Lee Goldberg - Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop

“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.”

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.