Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant (10 page)

Stottlemeyer scowled. “Randy, no one had it in for Jasper Coleman. We checked all avenues of the investigation. Impartially. As for the crowbar, Jasper had plenty of opportunities to dispose of it before the first responders arrived. According to them, he was in the bathroom washing his hands.”

“I'd been attacked. I was putting a cold, wet towel on my head.”

“Randy, what is this?” Monk asked. He was pointing to something in the ex-lieutenant's journal.

“What's what?” Randy went to look over Monk's shoulder at the page in question. So did the rest of us.

“It's a doodle,” said Stottlemeyer. The little sketch was squeezed in just below Randy's journal entry for that day: all about the weather, what he had for lunch, his interview with the dead woman's husband.

“It's a doodle,” Randy repeated. “You know doodles. They come to you out of the blue, no thinking necessary.”

I refrained from any wisecracking about Randy and his nonthinking process. It wasn't the time or place.

The doodle in question was in the lower right corner, a thin dirty hand, wearing a wedding ring, picking up nails, carpenter nails, off the floor. Randy was a decent artist. In high school, I believe his ambition had been to draw comic book heroes.

“Why did you draw that?” asked the captain curiously.

“I don't know,” said Randy. “It was seven years ago and . . . I don't know.”

Monk raised a finger and thought out loud. “The other two doodles on the page have something to do with Mr. Coleman—his face, him sitting in a chair. But this one's different. A man's hand picking up . . .” My partner scrunched his brow and turned to Jasper Coleman. “Were you picking your fingernails during your interview with Randy?”

“Doing what?” said Jasper. There was an instantly defensive tone in his voice. “I wasn't picking my nails.”

“Interesting,” said the captain. He began leafing through several pages in the SFPD file. “Randy didn't mention anything about nails in his interview report.”

“Maybe not,” said Monk. “But my bet is that he noticed it,
at least subconsciously. Later that day, when he was writing in his journal . . .”

The captain wasn't convinced. “Randy draws dragons. That doesn't mean he's arrested a dragon.”

“Hold on, Leland. Wow.” Randy threw his elbows onto the table and pressed his head between his fists. “Monk's right. Jasper was picking his fingernails. Somehow it must have registered, but I didn't write it down.”

“I was not picking my nails,” growled Coleman, leaving even less doubt than before.

“Let me check on that.” The captain cleared his throat and flipped another page in the official report. “By the time Mr. Coleman was taken into custody and was swabbed, there was nothing under his nails. Of course that was hours later.”

“What does that mean?” asked Randy, turning to Monk. “You think it was blood or skin tissue? I can't believe I let a suspect pick his nails during an interview.”

“He wasn't a suspect at the time,” I pointed out. “He was a victim and a witness.”

“Still, I should have had a swab done right then. What was I thinking?”

“Don't beat yourself up,” said Randy's old partner. “We put the guy away without the swab, that's what counts.”

Monk looked up again from Randy's old journal. “By the way, Mr. Coleman, when did you get married?”

We all followed Monk's gaze to the gold band on the convict's left ring finger. “Celia and I got married in two thousand and four,” said Jasper. “Why?”

Stottlemeyer made a face. “He wore that ring all through
the trial, trying to get jury sympathy. I'm surprised he's still wearing it.”

“He's not,” said Monk. “Mr. Coleman has put on a fair amount of weight since his conviction. I'd say sixty pounds, no offense. Prison food can do that. Randy's doodle shows a skinny man with a bruise on his head. Yet the ring he's wearing now fits perfectly. Hence, it's a new ring.”

Stottlemeyer looked up to the guard standing by the door. “Is this true?”

The guard was smiling. “It's true, sir. Jasper got himself a fan. They were married in the prison chapel about a month ago.”

We were all taken aback by the news, except Monk, of course. I mean, you hear stories about gullible women becoming romantically obsessed with famous killers. But I'd always thought of it as a kind of urban myth.

“She came here interested in getting justice for me. We wound up falling in love. What's wrong with that?”

“Seems like a very sweet girl,” volunteered the guard.

“Mrs. Kristen Jones-Coleman,” said Jasper with some pride. “The name was a compromise. We had a long discussion about keeping her maiden name.”

Stottlemeyer brushed his mustache. “You mean she had reservations about taking the name of a wife killer?”

“Just the opposite,” said Jasper. “She wanted my name. I had to talk her into using both, at least until you guys wise up and catch the real guy.”

“Yeah,” said the captain. “We'll get right on that.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mr. Monk and the Planted Evidence

D
espite the remnants of rush-hour traffic, we got the captain home in time for dinner. On the curb in front of the bungalow in Dogpatch sat an SFPD cruiser with a familiar face behind the wheel. Officer Joe Nazio often pulled this kind of duty. I parked the Subaru right behind him and we all got out to say hello.

Like almost everyone, Joe was glad to see our friend from New Jersey. He teased Randy about being a big-deal police chief. And Randy teased him about getting stuck as a glorified babysitter. “Actually, every officer in the precinct wanted this job,” said Joe. “Protecting Captain Stottlemeyer? That's an honor.”

The captain is pretty old-school and doesn't take praise very well. “For the sake of your career, I'll try my best not to get murdered.”

“Please do that, sir.”

A second later, the door to the bungalow flew open and the real bodyguard emerged, all smiles and wearing an apron. If an assassin ever did manage to get past Joe Nazio, he would have to contend with Trudy Stottlemeyer. And with
Teddy. From somewhere in the house, we could hear him howling with anticipation.

The next morning Trudy called, bright and early. “Leland isn't going into work, doctor's orders. I know how excited he was to see Randy. But the excitement has worn off and he needs his rest. I hope you can get along without him.”

Trudy had always tried to ignore the danger of Leland's job. But this time he had been doing the most domestic of chores, taking the dog out for a walk. They'd both come back with a near deadly dose of thallium coursing through their systems. That was hard to ignore.

“No problem,” I said. “Tell the captain we're off to meet the wife. We'll drop by later to report in—unless you think he really needs total rest.”

“No, Leland wants to be kept in the loop. Just call before you show up.”

Before leaving San Quentin, we had stopped by to see the warden. He informed us that, except for his ongoing anger issues about his conviction, Jasper Coleman had been a model prisoner. There had been no reason for the state to deny visiting rights to Kristen Jones, a twenty-something paralegal who had read an article and become fascinated with his case. And there had been no reason, a year or so later, to deny the couple the right to get married.

“It's the law,” said the warden. “Even if it seems like an unworkable marriage, some people make it work.”

I telephoned Jasper's bride from the prison's razor-wired parking lot and said we were private investigators looking into her husband's case. She seemed eager to set up an appointment for the following day and gave me the address.

I was surprised to see that Mrs. Kristen Jones-Coleman had taken up residence in the old Coleman house. Was she actually sleeping in that bedroom, where Jasper had bludgeoned Celia to death? Were there still stains on the floor? Even if Kristen totally believed in his innocence, what kind of woman would do this?

In stark contrast to the rest of the block, the Coleman house was awash in flowering plants: morning glory vines on the fence; beds of roses and lilies; a row of hydrangea bushes nearly blocking the curb in front; pots of violets on either side of the front door. The lush setting might have felt cheerier if it didn't remind me so much of the flowers at a funeral.

“Every house has seen its share of tragedy,” said Kristen shortly after we walked in. No one had asked the question, but she knew we were thinking it.

Kristen had just made a fresh pot of coffee. I took a bottle of Fiji Water out of my tote for Monk and the four of us settled around the coffee table by the front window—three coffees and water in a glass that Monk had personally washed out, no ice—not far from the spot where her husband had hit himself with a crowbar before getting rid of it somehow and calling 911.

“Sometimes I do think about that horrible night,” she went on. “But Jasper won't sell. And I want it to be here for him when he's released.”

“Your husband still has a lot of anger with the police,” said Randy, getting right to the point. “There was a captain and a lieutenant on his case.”

“I don't know about a lieutenant,” said Kristen. Randy's
face fell. “But Jasper told me all about a Captain Stottlemeyer and a Judge Oberlin. They were the ones responsible for this travesty. The judge died, that's what Jasper said. We celebrated with a cake I brought in on visitors' day.”

“You celebrate people's deaths?” I had to ask.

Kristen shrugged. She didn't care. “You mentioned on the phone that you were private detectives.”

“Yes,” I confirmed, speaking for the majority. “We're looking into the death of Judge Oberlin. There is a possibility that he was murdered in connection with an old case.”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “I thought you might have some evidence to help Jasper.”

“Not per se, no.” Not anywhere near per se.

“Then why are you here? You don't think . . .” She opened her mouth and drew in a little gasp. “You think Jasper might be behind the judge's death? That's ridiculous.”

“We have to check all possibilities,” I said. “Does your husband ever talk about getting even with the system?”

“Jasper's in prison. How could he kill a judge?”

“Someone on the outside could be helping him,” Randy pointed out.

“Who on the outside? Jasper doesn't have any friends. . . . You mean me?”

“We sort of do,” said Randy. “I mean, that's why we're here. We're checking out the possibility.”

“That I would kill someone? How would that help? Neither one of us is a murderer.”

Kristen struck me as a sweet-natured girl, petite but not particularly pretty. Smart, but perhaps naive and easily
manipulated. She wanted to believe she was part of a bigger cause, working to right a wrong and free the man she'd fallen in love with. “Jasper wants to clear his name. That's all.”

“And you really believe he's innocent?” asked Monk.

“I do. The police combed the house looking for the weapon. They took a metal detector to the backyard and the front. Also the lots next door. It would have been impossible for my Jasper to do anything like that, given the injury he sustained.”

I don't know when Monk started focusing out the front window, but I noticed it now. He was sitting straight in his chair, maybe even rising slightly to get a better view. “Are you a gardener, Mrs. Coleman?”

“Yes,” she said, looking a bit confused by the change of subject. “I never got to grow things in my little apartment, except a few geraniums on my balcony.”

“And you've been living here for a while, since before you got married.”

“Yes,” she said, more guardedly now. “How did you know?”

“I'd say at least six months,” Monk observed, “from the way the plants have taken root and spread out. Jasper Coleman's been in prison, so I assumed it was you.”

Kristen nodded. “He asked me to move in. The house was empty and it's still his property. There's nothing wrong with that.”

“Nothing wrong at all,” said Monk. “A house needs someone to look after it.”

“Monk, what's up?” Randy stretched his tall frame to look
out the window. “Does this have something to do with the fingernails? Dirt under his fingernails?”

I'd had the same thought. “Did Coleman bury the weapon? How? Where? The police ran a metal detector over everything.”

Monk ignored us. “Those hydrangeas out by the streetlamp. Did you put those in?”

“I did,” admitted Kristen. “It's public property, I know, but other people do it. I think it adds a nice touch.”

“Very nice,” said Monk. We were all standing now, turning from the coffee table to get a better look out the window. “Randy, are crowbars ever made of aluminum? It doesn't have to be a crowbar, but something similar. A tire iron?”

“Sure,” said Randy, happy to know something Monk didn't. “Cast aluminum is used for crowbars and tire irons. What does that have to do with gardening?”

“A lot. Mrs. Coleman, you seem like a healthy, symmetrical person, everything in its place. I assume you planted all pink hydrangeas. No sane person would mix blue and pink.”

“I think they were all pink, yes.”

“And yet the flowers on one of the bushes are starting to come in blue. Curious.”

Without another word of explanation, Monk led the way out the front, followed by a curious parade of three. The houses in this neighborhood were fairly close to the street. In fewer than five strides we reached the strip of garden by the curb, perhaps three feet wide and thirty feet long, with the lamppost in the middle.

The hydrangea bushes were small but well manicured,
spread out enough to give them room. In a year or two they would probably outgrow the space and need to be replanted.

“If you sweep a metal detector around the base of this streetlamp, it's going to go off,” said Monk.

“Sure,” said Randy. “It's galvanized steel.”

“So a clever killer could step out the door at three a.m., stuff an aluminum crowbar tip-first into the ground, and go back inside. The police would get pings but they probably wouldn't dig. What would be the point?”

“Are you saying it's buried here?” asked Randy, pointing to a bush just to the right of the post.

“No.” Monk pointed to the bush on the left. “It's here, under the bush with the blue flowers.”

From the second we pulled up, my partner had been distracted by the asymmetry of the puffy balls of color. I, too, had noticed the difference but didn't think twice about it. As is often the case with Monk, the annoying little detail had turned out to be important.

“Hydrangeas are sensitive to acidity in the soil, like aluminum. It can change their color. You see? This whole row, pink except here, on this one side of the lamppost. So . . .” Monk paused for effect. “Why is this one small patch of dirt more acidic? It's not rust from the lamppost.”

“Not if the lamppost is galvanized steel,” said Randy. “It wouldn't rust.”

“There's only one way to find out. Mrs. Coleman?” I asked, pointing to the blue bush.

“No,” she spat out instantly. “You do not have my permission to dig. You're just trying to get more evidence against
my Jasper. Planted evidence,” she added, seemingly unaware of the pun.

There were so many things wrong with her logic. I gently attacked her points one by one. “First, we don't need your permission to dig since, as you pointed out, this is public land. Second, we don't need more evidence against your husband. He's been convicted. Third, you planted these bushes yourself. They look pretty undisturbed, so I don't know how we could have planted evidence. Mrs. Coleman, what we need from you is a shovel. May we please borrow a shovel? It will save us some time.”

The poor woman finally gave in. I think she was holding out hope that Monk might be wrong. But she didn't seem surprised—after Randy dug around the root ball and pried out the hydrangea and set it to one side and started digging a little deeper—to hear the clink of metal on metal.

It was an aluminum crowbar that Randy pulled out of the hole and showed off. He was wearing plastic gloves, courtesy of Monk, and dropped the crowbar into a large plastic baggie, courtesy of my PBS tote. It wasn't evidence in an ongoing case, but we would turn it over to the DA's office just to be safe. It always pays to be safe.

“That proves nothing,” said Kristen, her voice cracking just a little. “The real killer could have put it there.”

“Why?” asked Monk.

“Why?” she repeated. “To get rid of it.”

“Why?” Monk asked again. “Why would a killer remove a murder weapon from the scene, then stop outside and take the time—and the risk—to push it into the ground by a streetlamp?”

Mrs. Kristen Jones-Coleman desperately wanted to have an answer for this. But she didn't. “Jasper's a good man,” she protested. “He didn't kill anyone. That crowbar doesn't prove a thing. Get off my property now. How dare you . . .”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

When we pulled away from the curb a minute or so later, I stopped at the corner to check my rearview mirror. Kristen was still there, standing perfectly still at the curb with the shovel in her hand and the uprooted hydrangea bush by her side. “Why did you have to do that?” I asked softly.

“Do what?” asked Monk.

“You know what. Her husband's in prison for life. His appeal isn't going anywhere. But she had a purpose. Why did you have to smash the one illusion that was keeping her going?”

“And let her stay happily married to a killer? Natalie, you don't mean that.”

“I don't know what I mean,” I said. And I slowly turned the corner.