Mr. Monk and the New Lieutenant by Hy Conrad

don’t drink the cheap stuff,” said A.J. with a charming smile. I still didn’t like the man. He was still an incompetent bully, but I could see how the captain might have a soft spot for him. And A.J. must have sensed that the last thing the captain wanted to talk about right now was his own situation. “Oh, I almost forgot. Captain, this came for you at the station. Someone left it on your desk.” And out ofhis jacket pocket, the lieutenant pulled a folded letter-sized envelope.
    â€œOn my desk?” He took the envelope and unfolded it. “Captain Leland Stottlemeyer” was hand printed in block letters, the three words underlined.
    Whatever Monk and I had been doing before, we were suddenly on alert. So was the captain. It was experience that taught us this, but also common sense. If you’re a police captain and someone just made an attempt on your life, and the next morning there’s a hand-delivered envelope on your desk . . . What kind of idiot wouldn’t be suspicious?
    Monk was at the bedside before me. Out of nowhere, like a magician, he produced a ziplock baggie. Without a word, the captain slipped the envelope inside and sealed it shut. “Lieutenant? What the hell?”
    Monk was just as furious. “The second you saw it, you should have bagged it with tweezers. What is wrong with you?”
    â€œWhat?” said A.J. “Is something wrong? I thought it was a get-well card.”
    â€œA get-well card?” said Stottlemeyer. “On my desk? After a murder attempt? It’s not even the same size as a get-well card.”
    â€œYou want gloves?” Monk asked the captain. “I’ve got gloves.”
    Stottlemeyer mulled this over. “What the hell, sure. I’m already in a hospital.”
    A pair of clear vinyl gloves, size large, came out of Monk’s inner jacket, probably from the same reservoir that had heldthe baggie. As Stottlemeyer put them on and unzipped the baggie, we all instinctively took a step back.
    He used a knife from his set-aside food tray to slice open the bottom of the envelope, just in case there might be any DNA on the glued flap. He pulled out a single sheet of paper, carefully unfolding it. All our eyes were focused. If there was any dusting of gray powder, we didn’t see it. The captain cleared his throat and read aloud the two handwritten sentences.
    â€œYou and Oberlin stole seven years of my life. Next time you won’t be so lucky.”

CHAPTER TEN
    Mr. Monk Loses a Client
    I t’s funny how killers, even smart ones, can’t resist helping you out. After “the night of the umbrellas,” as I call it, we suspected the motive might be revenge for some case Stottlemeyer and the judge had been involved with. What other connection could there be? Not only did this note confirm that, but it gave us a time frame. Seven years.
    â€œIt doesn’t have to be seven years ago,” said Monk. “It could be ten years ago and the killer has been postponing it for three.”
    â€œPostponing it,” I asked. “Why would you postpone revenge?”
    â€œMaybe he’s been planning it carefully. Or he’s been sick.”
    This was Monk, as logical as ever. He was at his desk, the mirror image of mine except that he’d removed his computer from the desktop and packed it away in triple plastic wrap in a closet. I’d been surprised by this offense against the laws of symmetry. But I think my partner had grown annoyed that this mysterious, unusable machine was taking up so much space. His desk now looked like it had been time-traveled from somewhere in the forties, with a blotter in thecenter—remember blotters?—two holders, one for pens, one for pencils, an in-basket, and a matching out-basket, both of them empty.
    It was a day later and the captain was still in the hospital. The doctors had revised his prognosis down slightly. They were concerned about the