Lee Goldberg - Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

“You really are incredible, Mr. Monk,” Slade said. “I’m going to make sure that you get all the credit you deserve for this.”

“So you can whip up some publicity for yourself,” I said.

“For Intertect, your employer. We are a business and publicity brings clients.” Slade addressed Monk again. “There are a lot of reporters standing around the corner. The timing couldn’t be better. How would you feel about joining me in an impromptu press conference to capitalize on your shining moment?”

“I’d rather not,” Monk said, glancing back at Stottlemeyer, who was still standing on Mrs. Carnegie’s stoop.

Slade followed his gaze. “I completely understand. I’ll try not to embarrass Leland or the department too much. But they have no one to blame for this but themselves for letting you go.”

I agreed with Slade on that point but there was no way he could spin this story that wouldn’t end up humiliating Stottlemeyer in front of the media.

Sure, the outcome of this case proved once again how wrong and petty the captain was to fire Monk, but I still felt lousy about hurting him. Maybe our new jobs, fancy car, and comprehensive health plan had softened my anger a bit and made me more sympathetic towards the captain.

Slade hurried off after Disher and his prisoner. I’m sure that Slade wanted to make sure all three of them got in the newspaper photos and TV news footage together.

I couldn’t really blame Slade for that and I owed him an apology for what I’d said. He was right. It was smart to take advantage of the opportunity and it only helped burnish Monk’s reputation along with Intertect’s.

Even so, I couldn’t help feeling that Monk was being exploited, which was stupid, considering how generously we were both being compensated for his detecting services.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Monk said.

“You have nothing to be sorry about, Monk,” he said. “Nick was right: That was some amazing detective work. We were fortunate that you showed up.”

“It was just a lucky guess,” Monk said.

“One that I wouldn’t have made, at least not today and not for the reasons that you did,” Stottlemeyer said. “It would have come after I exhausted every possible connection to Lucarelli, which might have been weeks from now. And by then, Mrs. Carnegie could have destroyed all the evidence and run off to some tropical island.”

“You would have figured it out before that happened,” Monk said.

“Or received an anonymous tip,” Stottlemeyer said.

“Are you reconsidering letting Monk go?” I asked. “Not that he would come back if you did.”

“I would,” Monk said. I elbowed him hard, eliciting a pained yelp. I don’t think he fully appreciated yet all the benefits of his new job. He was too sleepy.

Stottlemeyer shook his head. “I didn’t have a choice then and I don’t now.”

“That might change after the chief sees the evening news,” I said.

“There might be changes,” Stottlemeyer said. “But I don’t think they will involve Monk. They might involve me.”

The captain walked off, his shoulders slumped.

Monk and I watched him go.

“He’s a good detective,” Monk said.

I nodded. “Just not a great one and he knows it.” “Maybe I should retire,” Monk said.

“And do what?” I said.

“Spread the good word about Diaper Genies.”

“You’d be wasting your natural talent and Stottlemeyer wouldn’t want that.”

“But I’d be making the world a better place.”

“That’s what you are doing now,” I said.

“You think so?”

“You give people closure and justice,” I said, and thought of my husband and the unanswered questions surrounding his death in Kosovo. “I could use some of that.”

“Me, too,” he said, undoubtedly thinking about the unsolved murder of his wife. “So who can we go to?”

Just as Stottlemeyer was about to turn the corner, he stopped and answered his cell phone. The call was short and we couldn’t hear what was said, but his body language told us it wasn’t good news. His shoulders slumped even more and he lowered his head.

Monk and I shared a look and caught up with the captain.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“That was Carol Atwater,” Stottlemeyer said. “Bill Peschel is dead.”

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.