There’s blood on it that we both know will turn out to be his.”
“It is,” Stottlemeyer said. “I got it on my tie at the wake, which is why I threw it out when I got home. I’m an experienced homicide detective. If I wanted to dispose of a murder weapon, do you think I’d just drop it in my trash can?”
“Maybe you weren’t thinking rationally,” Disher said. “Anger does that to a person.”
“I’m rational now, and looking at your case objectively as your commanding officer, I’m telling you that you don’t have the evidence to make this charge stick. All you have is my tie and I’ve explained how I got blood on it. And, to my embarrassment, I’ve got lots of witnesses who can confirm that story,” Stottlemeyer said. “Yes, I was in the hotel that night but I didn’t leave the second-floor conference room there and I’ll bet that the security camera footage backs me up on that.”
“The footage shows when you arrived and when you left the hotel. There are no cameras on the second floor, but there are in the elevator.”
“And did you see me on it? No. Did you see me in the stairwells? No.”
“At ten fifteen, someone in a beefeater outfit that obscured his face got into the elevator on the second floor and took it up to the seventh,” Disher said. “We believe the killer took off the uniform, stashed it in a utility closet, then went to Braddock’s room and killed him. He then put the costume back on and returned to the second floor.”
“It could have been any one of the hundreds of people in the hotel that night,” Stottlemeyer said. “You have no evidence that puts me in Braddock’s room.”
“There was a broken glass on the floor. Your fingerprints were on it,” Disher said.
“Oh,” Stottlemeyer said.
“The theory is you told him that you came to apologize, you had a drink with him, and when his back was turned, you slipped your tie around his throat and strangled him. The table was tipped over in the struggle and the glass broke. You forgot about it.”
Stottlemeyer rubbed his mustache. “It’s obvious what’s happening here. Someone is setting me up.”
“That’s not for me to decide,” Disher said. “My job is to follow the evidence.”
“Forget the evidence for a minute. You know me, Randy.”
“Not lately, Captain. Over the last couple of weeks, you’ve been a different person.”
“One stupid enough to murder a cop with his own tie and leave behind a glass with his fingerprints on it?”
“You also fired Monk.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“The deputy chief thinks it was so Monk wouldn’t be around to investigate Braddock’s murder.”
“If I intended to murder Braddock, don’t you think I would come up with a better plan than this?”
“I’m sorry, Captain,” Disher said, his voice cracking, his hands shaking. “I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Paul Braddock.”
“You’re making a mistake, Randy.”
“I certainly hope so,” Disher said, and gave Stottlemeyer his handcuffs. “Could you put these on, please?”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because I’m going to throw up.” Disher hurried to the garbage can beside the desk and gagged into it. Between heaves, he tried to read the captain his rights.
“It’s okay,” Stottlemeyer said, cuffing his own hands behind his back. “I know them.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Monk worked on his remaining Intertect cases at his dining table while I tried to hone my detecting instincts by reading the Murder, She Wrote novel he bought in Mill Valley.
I can’t say that I learned much about investigative procedure but I discovered that you should stay far away from Cabot Cove. That tiny New England village is deadlier than Beirut, South Central Los Angeles, and the darkest back alley in Juarez combined. Cabot Cove probably has the highest per capita murder rate of anyplace on earth. Even though every killer eventually gets caught by Jessica Fletcher, I still wouldn’t feel safe there. I’m surprised the old biddy walks around town unarmed.
Jessica was about to prove that her second cousin twice removed was innocent of murder when Monk’s phone rang. I answered it.
“I need to see Monk right away,” Captain Stottlemeyer said. “Meet me in the interview room at the Seventh Street lockup.”
He hung up before I could ask him for more details. I assumed he’d made a breakthrough on the Peschel case and so did Monk.
On the way there, Monk and I tried to guess what was in store for us. We decided that the captain had either arrested someone for the crime or had found someone behind bars who had vital information on the killing. What other reason could there be for meeting at the jail? Monk suggested that it might even be a grateful Salvatore Lucarelli, offering to trade information in return for a reduced sentence.
So we went into the jail with a certain level of excitement, believing that we were in for something good. We were led to the same interview room where we’d met with Lucarelli a few days before, so I was prepared to see him there again.
I guess that’s why when I saw the man in the yellow jumpsuit, in that first split second I thought it was Lucarelli. Or perhaps my mind didn’t want to believe what my eyes were telling me.
It was Captain Stottlemeyer sitting there this time. Only he wasn’t in chains.
Monk let out a little gasp. “Leland? What happened?”
I rarely heard Monk refer to the captain by his first name. But this wasn’t a normal situation.
“I’ve been arrested for murder,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Who did you kill?” Monk asked.
“Nobody,” Stottlemeyer said. “How could you think I’ve murdered anyone?”
“Because you’re in jail for murder,” Monk said.
“That doesn’t mean I’m guilty.”
“The police don’t arrest innocent people,” Monk said. “They are very good at what they do.”
“Ordinarily, I would appreciate that vote of confidence, but since I’m sitting here for a crime I didn’t commit, you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t agree with you.”
“Who was murdered?” I asked.
“Paul Braddock,” Stottlemeyer said.
“How?” Monk asked.
“He was strangled in his hotel room,” Stottlemeyer said.
“When?” Monk asked.
“The night of the wake.”
“When you beat him up,” Monk said.
“Yes,” Stottlemeyer said.
“After he humiliated you in front of hundreds of homicide detectives,” I said.
“Yes,” Stottlemeyer said.
“So all the police have against you is one of the strongest motives for murder that I’ve ever heard in all my years of investigating homicides,” Monk said. “It’s not so bad.”
He wasn’t being sarcastic. He didn’t know how to be. I think he was trying-in his own sweet, unconvincing way-to be reassuring. He failed miserably.
Stottlemeyer cleared his throat. “And I was in the hotel at the time of the murder.”
Monk nodded. “Is that all?”
“And he was strangled with a tie identical to the one I was wearing.”
Monk nodded again. “That’s it?”
