“I don’t know how to pretend,” Monk said. “I never got the hang of it.”
Stottlemeyer handed his latte to Disher, took off his tie, and stuffed it into a biohazard container.
“Is that better?” Stottlemeyer asked, taking back his latte from Disher.
“I think we all appreciate it,” Monk said, looking at Disher and me. “Don’t we?”
“So what have you got for me that was worth chucking my tie for?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“The killer.”
Stottlemeyer and Disher both glanced around the room. So did I.
“Where?” Stottlemeyer said. “I don’t see any of our suspects.”
Monk tipped his head toward Stella Picaro. Just seeing the breathing tube down her throat nearly triggered my gag reflex.
“You’re talking about her?” Disher said.
Monk nodded.
“She did it?” Stottlemeyer said incredulously.
Monk nodded.
“Are you sure?” Stottlemeyer said.
Monk nodded. I looked back at Stella Picaro. She seemed to be trying to shake her head.
“Maybe you forgot this part,” Stottlemeyer said, “but when Dr. Douglas died, that lady was unconscious on an operating table, her chest cut wide-open, her beating heart held in his hands.”
“And based on that flimsy alibi, you wrote her off as a suspect?” Monk said.
“Yeah, I did,” Stottlemeyer said.
“Even though you told me she was his surgical nurse and his mistress for five years?”
“That’s right.”
“Even though when Dr. Douglas finally left his wife, it wasn’t for her but for a twenty-two-year-old swimsuit model?”
“Look at her, Monk. She was having a quadruple bypass when the murder was committed. She nearly died on the operating table.”
“That was all part of her cunning plan.”
We all looked at her. She stared back at us wide-eyed, not making a sound. All we heard was the beeping of her EKG—which sounded kind of erratic to me, but I wasn’t a doctor.
Stottlemeyer sighed. It was a sigh that conveyed weariness and defeat. It was tiring dealing with Monk, and futile arguing with him about murder. When it comes to homicide, Monk is almost always right.
“How could she possibly have done it?” Stottlemeyer asked.
I was wondering the same thing.
Disher snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. Astral projection!”
“You’re saying her spirit left her body and poisoned him,” Stottlemeyer said.
Disher nodded. “That’s the only explanation.”
“I sure hope not. I’d like to keep this badge for a few more years.” Stottlemeyer faced Monk again. “Tell me it’s not astral projection.”
“It’s not,” Monk said. “There’s no such thing. Her body was the murder weapon.”
“I don’t get it,” Disher said.
“When Stella discovered she needed heart surgery, she realized it was an opportunity to commit the perfect murder,” Monk said, shooting a glance at Stella. “Isn’t that right?”
She tried again to shake her head.
“You appealed to Dr. Douglas’s ego by begging him to save your life and then talked him into performing the surgery here, at the hospital where you work.”
“What difference did it make where the surgery was done?” Stottlemeyer asked.
“Because here she had access to the operating room, the supplies, and the equipment before the surgery and could doctor them, no pun intended,” Monk said. “The iodine Dr. Douglas applied to her skin before making his incision was laced with poison.”
“Wouldn’t that have poisoned her, too?” Stottlemeyer said.
“It did, but she was getting the antidote in her IV,” Monk said. “Take a look at her chart. It shows higher than normal levels of atropine.”
Stottlemeyer took the chart that was hanging from the end of her bed, opened it, and stared at it for a long moment before closing it again.
“Who am I kidding?” he said as he put the chart back. “I don’t know how to read a medical chart.”
“Neither do I,” Monk said.
“Then how do you know what is or isn’t in her blood?”
“Because she’s alive,” Monk said. “And Dr. Douglas isn’t.”
“But what about the other doctors who were working on her?” Disher said. “How come they weren’t poisoned, too?”
“Because they weren’t wearing the same gloves as Dr. Douglas,” Monk said. “He used only Conway gloves; the other brands gave him a skin rash. Before the surgery Stella put tiny pinpricks, invisible to the naked eye, in all the gloves in his box, so he would absorb the poison through his skin.”
Stottlemeyer looked at Disher. “Contact the crime lab, Randy, and make sure they hold on to the box of gloves Dr. Douglas used. Have them examine the gloves for perforations.”
Disher nodded and scribbled something in his notebook.
I looked at Stella. She was so pale and weak, she seemed to be melting into her bed. Her eyes were filling with tears. I remembered hearing how Dr. Clark had to reach into her open chest and save her life after Dr. Douglas collapsed.
“But Mr. Monk,” I said, “even with the antidote in the IV, it would have been suicidal for Stella to kill her surgeon while he was operating on her heart.”
“It was a risk she was willing to take,” Monk said. “It was poetic justice. She used her heart to kill the man who broke it.”
Stella closed her eyes and tears rolled down her cheeks. I couldn’t tell whether they were tears of sadness or anger. They might have been both.
Stottlemeyer shook his head in amazement. “I never would have caught her, Monk.”
“You would have, sir,” Disher said. “It might have taken longer, that’s all.”
“No, Randy, I wouldn’t have. Not ever.” Stottlemeyer regarded Monk with genuine appreciation. “How did you figure it out?”
“It was obvious,” Monk said.
“Go ahead, rub it in,” Stottlemeyer said. “Don’t let my remaining shreds of self-respect stop you.”
“There is no way any of the doctors or other medical personnel could have poisoned Dr. Douglas without being seen,” Monk said. “That left only one possible suspect.”
Stottlemeyer frowned. “Makes sense. I wonder why I couldn’t see it.”
The captain turned toward Stella, so he didn’t notice Monk studying him, regarding his friend as if he were a complex painting.
Disher marched over to Stella’s bedside. “You have the right to remain silent—”
“Randy,” Stottlemeyer interrupted. “She’s got a breathing tube down her throat. She couldn’t say anything even if she wanted to.”
“Oh,” Disher said, then dangled the handcuffs he was holding. “Should
