Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

by Lee Goldberg

  I turned on my heel and walked out. Danielle was waiting outside the door along with Slade’s startled secretary. I blew right past them and headed back towards Monk’s office. Danielle hurried behind me, catching up with me once I got inside. She closed the door behind her as I sagged into the seat behind Monk’s desk.

  I started to shake. I think it was from all that excess adrenaline in my veins.

  “I owe you an apology,” I said.

  “No worries,” she said. “You were terrific.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard what you said to Nick. The whole office did.”

  “I was that loud?”

  “You were practically roaring. Mr. Monk is very lucky to have you in his corner.”

  “He might not think so when he finds out what I’ve done.”

  “It’s what you do that allows him to succeed,” Danielle said. “He’s the world’s best detective because you are his assistant.”

  “If you’re kissing up for a raise, you’re doing it to the wrong person. Technically, you work for the guy I just yelled at.”

  She smiled. “I think I have as much to learn from you as I do from Mr. Monk.”

  “Speaking of learning,” I said, eager to change the subject, “what information do you have on the Peschels that I can take back with me for Mr. Monk?”

  “I’m still working on the background reports. However, the Mill Valley police managed to find some traces of blood and skin on the edge of the kitchen counter that they’ve matched to Bill Peschel,” she said. “The coroner took a second look at Peschel’s head wound and now believes he sustained it in the kitchen and not the pool.”

  “Brilliant deduction on her part,” I said.

  “But necessary,” she said. “Now it’s confirmed that Peschel’s death wasn’t an accident.”

  “It was the moment Mr. Monk said it was murder,” I said. “That’s another thing you’ll learn. When it comes to murder, he’s never wrong.”

  What you’re about to read now, and in a few places later on in this story, happened to Lieutenant Randy Disher when I wasn’t around. I’m not a mind reader, so I can’t tell you firsthand what was going on. But I’ve heard enough about it from him and from the other people involved that I think I can give you a good picture of what occurred.

  When Disher dreamed of being a cop, filling out mountains of paperwork wasn’t part of the fantasy. But that was how he spent most of his time when he should have been on the streets, hunting down leads, taking on the syndicate, and speeding through San Francisco in a green ’68 Mustang like Steve McQueen in Bullitt.

  That was what he was born to do, not paperwork. That was why he became a cop. And that was why his nickname was Bullitt. He gave it to himself on his first day at the police academy but, for reasons he could never figure out, it didn’t stick.

  Neither did Dirty Randy.

  But he persevered. Over the years, he’d drop the nickname into conversation when it felt right and whenever a new detective transferred into Homicide, he’d introduce himself like this:

  “Welcome to Homicide, hombre. I’m Lieutenant Randy Disher, but everybody calls me Bullitt.”

  He did it again a few days ago when Detective Jack Lansdale transferred in. But this time he tried to manipulate the situation some more to improve his chances.

  “What do they call you?” Disher asked.

  “Jack,” he said.

  “I mean, what’s your nickname?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Tell you what, you think of one and that’s what I’ll call you,” Disher said. “Pretty soon everybody will pick up on it. How about the Jackal?”

  Moonface would have been more appropriate, Disher thought. Judging by Lansdale ’s face, he’d picked at every zit he’d ever had as a kid. He must have had a lot of zits.

  “Jack is fine,” Lansdale said.

  “But it could be short for Jackal,” Disher said. “I hear you’re like a wild dog when you get on a case.”

  Disher gave him a big wink. He hadn’t heard anything about Lansdale, though he was pretty sure that his own exploits were legend by now.

  “No, I’m not,” Jack said. “I pride myself on being slow and methodical.”

  “Then it’s an ironic nickname, which is even better, though they call me Bullitt because they mean it.”

  “Mean what?”

  “That I’m cool, I’m tough, and the ladies dig me, like McQueen in the movie,” Disher said. He couldn’t afford a Mustang, but he drove a Ford Focus, which at least was from the same company. “I’ll call you Jackal and you call me Bullitt, not just when we are talking to each other, but whenever we talk about each other to other people.”

  Disher had thought it could really work this time, but then Monk showed up with that Diaper Genie for him. Lansdale hadn’t looked at him the same way since.

  Captain Stottlemeyer called out for him from inside his office.

  Disher hated it when the captain did that, summoning him like a slave.

  Why couldn’t Stottlemeyer get up, walk to his door, and ask him to come in? Or pick up the phone and call his extension? That would be the respectful thing to do.

  But no, the captain had to bark from his desk like an irritated pit bull.

  Stottlemeyer had been in a sour mood from the instant the new operating budget landed on his desk last week. And his mood had gotten progressively worse since his appearance onstage with Monk at the national homicide detectives’ conference, which, much to Disher’s dismay, he hadn’t been invited to. (Disher didn’t care about attending their panel; he just wanted to hang out with other homicide cops, talk shop, and get his Bullitt persona out there to the rest of the country.)

  Just when Disher thought that Stottlemeyer couldn’t get any gloomier or more short-tempered, Nicholas Slade grabbed all the glory for Rhonda Carnegie’s arrest on the judge murders and humiliated the department.

  Now Stottlemeyer was practically foaming at the mouth day and night.

  Disher heard that Stottlemeyer was so unhinged that he’d slugged a cop at a funeral yesterday.

  Not wanting to be the victim of the captain’s next violent outburst, Disher grabbed his notebook and hurried into Stottlemeyer’s office, but not before shooting a glance at Lansdale, who sat at the next desk.

  “High-level strategic conference,” he said. “Need-to-know only.”

  Disher closed the door behind him and approached the captain’s desk. “What’s up, sir?”

  Stottlemeyer rubbed his eyes and sighed. “A homicide has just come in. Investigating this one is going to be like dancing in a minefield.”

  “Fine by me,” Disher said in his best Eastwoodian snarl. “Let’s dance.”

  Stottlemeyer looked up at him with a weary gaze. “I’m serious, Randy, this case could be a career killer if you’re not careful.”

  Disher felt a tingle of nervous excitement in his stomach. Did he hear what he thought he’d just heard? Did the captain recuse himself from the case?

  “Where are you going to be?” Disher asked.

  “Right here, riding this desk. You’re going to be on your own on this one, reporting directly to the deputy chief.”

  “You’re telling me to go over your head?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  This didn’t make any sense to Disher. It was one thing for the captain to let him take the lead on a case, but quite another to tell him not to report to him at all.

  Then he realized what the captain meant when he said the case could be a career killer if he mishandled it.

  This wasn’t just another homicide investigation.

  This was a field test of Disher’s ability to lead.

  Running this investigation would be a real-world demonstration of his abilities, a chance to prove himself directly to the powers-that-be.

  Well, it was about time.

  “Why are you taking yourself out of the loop?” Disher asked.


  “I have a conflict of interest,” Stottlemeyer said.

  Disher nodded. “I understand. You can’t be objective when it comes to me. You’re already biased in my favor. The brass wants to see me in action and come to their own conclusions about my command and leadership skills.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This field test,” Disher said. “I’m ready for it. The tougher the better. That’s why they call me Bullitt.”

  “Who does?”

  “Them,” Disher said, waving his hand in the air as if clearing smoke. “Those in the they. Not all of the they, but some of them. Those theys do.”

  Stottlemeyer sighed. “It’s not an official test, though I suppose that it could end up being one.”

  “Then why are you cutting yourself out?”

  “Because I know the victim,” he replied.

  “How do you know him?”

  “I broke his nose yesterday.” Stottlemeyer reached into a drawer and tossed a file across the desk to Disher. “The victim is Detective Paul Braddock, Banning Police Department. His body was found in his hotel room by a maid at the Dorchester this morning.”

  Disher picked up the file. “What’s this?”

  “A file that I kept on Braddock,” Stottlemeyer said. “He used to be a detective here until I forced him out.”

  “I didn’t know you did time in Internal Affairs.”

  “I didn’t,” Stottlemeyer said. “This was a personal project. Ten years ago, I told him he could quit or I could give that file to IA. He quit.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because he was a dirty cop who liked to beat people,” Stottlemeyer said. “And I wanted to spare the department the embarrassment.”

  “This is ancient history,” Disher said, holding up the file.

  “What does it have to do with his murder?”

  “Maybe nothing,” Stottlemeyer said. “But if you’re not careful, the past has a way of coming back to haunt you. Or kill you.”

  “I’m on it,” Disher said, and left the captain’s office, the file tucked under his arm. He pointed at Lansdale and headed out of the squad room. “You’re with me, Jackal.”

  “It’s Jack,” Lansdale said, getting up and taking his coat from the back of his chair.

  “It’s whatever I say it is, Detective. We’ve got a murder to solve,” Disher said. “Watch and learn. The clock is ticking and the hands are dripping blood.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mr. Monk and Bullitt

  While Lansdale drove their Crown Vic, Disher reviewed the file on Braddock that Stottlemeyer gave him. Stottlemeyer had meticulously detailed dozens of instances of abuse and gotten statements from several of Braddock’s victims.

  But Disher was having trouble concentrating on the reports. Reading in the car made him nauseous, which was one distraction, and he couldn’t stop thinking about what this investigation could mean for him, which was another.

  This case was more than a chance to impress the deputy chief. It was also a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to shine on a national stage. Cops from all over the country were at the conference and they would be watching his progress with keen interest. A success could raise his profile considerably. But if he mucked it up, Bullitt would be riding a motor scooter instead of a Mustang, marking the tires of parked cars with a meter maid’s chalk stick.

  Disher suddenly felt the three egg-and-cheese McMuffins he had for breakfast climbing up his throat with a hot vengeance. He yelled for Lansdale to pull over, opened the passenger door to the car before they even came to a stop, and vomited in the street, right in front of a Japanese tour group standing on the curb.

  He wiped his mouth with a Dunkin’ Donuts napkin he found in the map pocket of the door and smiled at the revolted tourists.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “Mune on sawaru na. Shinu kakugo shiro.”

  The Japanese tourists glowered at him and marched away in a huff.

  Disher closed the door and turned to Lansdale. “What is their problem?”

  “I don’t know, maybe it has something to do with you puking on their shoes.”

  “I missed their shoes by a good two inches,” Disher said. “Besides, I showed them the courtesy of apologizing in English and Japanese.”

  “No, you didn’t,” Lansdale said.

  “Mune on sawaru na, shinu kakugo shiro means, ‘Please forgive me for the inconvenience, I’m truly sorry.’ ”

  “It means, ‘Stop groping my breasts and prepare to die,’” Lansdale said.

  “I think you’re mistaken,” Disher said.

  “My wife is Japanese,” Lansdale said.

  “Oh, so I guess you’ve heard that a lot,” Disher said, and slapped the dash. “Let’s go, Jackal, we’ve got some bad guys to catch.”

  Lansdale drove them up another block to the hotel and parked right in front. Disher put on a pair of sunglasses for the Caruso effect before getting out and hurrying inside.

  Sure enough, all eyes were on him as he headed across the lobby towards the elevators, so everybody saw him when he tripped over the suitcase and slid on his stomach across the slick, marble floor.

  Lansdale helped Disher to his feet.

  “Who put that suitcase down in front of me?” Disher said. “I want him arrested for assaulting an officer.”

  “It was there when we came in. You headed straight for it, Bullitt. You might want to take off your sunglasses indoors, the lighting is pretty dim in here.”

  “Then tell them to turn up the lights; we’re running a murder investigation here,” Disher said. “Clues hide in the dark. And it’s ‘Bullitt, sir,’ to you.”

  “Yes, sir,” Lansdale said. “Bullitt, sir.”

  Disher looked around, pretending to be scanning for clues, when he was really checking to see if anyone was laughing at him. If they were, they were hiding it well. That was when he spotted the surveillance cameras in the corners of the ceiling.

  “I want the surveillance tapes on all floors, elevators, and stairwells for the last twenty-four hours and a complete list of guests who are staying in the hotel.”

  “Will do,” Lansdale said.

  They got into the elevator and rode it up to the seventh floor in silence. Disher pocketed his sunglasses. When the doors opened, they were greeted by a uniformed officer, who glanced at the badges clipped to their belts before letting them exit the elevator. The entire floor was being treated as a crime scene, which would have been Disher’s first move if it hadn’t been done already.

  Disher approached the open door to Braddock’s hotel room and looked inside. The room was cramped with forensic techs who were taking pictures, bagging things, and brushing every surface for prints.

  “Take five, boys, we need the room,” Disher said. “Everyone goes but the ME.”

  He stepped aside as the techs filed out of the room, leaving behind only Dr. Daniel Hetzer, who crouched beside Braddock’s body, which was facedown on the floor beside the king-sized bed.

  Dr. Hetzer maintained two days’ worth of stubble on his pale, fleshy cheeks to compensate for the lack of hair on his head. He used to be a two-pack-a-day smoker until he gave up cigarettes for alcohol instead. But he still smelled of cigarette smoke.

  Disher looked around the room. The bed was made, but the comforter was wrinkled and pillows were bunched up against the headboard as a backrest. The TV remote was on the floor beside the bed. Braddock was watching TV when his killer arrived, which meant the killer wasn’t lying in wait for him, which meant the killer was invited in, which meant it was someone Braddock knew.

  The dining table was tipped over. There was a broken bottle of scotch and the shards of two broken glasses on the floor. Disher was surprised the doctor wasn’t lapping up the puddle like a thirsty dog.

  “Cause of death?” Disher asked.

  “Strangulation,” Hetzer said. “But he took a beating sometime before that. His nose is broken and there’s a bruise on his chest.”


  He turned the body over so Disher and Lansdale could see Braddock’s broken nose, which was Stottlemeyer’s handiwork, and the red ligature marks around his neck, which were somebody else’s.

  “You might want to check between Braddock’s teeth for traces of the comforter,” Disher told Dr. Hetzer.

  “You think that Braddock liked to chew his bedsheets?” Lansdale said.

  “I think Braddock knocked his killer back into the table as he was being strangled. Then the killer pushed Braddock facedown into the bed, put all his weight on Braddock’s back, and added smothering to his murderous repertoire.”

  Dr. Hetzer nodded. “Judging by the position of the body, I’d say you’re probably right.”

  “I didn’t get this badge out of a box of Cap’n Crunch, Doc,” Disher said. “When was he killed?”

  “I’m guessing midnight,” Hetzer said, “Give or take an hour or two.”

  “Can’t you be more specific?”

  “I wish I could, but the AC was turned on full blast. It was like a meat locker when we got here.”

  “Someone was trying to make it difficult for us to pin down exactly when the murder occurred,” Disher said. “We’re dealing with a pro. What was Braddock strangled with?”

  “I’d say a belt, a rolled-up towel, or the sash of a bathrobe.”

  Disher turned to Lansdale. “Make sure the forensic boys bag anything in this room that could have been used to strangle somebody. And talk to the people in the adjoining rooms, upstairs and downstairs, too. Maybe they heard something. I also want those glass shards tested for prints ASAP. I want to know who he was drinking with.”

  “What are you going to be doing?” Lansdale asked.

  “The heavy thinking,” Disher said. “You bring me the pieces and I’ll put the puzzle together.”

  Monk spent the day at his apartment working through the files that Nick Slade had sent over that morning. I tried to help as best I could, but since I’m not a detective genius, it basically meant being a sounding board as he sorted through the clues and then being a stenographer as he laid out the solutions to the mysteries.