Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Stottlemeyer told us that Carol left her father at home while she dropped her son off at school and took her daughter to a pediatrician’s appointment. When Carol got back, she found her father floating facedown in the pool.

Monk insisted on following Stottlemeyer to Carol’s house. Although he didn’t know Bill Peschel at all, he felt indebted to him for bringing the miraculous Diaper Genie into his life.

When we arrived, there was a Mill Valley Police squad car, an unmarked Crown Vic, and a coroner’s van parked out front. Neighbors were standing in their driveways and lawns, staring at the house and waiting for something interesting to happen.

The police photographer was just leaving as we walked up to the front door. Carol met us there, still in her wet clothes.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, Captain. I just didn’t know who else to call.” She gestured inside to the family room, where two uniformed Mill Valley police officers and a detective were conferring with a woman wearing a windbreaker with the word CORONER stenciled in big letters on her back. “I don’t know how to talk to them or what questions I should be asking.”

“You leave everything to me,” he said. “You should change into some dry clothes and sit down for a few minutes. You might be in shock. Did the paramedics take a look at you before they left?”

She shook her head. “I’m just cold. I haven’t had a chance to change yet.”

“You can now,” I said. “Do you need any help with the baby?”

“She’s with the neighbors,” Carol said.

Monk drifted over to the French doors and looked out into the backyard.

There was a white plastic chair in the shimmering, wet grass next to the black, wrought-iron pool fence. Two assistants lifted Peschel into the body bag. All I saw were his white tube socks before they zipped him up and lifted the body bag onto a gurney.

Carol followed our gaze. “I’ve left him alone before without any problems. I never imagined he’d try to go in the pool.”

“It’s not your fault,” Stottlemeyer said.

“I looked all over the house for him before I thought to go in the backyard… and there he was,” she said. “I tried to save him, but it took so long. I grabbed the key to the padlock, opened the gate, and dove into the pool. By the time I got to him, it was too late.”

“It was probably too late before you even got back home,” Stottlemeyer said. “You can’t blame yourself.”

I put my arm around her wet shoulders and gave her a comforting squeeze.

“You should get into some dry clothes. I’ll make you something hot to drink,” I said. “Would you like coffee or tea?”

“Tea,” she said. “Thank you.”

Carol trudged down the hall. Stottlemeyer looked at me. “I’m glad that you came,” he said. “I’m terrible at this kind of thing.”

“So go do what you’re good at,” I said.

Stottlemeyer sighed wearily and headed for the huddle of cops, flashing them his badge as he approached. They went outside to the far corner of the patio to confer.

I headed for the kitchen and spotted a box of Lipton tea bags on the back counter, not far from Peschel’s row of liquor bottles full of water.

She had one of those little faucets that give you instant boiling water, so it made my job easy. As I took a coffee cup out of the strainer and filled it with hot water, I noticed Peschel’s dish towel on the counter and a glass set up on a napkin, all ready for his next customer.

That made me think of Peschel, of course, and I glanced outside.

Monk stood on the patio, where the edge met the wet, freshly cut grass, staring at the chair and the pool on the other side of the fence. There was still a puddle of water where Peschel’s body had lain on the concrete.

The coroner’s assistants wheeled the gurney with the body bag into the house and through the family room to the front door. I was glad Carol missed that but I was sure that the neighbors outside got a thrill when the body bag came out. People love to crane their necks to see body bags as long as it’s not one of their loved ones zipped up inside of it.

I went to the refrigerator to look for honey. The doors of the appliance were covered with family photos, school art projects, grocery coupons, and her appointment calendar, all stuck in place with letters-of-the-alphabet magnets. My refrigerator was also covered with stuff, but in my case it was family photos, reminder notes for me or Julie to each other or to ourselves, and interesting newspaper clippings that I’d put up for Julie or that she put up for me.

What is it about the refrigerator that makes it the communications center and scrapbook for families? Or is it because it’s a place that everyone in the household is bound to go at least once or twice during the day? Or is it just because it’s a big, blank metal surface?

You can tell a lot about a family by what they stick on their refrigerator. For example, there’s nothing on Monk’s. It’s so clean and shiny that you can use it like a mirror.

I found a bottle of honey in the fridge, put a dollop of it in the tea, then set the cup on the counter with a spoon and the sugar bowl.

Carol came down the hall in a bathrobe and slippers and took a seat on one of the bar stools. She wrapped her hands around the cup of tea, blew on it, and took a sip.

She didn’t say anything and I didn’t try to make conversation. What was there to talk about? Carol seemed lost in her mourning or, as Stottlemeyer suspected, she was in shock. Who could blame her?

I looked outside again and saw Monk squatting on the patio, picking up something with tweezers and putting it in the palm of his other hand.

I went outside on the pretense of seeing what Monk was up to, not that I explained myself to her. It was just the motivation behind my performance as I left the kitchen. The truth was I felt awkward standing there watching Carol drink her tea in misery and needed to escape.

I looked down at him. “What are you doing?”

“I thought I’d help Carol out by cleaning up this big mess.”

All I saw were a few blades of cut grass and some white fertilizer pellets.

“If that’s your idea of a big mess, then I’m never letting you in my house again.”

“Do you have a Baggie?” he asked.

I reached into my purse and gave him one of the tiny plastic bags I carry with me for his used wipes or any evidence that he collects.

He emptied his hand into the bag and then stood up, nodding to himself.

“This will take some of the pressure off of her,” he said, sealing the bag. “One less thing for her to worry about.”

I took the Baggie from him and handed him a wipe before he could ask.

Stottlemeyer, the Mill Valley cops, and the coroner broke their huddle like a football team ready to make their play. Stottlemeyer came over to us and the others left.

“The coroner says it looks like Bill banged the back of his head on the coping when he jumped into the pool,” Stottlemeyer said. “He was probably out cold when he hit the water.”

“At least he didn’t suffer,” I said.

The captain nodded and looked back at Carol. “Maybe this is a blessing.”

“How?” I asked.

“I’d rather die than lose my mind in front of my kids,” Stottlemeyer said. “Bill wouldn’t have wanted to end up in his daughter’s kitchen, serving imaginary drinks and calling cops with tips on crimes that happened ten years ago. Maybe he had a rare moment of clarity and decided to put an end to his torment and hers while he still could.”

“You’re projecting. You were uncomfortable watching him replay scenes from his old life but that doesn’t mean that he was suffering,” I said. “He seemed happy to me.”

“If I end up sitting at a card table in my son’s garage believing that I’m in my office, running Homicide again, you have my permission to shoot me.” Stottlemeyer looked back at Carol, sitting at the counter in the kitchen. “I’d better go talk to her. Get some rest, Monk. You look like you need it.”

Monk nodded and we left through the side yard, following a path through a vegetable garden.

I was tired, too. It was a lot of death for one day and it was only the early afternoon.

The first thing I did when we got to Monk’s place was to take that rolling file drawer and wheel it out the door to the Lexus.

“Where are you going with that?” he exclaimed, chasing after me to the street.

“I’m taking it home,” I said.

“But the day isn’t over yet.”

“It is for you,” I said, opening the lift-back on the SUV. “You worked all night, so you get to take the rest of the day off.”

“I don’t want to take the rest of the day off.”

“Too bad,” I said. “You’re going to. You’ll thank me later.”

I collapsed the legs and slid the file drawer right into the car. That rolling drawer was handy. I thought about getting myself one for bringing groceries into the house. Instead of three trips to the car, I could do it in one.

“What about you?” Monk asked.

“What about me?”

“You didn’t work all night,” he said.

I stopped and turned to face him. “I think I deserve an afternoon off, too.”

“Why?”

“On general principle,” I said. “What do you care? Technically, you aren’t the one paying me anymore.”

He did a little double take. “I’m not?”

“Intertect is paying me,” I said.

He smiled. I did, too. I think that was the first moment that he realized how great this job was. So I decided to drive the point home.

“Not only that, Mr. Monk, but they are paying for Dr. Bell, too.”

“So, I could see him four days a week and it would be absolutely free.”

“For you, yes. Not for Slade. But I’m sure he’d consider it a small price to pay for keeping you happy and productive.”

Monk’s smile got bigger. “I know how to spend the rest of the day.”

I groaned. I didn’t have to be a deductive genius to see what he had in mind.

“What makes you think Dr. Bell has any openings today?”

“If he doesn’t, I’ll just sit in his office and catch him between sessions.”

“He’s going to love that,” I said.

“I know,” Monk said.

I dropped Monk off at Dr. Bell’s office, told him to call me when he was ready to be picked up, and I sped off before he could think of a reason for me to spend the afternoon with him in the waiting room.

I went home, left the file drawer in the back of the Lexus, and caught up on some very important loafing around.

You’d think I’d be inured to death after all the years I’d spent working for Monk. And I was, to a degree. I didn’t turn away anymore from the victims of violent death. I could study a corpse alongside Monk, Stottlemeyer, and Disher without flinching or feeling sick. But after seeing a particularly bloody murder and a tragic drowning death I needed to decompress.

All that death was a heavy load, emotionally and visually, to carry around. It wasn’t just the dead bodies that got to me; it was everything that went along with it-like meeting a mobster in jail, facing an unrepentant murderer on her doorstep, and comforting the heartbroken, guilt-stricken loved ones of the dead.

Factor in the day-to-day, minute-to-minute aggravation of smoothing things out for Monk on top of all that and you can see why I just curled up on the couch with a bag of nacho cheese Doritos, a Diet Shasta root beer, and some unread issues of Vanity Fair, The New Yorker, and Entertainment Weekly.

That’s the secret to keeping my svelte figure, by the way: generous amounts of junk food coupled with hours of sitting on my butt.

I engaged in that rigorous workout until Monk called around five for me to take him home.

I insisted on picking up Monk on the street because I didn’t want to face Dr. Bell, who was likely to be very angry with me for dropping Monk in his waiting room and then fleeing for the day.

Monk had an actual skip to his step as he came to the car. I found that pretty amazing given the fact that he hadn’t slept in a day and a half.

“How did it go with Dr. Bell?”

“I think he really enjoyed it,” Monk said. “He pretended to be irritated, but it was just a show for the other patients. He didn’t want them to know that I’m his favorite and that he was counting the minutes in their sessions until he could get back to me.”

“You’re probably right,” I said.

“I usually am,” he said.