Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

by Lee Goldberg

  “Hoist with his own petard,” I said.

  “Shhhhhh.” Monk waved his hands frantically in front of my face. “How can you talk like that in front of an officer of the law! You should be ashamed of yourself. I hope you don’t use that kind of profanity around your daughter.”

  “Petard isn’t a profanity,” I said.

  He shushed me again with more waving.

  “We don’t use the ‘p’ word in civilized conversation,” Monk said. “In fact, we don’t use it all. It’s been banned.”

  “A petard is an explosive charge,” I said. “It’s not part of a man’s anatomy.”

  That led to more red-faced shushing and hand waving from Monk.

  “This is what happens when you wear dirty clothes,” he said. “Pretty soon, you start talking dirty, too. Before you know it, you’re smoking hashish, drinking hooch, and selling your body to sailors.”

  “I always wondered how women ended up that way,” Stottlemeyer said. “Now I know.”

  “What about the threatening e-mails Cowan claimed that he got?” I asked.

  “Cowan probably sent them to himself from the public terminals at the university’s Internet café. We found witnesses who say he was in there all the time.” Stottlemeyer turned to Monk. “The truth is, Cowan probably would have gotten away with the perfect murder if it weren’t for you.”

  “You would have caught him,” Monk said.

  “I don’t think so,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’re understaffed and underfunded, so when an open-and-shut case comes along, we don’t try to pry it open again; we just move along.”

  “I haven’t seen you do that,” Monk said.

  “You’re not here in the trenches every day, Monk. There’s a lot you don’t see.”

  “I see more than most people do,” Monk said.

  “That’s true and it’s that skill that brings up something else I need to talk to you about,” Stottlemeyer said. “The department would like a favor from you.”

  “You’re not asking me to deliver a baby, are you?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Or shave the hair on somebody’s back?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Or milk a cow?”

  “I have a suggestion, Monk. Instead of going through the endless list of things you don’t want to do, how about letting me tell you what the favor is?”

  “It doesn’t involve chewing gum or spitting tobacco, does it?”

  “The Conference of Metropolitan Homicide Detectives is being held in San Francisco this year and they want to interview you and me onstage tomorrow morning about our working relationship.”

  “Why?” Monk asked.

  “Because we end up solving a lot of murders together,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “Would I have to be in front of an audience?”

  Stottlemeyer nodded. “Just a couple hundred cops from around the country. But you won’t be alone. I’ll be up there with you.”

  Monk squirmed. “I’m not comfortable with public speaking.”

  “And I’m not comfortable rubbing other cops’ noses in our high case-closure rate,” Stottlemeyer said. “But this request comes directly from the chief. I think he wants to gloat.”

  I spoke up. “Look at the bright side, Mr. Monk.”

  “There’s never a bright side,” he said.

  “This means the police chief knows about your achievements and respects your abilities. He’s proud of the work you are doing and wants to show you off,” I said. “Speaking at this conference could be a big step towards getting reinstated to the force.”

  Monk looked at me and then at Stottlemeyer. “Do you think so?”

  Stottlemeyer shrugged. “It never hurts to kiss up to the boss.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” Monk said. “As long as there isn’t any actual kissing involved.”

  “There won’t be,” Stottlemeyer said. “And if any women go into labor, I’ll deliver the baby.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mr. Monk Answers Questions

  The Dorchester Hotel was built in the 1920s by a particularly greedy and egotistical land baron named William K. Dorchester, who lived atop the twenty-story building in a ridiculously Gothic penthouse apartment and was known to use Powell Street below as his personal spittoon.

  As a nod to Dorchester ’s British heritage, he insisted that the bellmen dress in the bright red beefeater uniforms with ruffled white collars and gloves worn by the guards of the crown jewels. The doormen still wear those uniforms today. They’d look classier dressed as SpongeBob SquarePants.

  Once you get past them, there’s a certain amusing and historically appropriate gaudiness to the place that is an accurate reflection of when it was built and the man who funded it.

  The lobby has a vaulted gold-leafed ceiling and crystal chandeliers. The walls are covered with enormous mu rals that chronicle the arrival of the Spanish explorers, the Gold Rush, and maritime trade in San Francisco Bay, with Dorchester himself looking down upon it all from the heavens like some benevolent god.

  There’s French and Italian marble on the floors, the columns, and the grand staircase. Supposedly, even the urinals in the men’s room are carved from marble, though I have never seen them for myself. However, I can tell you that the women’s room doesn’t have marble toilets.

  The Conference of Metropolitan Homicide Detectives was being held on the second floor, so Monk, Stottlemeyer, and I climbed the grand staircase and discovered that the gaudy grandeur ended at the top step.

  The second floor looked like it had been renovated in the early seventies in garishly bright colors and hadn’t been updated since. The Brady Bunch would have felt right at home there.

  Monk, Stottlemeyer, and I made our way to the ballroom. It looked like we’d walked into a reunion of JCPenney men’s department customers. The room was filled with potbellied men wearing off-the-rack suits, wide ties, and yellow crime-scene-tape-style name-tag lanyards around their necks.

  We were greeted at the door by a man who looked like a cinder block that had magically come to life. He seemed square everywhere, from the flat-top buzz cut atop his head to the square-toed shoes on his feet. Even his hands looked square.

  He introduced himself to us, even though his name was written on his lanyard and Stottlemeyer appeared, judging by the scowl on his face, to already know him and not like him much.

  “I’m Detective Paul Braddock, Banning PD. I’ll be your moderator,” he said as he shook our hands in turn. “It will just be a simple Q and A. I’ll start things off with a question or two and then open it up to the floor.”

  Monk motioned to me for a wipe. I took out a bottle of instant hand sanitizer from my purse instead. I figured he’d be shaking a lot of hands and I didn’t want to lug around a huge box of wipes or end up with a purseful of Baggies containing used ones.

  “I’m Natalie Teeger, Mr. Monk’s assistant,” I said.

  I squeezed a shot of disinfectant gel into Monk’s right palm and he rubbed his hands together so briskly he could have lit kindling.

  Braddock watched him, amused. “My God, you really do that. I thought it was just an urban legend. I guess I can scratch that question off my list.”

  “I’d like to see the others,” Stottlemeyer said.

  Braddock grinned. “That would be cheating, Leland.”

  “Since when do you have a problem with that, Paul?” Stottlemeyer asked pointedly.

  “I wouldn’t want to undercut the spontaneity of the discussion,” Braddock said, his grin unfaltering. “See you up on the dais.”

  The detective walked away. Stottlemeyer glared after him.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “He used to work for SFPD,” Stottlemeyer said. “Now he doesn’t.”

  “Are you the reason why?”

  Stottlemeyer shook his head. “He’s only got himself to blame for that.”

  We headed up to the dais, which was a raised platform with a table set
against a backdrop of four potted plants.

  The table was covered with a white cloth. There were three chairs behind the table and three glasses, one pitcher of water, and two microphones on top of it.

  I saw disaster looming. I excused myself and sought out Braddock in the crowd.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “You’re going to need to invite another guest up to the table, and add another chair, glass, and two more microphones. Or you’re going to have to remove a chair and a glass, add a microphone, and moderate standing up.”

  Braddock looked at me like I had a bug crawling out of my nose. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because Mr. Monk won’t sit at a table for three guests. He likes even numbers. So you can have two guests or four, it’s up to you, but they each need to have their own microphone.”

  “You’re joking,” he said.

  “I’m afraid not,” I said.

  “Is he nuts?”

  “Mr. Monk likes things to be a certain way,” I said. “You want him to be comfortable up there, don’t you? Because if he’s not, he won’t answer any questions; he’ll just obsess about everything that’s wrong and try to fix it.”

  Braddock sighed. “I’ll have the extra glass and chair taken away. I’ll stand with a microphone.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and went back to the table, where I discovered that Monk had already removed the extra chair and set the extra glass on top of it for the workers to take away.

  Monk was now arranging the two chairs, the glasses, and the microphones so everything was evenly spaced, centered, and symmetrical.

  Stottlemeyer was busy chatting with some other cops and trying hard to disassociate himself from what Monk was doing.

  I couldn’t blame him. I would have done the same thing if I weren’t being paid not to.

  The hotel workers showed up and took the extra chair away and set up a microphone stand for Braddock.

  Monk was measuring the ends of the tablecloth with his pocket tape measure to make sure it draped evenly on all sides just as Braddock climbed up onstage.

  “Okay, everyone, please take your seats,” Braddock said into the mike. “We’d like to get started.”

  Monk and Stottlemeyer sat down at the table. I took a seat in the front row so I could jump onstage in an instant if there was a major emergency, like a wrinkle in the tablecloth or a spilled glass of water.

  Braddock turned to Stottlemeyer and Monk. “Shall we begin?”

  “We can’t,” Monk said.

  “Why not?” Braddock replied.

  “Everybody isn’t here yet,” he said.

  Braddock looked out across the large conference room. “The room looks packed to me.”

  “There are three people missing.”

  “Friends of yours?”

  “No,” Monk said. “I don’t know who they are. I just know they aren’t here. There are two hundred and one people in the audience.”

  “That seems like a good size to me,” Braddock said.

  “Two hundred and two or two hundred and four would be better,” Monk said. “Or you can ask one person to leave.”

  “I’ll leave,” Stottlemeyer said.

  Braddock grimaced, waved over a busboy, and whispered in his ear. Within a few moments, the empty seats were filled with three busboys. He turned to Monk.

  “Happy now?” Braddock asked.

  “Aren’t you?” Monk replied.

  Braddock forced a smile, turned to the audience, and introduced himself. He then explained that for the last eight years the San Francisco Police Department had employed Adrian Monk as a special consultant, working exclusively with Captain Leland Stottlemeyer, the man who brokered the arrangement.

  “What makes this consulting arrangement even more unusual is that ten years ago, Adrian Monk was an SFPD homicide detective himself, until he was declared psychologically unfit for duty and forced to turn in his badge,” Braddock said, then looked at Monk. “Are you still suffering from those problems?”

  “I’ve been suffering since I was born,” Monk said. “Life is suffering.”

  “He’s got things under control,” Stottlemeyer said, and took a sip of water. “Let’s move on, Paul.”

  “How would you describe your working relationship?” Braddock asked.

  “Professional and productive,” Stottlemeyer said. “When we have a case that strikes me as particularly complex or unusual, I’ll call him in for his unique perspective. Nobody analyzes a crime scene the way he does.”

  Monk took a sip of his water, placed his glass next to Stottlemeyer’s, and squinted at the water level in each.

  Braddock looked at Monk. “And you? How would you describe it?”

  “It looks even to me,” Monk said, double-checking the level in the water glasses with his tape measure.

  “He means our working relationship,” Stottlemeyer said, snatching the tape measure from his hand.

  “That, too,” Monk said.

  “I’m an old-fashioned cop. I focus on standard investigative procedure, gathering the facts and the evidence,” Stottlemeyer said. “Monk takes a different, more personal approach. He has an instinctive sense of how things should fit together, and when they don’t, it really, really bothers him. He tries to organize things and along the way he finds clues that might get overlooked by traditional methods.”

  “How does he get paid?” Braddock asked.

  “They issue me a check,” Monk said. “It’s in an envelope but I can assure you that nobody licks the seal, which, as you all well know, is an unsanitary and sickening practice engaged in by psychopaths, degenerates, and lunatics.”

  There was a long moment of silence as everyone stared at him.

  Stottlemeyer took another sip of water and cleared his throat. “We guarantee him a minimum of eighteen cases a year and pay him on a per-case basis on anything beyond that.”

  “Not every case,” Monk said.

  “Every case that we call you in on,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “There are others?” Braddock asked.

  “Sometimes Monk shows up at crime scenes without being called. I’m talking about routine cases that don’t really require his expertise.”

  “You mean that you can handle on your own,” Braddock said.

  “We can handle any case on our own,” Stottlemeyer said. “But there are some that are more difficult than others, and in those instances, we appreciate qualified help wherever we can get it, whether it’s from other law enforcement agencies, journalists, civilian experts in various fields, or anybody else with relevant information or special insight.”

  Monk sipped his water, set his glass down next to Stottlemeyer’s, and compared the two. He didn’t like what he saw, though they looked even to me.

  “And what happens when Mr. Monk shows up uninvited at the scene of one of these routine cases?” Braddock said.

  “I solve them.” Monk took another sip of water, so small it could have counted as evaporation. But this time when he compared the two glasses, he seemed satisfied. He sat back in his seat and relaxed.

  Braddock looked at Stottlemeyer. “So he does your job for you even on the small cases and doesn’t charge you for it. Lucky you.”

  “When Monk solves a murder, it’s good for the citizens of San Francisco whom we protect and serve,” Stottlemeyer said. “It’s not about me.”

  Stottlemeyer took another sip of water, much to Monk’s obvious consternation.

  “In fact, Mr. Monk solves a lot more murder cases than he’s paid for,” Braddock said. “In the last seven years, Mr. Monk has personally solved nearly a hundred and fifty homicides and your department’s closure rate has reached an incredible ninety-four percent.”

  “That’s all?” Monk said. “We should be ashamed of ourselves.”

  Monk narrowed his eyes at his glass, picked it up, and took a carefully measured sip, then set it back down next to Stottlemeyer’s.

  The captain glared at Monk. “Most police depart
ments are lucky if they can clear half their murder cases. Our closure rate is thirty percent higher than the national average.”

  “Explain the six percent of murders in San Francisco that haven’t been solved,” Monk said.

  Stottlemeyer motioned to Braddock. “He’s asking the questions, Monk.”

  “They must have been cases nobody showed me,” Monk said. “If you give them to me now, I’ll solve them.”

  “They’re not for you. They’re mostly gang shootings and drug-related murders,” Stottlemeyer said. “We’ve got detectives with a thorough understanding of gang culture and a lot of experience on the streets handling those cases.”

  Stottlemeyer picked up his glass, drank all of the water, and slammed it back down on the table so hard I thought it might break.

  “But they’re not solving them,” Monk said. “I will. I’m streetwise. I’m down with those hepcats.”

  Laughter rippled through the audience. Stottlemeyer was visibly embarrassed for Monk and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. So did I but there wasn’t anything either one of us could do to help him.

  “Are you saying that you’re infallible, Mr. Monk?” Braddock asked.

  “No,” Monk said. “There is one case I haven’t been able to solve.”

  “Next question,” Stottlemeyer said bluntly, and looked out into the audience. “I’m sure somebody out there has a question they’d like to ask.”

  I could have hugged him for that. He always tried to protect Monk from pain, self-inflicted and otherwise.

  A detective stood up. “I’m Zev Buffman, Owensboro, Kentucky, PD. I got one. What was the department’s homicide closure rate before Monk began consulting with you?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have those figures in front of me,” Stottlemeyer said.

  “I do,” Braddock said. “It was forty-three-point-five percent. How do you explain that, Captain?”

  I think Stottlemeyer would have liked to explain it by punching Braddock in the face. Instead, he took a more diplomatic approach.