Mr. Monk and the Dirty Cop by Lee Goldberg

had a car parked there or someone waiting in one for him.”
    Stottlemeyer and Disher had their backs to us as we approached, so they didn’t see Monk until he started circling the body, his hands out in front of him, framing his view.
    “Why didn’t the shooter throw his gun in the lake?” Monk asked.
    “Because there were witnesses and he wanted to dispose of the weapon where no one would find it,” Disher said.
    “What are you talking to him for?” Stottlemeyer scolded Disher. “He’s not supposed to be here.”
    “But isn’t there a bigger risk of being caught with the murder weapon on him?” Monk asked as if the captain hadn’t spoken at all.
    “We’ll ask him when we catch him,” Stottlemeyer said. “Get out of here, Monk.”
    “The judge has been shot in the shoulder, chest, thigh, neck, and arm,” Monk said, crouching beside the body. “It’s as if the shooter was firing wildly or was not very familiar with a gun.”
    “Or he was just angry and in a hurry,” Disher said. “Judge Stanton tries a lot of criminal cases and he’s made plenty of enemies. Maybe one of them just got released from prison.”
    “I told you to stop talking to him,” Stottlemeyer said, then turned to Monk again. “You can either leave or I can have you dragged out of here by two officers. It’s your decision.”
    Monk looked from the body to the grove of trees and then back again.
    “It’s a public park,” he said. “You can’t throw me out.”
    “You are welcome to visit the park, but you are to remain outside the police line, just like everybody else,” Stottlemeyer said. “Now go. I don’t want to see you at another crime scene unless I call you, but I wouldn’t sit by the phone waiting if I were you. This budget crisis is going to last a while.”
    “He doesn’t need to wait,” I said. “Once word gets out that he’s a free agent, police departments all over the country will be clamoring for his services.”
    “I hope so,” Stottlemeyer said. “I really do.”
    “Let’s go, Mr. Monk.” I tugged him gently by the sleeve and led him to the police line.
    I lifted up the tape to let him through. Monk looked back at the body, then at the grove of trees again and pointed to a spot.
    “He must have come from right about there to intersect with the judge here,” Monk said.
    “It’s not your case, Mr. Monk. You aren’t being paid. There’s no reason for you to get involved.”
    “The captain needs me,” Monk said.
    “He doesn’t want you,” I said.
    “He can’t afford me,” Monk said. “There’s a difference.”
    “It’s not just about the money.”
    Monk moved across the field towards the grove. The lupine flowers were in bloom, ringing the base of the tall pines with vibrant color.
    Some of the flowers had been flattened where someone crushed them underfoot. This was where the killer was hiding before the shooting.
    Monk peered into the trees and examined the ground. “There are bicycle tracks from the street into this grove and back out again.”
    He circled the area, careful not to disturb the secondary crime scene. I followed him. He cocked his head from side to side, crouched and stood and crouched again, doubled back the way he came, and then retraced the way he had gone forward. It was enough to give me motion sickness.
    “The killer wasn’t a man,” he said. “It was a woman.”
    “How can you tell from looking at the ground?” I said. “Don’t tell me you recognize the footprint left by her shoes.”
    He shook his head. “All I can tell is that they were running shoes. I can’t determine whether they belonged to a man or a woman just from looking at the tread. But I’m sure the forensics unit can by comparing the pattern to those in their footwear database.”
    “So how do you know the shooter was a she?”
    “Her bike fell down,” Monk said, and pointed to some impressions in the dirt. “There’s a fleck of pink paint on the rock over there. It’s