“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.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Before long the guests were gone and the crowd at Carol Atwater’s house was made up of cops and crime scene investigators from the Mill Valley Police Department. Even Carol and her family had left, preferring to spend the night in a hotel. I wondered if they’d ever come back to this house now.
Stottlemeyer and Slade stuck around-the captain to protect Carol’s interests and Slade to publicize his own.
Slade was careful to remind Monk that he worked for Intertect and that any further observations he wanted to share had to go through him first.
“I don’t know what forensic evidence they hope to find,” Slade said, watching the forensic technicians doing their thing. “The scene has been hopelessly compromised and contaminated. The yard has been watered, which is bound to have washed away trace evidence, and everything has been trampled and touched by dozens of people since Peschel’s death.”
“You mean his murder,” Monk said.
“They’re just following procedure,” Stottlemeyer said. “They know as well as you and I do how futile it is.”
“It’s my fault the evidence is lost or ruined,” Monk said. “I saw all the things that were out of place yesterday and didn’t put it together. What was the matter with me?”
“You were tired,” I said, shooting a nasty glare at Slade, who didn’t seem to pick up on it.
“But it was all right in front of my face,” Monk said.
“And mine and theirs,” Stottlemeyer said, nodding towards the Mill Valley police. “At least I’m accustomed to missing the clues that you see. They’re not. They really feel like jerks.”
“Then it’s the perfect time to let them know that Monk’s consulting services are available through Intertect,” Slade said, and excused himself from us to try to snag himself a new client.
“Who could have wanted Bill Peschel dead?” Monk asked.
“Anyone who got sent to prison because of one of the tips that he gave the police,” I said.
“Why wait until now?” Stottlemeyer asked. “Peschel retired and moved to Florida ten years ago.”
“Maybe the killer just got released from prison,” I said. “Or maybe it took the killer this long to figure out that it was Peschel who ratted him out. Or maybe he only recently learned that Peschel had moved back to the Bay Area. Maybe it’s all of those things put together.”
“That’s a lot of maybes,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I thought maybes were your specialty,” I said.
“My specialty doesn’t matter,” Stottlemeyer said. “This is a Mill Valley homicide. I don’t have jurisdiction here.”
Slade came back over to us. “I was just told that the Mill Valley Police Department has a policy of not hiring people to do the job that they are paid to do. They don’t have money to burn like the San Francisco police do. That’s a direct quote.”
“Tough break for you,” Stottlemeyer said.
“They’ll come around after a few weeks of getting nowhere,” Slade said.
“After a few weeks, it will be too late,” Monk said. “The trail will be cold.”
“You’ve solved a bunch of cases for me already that were colder than a few weeks,” Slade said.
“This is different,” Monk said.
“Yeah, the Mill Valley police know that somebody would have gotten away with murder if it weren’t for you,” Slade said. “You’ve embarrassed them. They aren’t going to be able to stick this case in a drawer if they get nowhere with it. They’ll have to come back to us. The public will pressure them into it.”
“How’s the public going to know anything about it?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“There were a lot of people here today,” Slade said. “Word will get around. And I’ll be sending out a press release this afternoon. See you later.”
Slade walked away.
Stottlemeyer sighed and looked at us. “I’d better get back to the office, assuming that I still have one.”
“Why are you being so pessimistic? The murders of Judges Stanton and Carnegie were solved. It’s old news,” I said. “There will be other headlines today. Your bosses can’t be as angry with you as they were yesterday.”
“I just punched a cop at a wake,” Stottlemeyer said.
“He had it coming,” I said.
“True, but I don’t think the chief is going to see it that way.”
“Who says he’s ever going to know?”
“Braddock will make sure that he does,” Stottlemeyer said. “Every cop at the convention is going to ask him how his nose got busted and he’ll tell them, though he’ll frame the story so that he looks terrific and I come across as a raging psychopath.”
“With his charming personality, it’s probably not the first time someone has slugged him,” I said.
Stottlemeyer shook his head. “Braddock is used to giving beatings, not taking them. He’s always been protected by the authority of his badge. Most people are afraid to hit him back. He’s not used to a fight that isn’t rigged in his favor before he even throws a punch. He isn’t going to take this well.”
“It’s not Braddock that I’m concerned about,” Monk said. “What are we going to do about Bill Peschel’s murder?”
“Bill lived and worked in San Francisco most of his life. Odds are that whatever happened here began across the bay on my turf,” Stottlemeyer said. “The homicide case may be out of my jurisdiction but I’m going to do some asking around anyway.”
“Me too,” Monk said.
Stottlemeyer nodded and walked away. As soon as he was gone, I gave Monk a look.
