by Lee Goldberg
“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
Monk 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 tr
ying-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.”
“That’s comforting,” Stottlemeyer said. “So, will you help me or not?”
“Of course I will,” Monk said.
“Me, too,” I said.
Stottlemeyer smiled. “Then I know this is all going to work out fine.”
“I hope he gets himself a good lawyer,” Monk said as we left the jail and headed for the Lexus, which was parked at a meter a short way up Seventh Street.
“Do you think he’s going to need one?”
“A good lawyer might be able to plea-bargain him down to a sentence that’s less than life in prison.” Monk tapped each meter that we passed. It was a habit of his that I had never understood.
“That won’t be necessary, because this case will never get that far,” I said. “You’ll prove him innocent long before a trial.”
“What makes you think I’m going to do that?”
“Because you just said you would,” I said.
“I said I would help him,” Monk said. “We’ll start interviewing criminal defense attorneys today.”
“What about investigating the murder and proving him innocent instead?”
“Are you kidding?” Monk said. “He did it.”
“How can you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s because he did it.”
“You know Captain Stottlemeyer better than that,” I said. “He couldn’t murder anyone.”
“Until now. Did you hear all the evidence against him?”
“I wouldn’t care if they’d caught Stottlemeyer in the act, cinching the tie around Braddock’s throat.”
“Did they?” Monk asked.
“No, they didn’t,” I said through gritted teeth, withstanding the urge to slap him silly.
“Are you sure? We should double-check, because that’s the only thing they haven’t got against him.”
“If Leland Stottlemeyer says he’s innocent, then he is. You should believe that, too.”
I drove us straight to police headquarters so we could have a talk with that scoundrel Randy Disher.
We found him carrying a box into the captain’s office, which had been completely stripped bare of all of Stottlemeyer’s files and personal belongings.
Disher set the box on the empty desk and faced us grimly. “I heard that the captain had called you. I figured it was better that you heard the bad news directly from him rather than me.”
“I ought to slap you,” I said.
“That would be assaulting a police officer,” Monk said. “It’s a criminal offense.”
“Perfect, then I should do it,” I said. “Lieutenant Disher seems to enjoy arresting his friends.”
“It’s not Lieutenant anymore,” Disher mumbled. “It’s Acting Captain Disher.”
That was when I noticed that the box he’d brought in was full of stuff from his desk. I felt my face get hot.
“So that’s what this is all about. You sold out the captain for a promotion,” I said. “I see it didn’t take you very long to haul away his stuff and move yourself in.”
“It’s a temporary assignment and I had no idea the deputy chief was going to do it,” Disher said. “And it was Internal Affairs that cleaned out his office, not me.”
“They didn’t do a very good job,” Monk said. “There’s still dust on the shelves. If you give me Lysol, a rag, and some rubber gloves, I’ll take care of it.”
I pointed my finger at Monk.
“If you even try, I will break your arm like a chopstick.” Monk flinched and I turned to Disher. “Why did Internal Affairs take the captain’s things?”
“It is standard operating procedure in situations like this,” Disher said. “They are looking for evidence of other crimes he might have committed.”
“Other crimes?” The next thing I knew I was swinging at Disher’s face.
Disher didn’t raise a hand to defend himself or move out of the way. But before the flat of my hand could connect with his boyish cheek, Monk grabbed my arm and pinned it behind me.
“What’s the matter with you?” Monk said. He seemed truly distraught.
“It’s okay, Monk. Let her slap me. I deserve it for what I’ve done.”
“He’s right,” I said to Monk. “Let go of me.”
“Lieutenant Disher was only doing his job,” Monk said.
“Acting Captain Disher,” he corrected.
I tried to slap Disher with my free hand, but with Monk clutching my other arm, I was off balance and the blow fell short of the mark. Disher would have had to lean towards me for the slap to connect. I guess he didn’t want to be punished as much as he claimed or he would have.
“I know that I betrayed the captain,” Disher said. “But I was only following the evidence where it led. I had no choice but to arrest him. My only hope, and his, is that you can prove that he’s innocent.”
“You should be doing that,” I seethed. It’s amazing that I wasn’t foaming at the mouth.
“I’ll help you any way that I can, but it will have to be unofficially,” Disher said. “I am going to leave now and get myself a cup of coffee. While I am gone, you are absolutely forbidden to read the file in the box on the desk, because it contains all of the forensic reports, witness statements, and crime scene photos on the Braddock investigation. Is that clear?”
He gave us a big, exaggerated wink.
“Yes,” Monk said.
Disher nodded, closed the blinds on all of the captain’s office windows, and walked out, closing the door behind him. We were alone and out of sight. Monk let go of me and I jerked away from him.
“Are you having female problems?” he asked.
I glared at him in fury. “Did you actually just ask me if I have my period?”
“Ssssh,” Monk said, waving his hands frantically. “There’s no reason to start talking like a sailor.”
“I’ve got to meet this wretched sailor that you keep talking about,” I said. “No, Mr. Monk, I am not menstruating.”
“Ssssh,” Monk said, waving his arms again. “First you�
��re violent, now you’re a gutter mouth. What is wrong with you?”
“A good friend of mine was just arrested for a murder he didn’t commit-that is what is wrong with me and it should be wrong with you, too.”
I reached into the box and pulled out the Braddock file. Monk tried to grab it from me but I yanked the file away.
“Are you crazy? Acting Captain Disher said we are absolutely forbidden to read that file.”
“Which was his way of saying he wanted us to read it,” I said, laying the crime scene photos out on the empty desk.
“Absolutely forbidden means the opposite,” Monk said, gathering each photo up, one by one.
“But he meant the opposite of the opposite,” I said, laying out the forensic report and the photos of the evidence. “It was his way of saying we weren’t allowed to read the file but he was letting us read it anyway.”
“If that’s what he wanted to say, why didn’t he say that instead of absolutely forbidden?” Monk said, picking up the forensic report and photos.
“He was protecting his butt,” I said, laying out the witness statements. “He was saying that if we get caught reading it, we are on our own.”
“He was saying all that when he said we were absolutely forbidden to open the file.”
“Yes,” I said, dropping the empty file on the desk. “That’s why he gave us the big wink.”
“He probably had dust in his eye.” Monk shoved all the papers and photos back into the file and returned it to the box. “Absolutely forbidden means absolutely forbidden.”
Whether it did or not, I knew that Monk had seen every photo in the file and, whether he wanted to or not, had unconsciously noted every significant detail in them. He couldn’t help himself.
“If you say so,” I said. “How do you feel about visiting the crime scene?”
“Ambivalent,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Mr. Monk and the Odd Floor
I went to the front desk of the Dorchester and asked the clerk if I could rent a room. I didn’t think that they would let us just look around simply because we were private eyes, and I’m lousy when it comes to bribing people. Besides, I had Slade’s magic credit card.
