Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was unsettling to be back at Carol Atwater’s house again at just about the same time of day that we’d been there before.

On our first visit, Bill Peschel was behind the kitchen counter, pretending it was a bar. On our second visit, he was dead outside and there were cops and coroners around. And now, on our third visit, Peschel was gone and someone else was at the kitchen counter, serving real wine, beer, and soft drinks to the two dozen friends and relatives.

I wondered if the counter was being used as a bar intentionally to honor Bill Peschel or if it was just an ironic coincidence. I decided on the latter. They probably used the counter as a bar every time they entertained, whether it was a cocktail party or a wake. But even so, there was something creepy about it, especially since nobody had bothered to clear away Bill’s bottles of water yet.

Some people milled outside on the patio. I could see that the white chair had been moved off the wet grass and the wrought-iron pool fence was closed and locked again.

I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew when I arrived with Monk besides Carol Atwater, of course, and Stottlemeyer, so I was startled when I spotted Detective Paul Braddock nursing a beer and talking with Nick Slade. Every so often, Braddock would shoot a sneer at Stottlemeyer, who was standing off to one side by himself, sipping a Diet Coke and pointedly ignoring them (which I guess meant that he wasn’t actually ignoring them at all).

Monk wasn’t good with crowds and small spaces. He was practically hugging himself, his head down low, as we weaved our way over to the captain.

“You must have finally had some rest, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said. “You look almost like yourself again.”

“I wish I could say the same for you, Captain,” I said. “You look worn-down.”

“I am,” he said.

“Tough time at work?” I asked.

“The mayor and the chief aren’t in very good moods today,” Stottlemeyer said. “Haven’t you watched the news?”

I shook my head. “But you closed a big double-murder case in only forty-eight hours. Doesn’t that earn you any brownie points?”

“It’s not the rapid investigation and solid arrest that’re getting all the attention.” Stottlemeyer gestured to Monk. “It’s that we needed him to do it.”

“I’m sorry,” Monk mumbled.

“Don’t be,” Stottlemeyer snapped. “Never apologize for being the best at what you do, Monk. We caught the murderer, that’s the important thing. Everything else is smoke.”

“Smoke can kill you,” Monk said.

“You think everything can kill you,” Stottlemeyer said.

“It’s true,” Monk said. “Name one thing that isn’t lethal.”

“A cotton ball,” I said.

“You know how many people choke to death on cotton balls every year?” Monk asked. With anyone else, I’d say it was a rhetorical question. But I’m sure he knew exactly how many, not just for the last year, but going as far back as the Roman Empire.

“Which one of these people is Phil Atwater?” I asked.

Stottlemeyer tipped his Diet Coke towards the man serving drinks at the kitchen counter. One look at Phil’s poufy, blow-dried hair and Rick Springfield started singing “Jessie’s Girl” in my head.

“Don’t you think it’s odd that Carol married a man with practically the same name as her father?” I asked, hoping to drown out the song in my head by talking. “I would never marry a man with a name close to my father’s. He’d have to prove his love for me by changing his name.”

“Bill is short for William and Phil is short for Phillip,” Monk said. “So actually the names aren’t similar at all.”

“Bill and Phil sound pretty close to me,” I said.

“But William and Phillip aren’t,” Monk said.

“But that’s not what they call themselves.”

“But that’s what their names are,” Monk said.

“I’ve never understood why Bill is short for William,” Stottlemeyer interjected. “Where does the ‘B’ come from?”

“Why is Bob short for Robert?” I said. “Where does that ‘B’ come from?”

“Misspellings that were left uncorrected and, as a result, went on to contaminate the entire English language,” Monk said. “Let that be a warning to us all on the importance of proofreading.”

No one could accuse us of not engaging in highly intellectual conversations.

Carol Atwater approached us. “Thank you all for coming.”

“Your father indirectly changed my life forever,” Monk said.

“He did?” Carol asked. “How?”

“By accompanying the captain here, I was introduced to the Diaper Genie and its potential to save the world,” Monk said. “I’ll be sure that your father is mentioned during the Nobel ceremony.”

She stared at him in bewilderment. “You mean like the Nobel Prize?”

“Don’t ask,” I said. “How are you doing?”

“Okay, I guess,” she said. “We cremated Dad this morning and scattered his ashes in front of his old bar like he wanted. It’s a Jamba Juice now, but that doesn’t matter, does it?”

“I hope you cleaned it up afterwards,” Monk said. “You aren’t supposed to spread dead people in front of restaurants.”

I nudged him hard and Stottlemeyer spoke up quickly to cover Monk’s insensitivity.

“That spot will always be Bill’s Tavern to me,” Stottlemeyer said. “To all of us.”

I looked over at Braddock and Slade, both of whom were watching us. “They knew your father, too?”

“Dad called them a couple of times since he moved in, with some hot tips from the nineteen nineties,” she said. “Nick has been here twice before. Detective Braddock came for the first time the same day that you three were here. He’s in town for a convention.”

“The three of us were on the force at the same time. Bill gave us each a lot of good leads on crimes that happened or were in the works,” Stottlemeyer said. “I don’t know how he decided which one of us to grace with a particular bit of gossip. If he played favorites, I never noticed or cared. His bar was in the heart of the Tenderloin, his customers lived in the shadows, and they talked a lot when they were drunk. He always knew the word on the street.”

“Didn’t the street know he was passing it along to you?” I said.

“We didn’t advertise it and I doubt he did, either. I liked Bill, but he played both sides of the fence. He was every bit as dirty as-” He suddenly remembered who was standing there and lowered his head with embarrassment. “What I mean is-”

“I know what you meant, Captain,” she said, but without any resentment in her voice. “One of the reasons Dad ratted on his friends and customers and told you the scuttlebutt that he heard was so you’d look the other way on his little schemes and scams. I loved my father, warts and all. And he certainly had plenty of warts.”

Monk cringed. “And you let him stand in your kitchen where your family’s food is prepared? Where your guests are eating and drinking now? You’re going to have to gut that kitchen down to the studs.”

Carol stared coldly at Monk. “Excuse me, I should probably see how the other guests are doing.”

She gave Stottlemeyer a kiss on the cheek, cast one more cold glance at Monk, and moved on.

“You’re a sensitive guy, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.

“That’s why I didn’t tell her that she and her family and everyone here who has consumed anything served from that wart-infested hellhole will need to be decontaminated by a haz-mat team,” Monk said. “I’ll call her tomorrow, when it won’t be as traumatic. Someone should also call the health department about that Jamba Juice. People have probably been tracking warty Bill Peschel in and out of the place all day.”

Nick broke away from Braddock to talk with Carol, and Braddock sauntered over to us.

“Oh joy,” Stottlemeyer said as he saw Braddock approaching.

“Maybe he’s just coming over to share his condolences,” I said.

“I’m sure he is,” Stottlemeyer said. “For my career.”

“Hey, Monk, I’m surprised to see you here,” Braddock said. “I didn’t know you knew old Billy-boy back in the day.”

“I didn’t,” Monk said. “I met him for the first time a few days ago. He was the captain’s friend.”

Braddock nodded. “That makes sense. You don’t need snitches, do you, Monk? You can close a case without help, unlike Leland here. He needs all the help he can get.”

“You’re right, Paul, I do. I solicit the unique skills and special relationships of the people around me to get the job done.”

“To make up for your own weaknesses,” Braddock said. “It’s sad.”

“I guess that’s why I’m a Homicide captain in the big city of San Francisco and you’re giving parking tickets in the tiny little desert town of Banning.”

Braddock’s face turned bright red. His rage must have been pretty close to the surface to start with.

“The way I hear it, you aren’t going to have that job much longer.”

“Maybe so,” Stottlemeyer said. “But it’s still a job that you’ll never get.”

“The only difference between you and me is him,” Braddock said, jabbing a finger in Monk’s direction. “Without your little Rainman, you’re nothing.”

“Which still is more of a cop than you’ll ever be. I make my cases using evidence, not beatings,” Stottlemeyer said, watching as Braddock’s hand clenched into a fist, crushing the empty can he was holding. “Trying to wring a confession out of that beer can?”

Braddock swung his fist at Stottlemeyer, who deftly dodged it with his left arm, splashing the people nearby with Diet Coke, and punched him in the nose with his right.

The detective staggered back, bumping into two mourners and causing an immediate stir in the room. Everyone was watching now. Nick seemed embarrassed but Carol was mortified.

Furious and bloodied, Braddock swung again, but Stottlemeyer easily ducked under it and punched the detective hard in the stomach, doubling him over.

Stottlemeyer followed up with a right uppercut to the chin that sent Braddock staggering backwards out the open French doors to the backyard, where he lost his footing and slid on his butt across the wet grass as if it were a Slip ’n Slide.

The captain was going out for more but Slade grabbed him from behind and held him back.

“Leland,” Nick said. “That’s enough. You’re at a wake, for God’s sake.”

That seemed to snap Stottlemeyer out of it. Phil Atwater and a couple of other men helped Braddock to his feet.

Braddock was a dazed mess. There was blood spatter on his white shirt from his smashed nose and the back of his pants were all wet and grass-stained.

I looked over at Monk, who stepped past Stottlemeyer and Slade onto the patio. He had his head cocked at an angle, observing the situation as if he’d never seen anything like it.

“Haven’t you ever seen someone get punched before?” I asked as I joined him. “If Stottlemeyer hadn’t socked him, I might have.”

“There are grass stains on his pants,” Monk said.

“That’s what happens when you slide on wet grass.”

“Or walk on it with your socks,” Monk said. “The lawn is so green and lush because it’s watered every day at the same time. It was wet yesterday, too, but Bill Peschel’s socks weren’t stained. They were bright white.”

He was right. I remembered seeing Peschel’s sock-covered feet just before they zipped up his body bag.

“Maybe the chlorinated water leached out the stains,” Nick said.

Spoken like a man who had never done a load of children’s laundry. But Carol had and, judging by the horrified expression creeping onto her face, the implication of Monk’s observation was beginning to sink in.

It certainly had for me and Stottlemeyer. We both had kids. Grass stains don’t wash out easily, if they ever wash out at all. So the fact that Bill’s socks weren’t stained could mean only one thing: He didn’t walk across the grass.

The captain shrugged his arms free from Slade’s loosened grasp and stepped forward.

Monk picked up a white plastic chair, set it on the grass near the fence, and waved me over.

“Stand on this,” he said.

“Why don’t you?”

“I’m afraid of heights.”

I sighed, grabbed the top of the fence for support, and stepped onto the chair. It wobbled and sank under my weight into the sodden lawn with a moist, squishy sound.

“You don’t weigh half as much as Bill Peschel did,” Monk said. “But the chair he stood on wasn’t sunk into the lawn. It was right on top.”

“Maybe the chair was moved by one of the coroners, cops, or the police photographer,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Then there should be four holes made by the chair in the grass somewhere along the pool fence.”

Monk bent over and walked slowly around the entire perimeter of the pool.

He walked very, very, very slowly.

So slowly that I’m pretty sure he was counting the blades of grass as he went.

Everyone was silent, watching Monk. Even Braddock was transfixed, holding a towel to his bloody nose.

After what felt like hours of frustration and suspense, Monk returned to me, tipped his head from side to side, rolled his shoulders, and then addressed the crowd.

“Bill Peschel didn’t step on a chair, climb over the fence, and jump into the pool,” Monk said. “He was murdered.”