the captain had either arrested someone for the crime or had found someone behind bars who had vital information on the killing. What other reason could there be for meeting at the jail? Monk suggested that it might even be a grateful Salvatore Lucarelli, offering to trade information in return for a reduced sentence.
So we went into the jail with a certain level of excitement, believing that we were in for something good. We were led to the same interview room where we’d met with Lucarelli a few days before, so I was prepared to see him there again.
I guess that’s why when I saw the man in the yellow jumpsuit, in that first split second I thought it was Lucarelli. Or perhaps my mind didn’t want to believe what my eyes were telling me.
It was Captain Stottlemeyer sitting there this time. Only he wasn’t in chains.
Monk let out a little gasp. “Leland? What happened?”
I rarely heard Monk refer to the captain by his first name. But this wasn’t a normal situation.
“I’ve been arrested for murder,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Who did you kill?” Monk asked.
“Nobody,” Stottlemeyer said. “How could you think I’ve murdered anyone?”
“Because you’re in jail for murder,” Monk said.
“That doesn’t mean I’m guilty.”
“The police don’t arrest innocent people,” Monk said. “They are very good at what they do.”
“Ordinarily, I would appreciate that vote of confidence, but since I’m sitting here for a crime I didn’t commit, you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t agree with you.”
“Who was murdered?” I asked.
“Paul Braddock,” Stottlemeyer said.
“How?” Monk asked.
“He was strangled in his hotel room,” Stottlemeyer said.
“When?” Monk asked.
“The night of the wake.”
“When you beat him up,” Monk said.
“Yes,” Stottlemeyer said.
“After he humiliated you in front of hundreds of homicide detectives,” I said.
“Yes,” Stottlemeyer said.
“So all the police have against you is one of the strongest motives for murder that I’ve ever heard in all my years of investigating homicides,” Monk said. “It’s not so bad.”
He wasn’t being sarcastic. He didn’t know how to be. I think he was trying—in his own sweet, unconvincing way—to be reassuring. He failed miserably.
Stottlemeyer cleared his throat. “And I was in the hotel at the time of the murder.”
Monk nodded. “Is that all?”
“And he was strangled with a tie identical to the one I was wearing.”
Monk nodded again. “That’s it?”
“And they found my fingerprints on a broken glass in Braddock’s room.”
Monk nodded some more. “Anything else?”
“They found my tie, stained with Braddock’s blood, in my garbage can.”
Monk hadn’t stopped nodding. “Any more?”
“And I fired you shortly before Braddock’s murder, which meant that the one detective in San Francisco with an unbroken record for solving homicides wasn’t around to investigate this case.”
Monk kept right on nodding. He was nodding so much I was afraid he’d give himself a concussion, so I grabbed his head to stop him. He kept trying to nod anyway. I held his head tight.
“You can stop nodding, Mr. Monk, the captain is finished listing all the evidence against him,” I said, glancing at Stottlemeyer. “Aren’t you?”
Now Stottlemeyer nodded.
Monk took a deep breath and let it out slowly, signaling to me that he was calm. He wasn’t fighting against my grip any longer. I let go of his head and he held it steady.
“So,” Monk said. “Why did you kill him?”
“I didn’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “That’s why I called you. I’m being framed and you’re the only one who can prove it.”
“Isn’t Randy working his butt off to clear your name?” I asked.
“Who do you think put together the case against me?” Stottlemeyer said. “He thinks I’m guilty.”
“How could he?” I said.
“Only because the captain had an incredibly strong motive and all the evidence pointed to him,” Monk said. “Other than that, Lieutenant Disher has nothing.”
BOOK: Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop
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