Lt. Randy Disher (randy_disher) wrote in monk_onthe_mind,
Lt. Randy Disher
randy_disher
monk_onthe_mind

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San Francisco Police Department (CAP Squadroom) - San Francisco, morning

Randy Disher had his own personal routine every morning when he arrived at the Crimes Against Persons squadroom.

He went straight to his desk, where he checked his e-mail and his voice mail for anything important that might have come in while he was gone.

He checked the white board that kept track of all important announcements and cases and their primaries to see if there was anything new or anything had changed.

He took a glance at the material in his inbox and the newspaper headlines to make sure he was aware of anything he needed to be aware of.

He mentally formulated his to-do list for the day.

Then he went into Captain Stottlemeyer's office and reported anything of note, got the instructions he'd need, and set to work on everything on his list.

Randy sank into his chair, sorting the last couple of papers that had come in as he'd left yesterday. Mostly reports - canvasses, statements - nothing really too useful on the Landell case. But then, he often argued, everything was useful in some way, eventually, right? It was the kind of methodology that had led him to walking bombed-out alleys for 20 minutes searching for one lone piece of evidence while the captain stood by the car waiting for him, a look between amusement and annoyance on his face.

He took a glance into the captain's office, hoping Stottlemeyer would be in a better mood, but understanding that his captain had a lot more to deal with than he did. As a lieutenant, Randy just supervised the detectives and did some of the fieldwork. He didn't have two kids and a wife who liked to remind him of all his domestic chores. He had a copy of Anchorman that had a day and approximately half an hour left on it.

Finally, he straightened his tie and walked into the office, knocking on the door frame as he entered. One more day down, right? he told himself.

"Morning, Captain." He held up the piece of paper between thumb and forefinger. "Official autopsy results. Definitely a homicide. Bullet went straight through his neck." Strange as that was...
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"Lieutenant," Stottlemeyer said, nodding slightly in greeting to Disher. The toothpick he held in the side of his mouth started to split lengthwise. Time to replace it. He tossed the used pick into the trash and slid open the bottom drawer, fetching out a new toothpick from the box. When Jared was born, Karen had pretty much forced Stottlemeyer to stop smoking. Though Leland never passed up the chance to enjoy a cigar, the toothpicks eased his need for nicotine.

He held out his hand to Disher, motioning that he wanted a look at the report. The background check on Landell revealed a close friendship with Congressman Carner. Rumors around the Beltway linked Carner with some corporation hired to do contract work in Iraq, a private security company brought in to help train locals for police work. Seems like the weapons they'd distributed to the native Iraqis somehow ended up on the bodies of insurgents going after U.S. troops.

And all the way at the bottom of this mystery was Simon Landell, who had just returned from Iraq. Damned ironic. He managed to survive over a year in the Middle East without getting kidnapped, beat up, or shot, but ended up dying a mere two days after setting foot in SFO.

"Question is, Randy, why the hell would they make it look like a mugging, take his wallet, his congratulatory engraved Rolex, his wedding ring, when the wound clearly indicates the weapon was a damn rifle fired at least 30 feet away?"
"Question is, Randy, why the hell would they make it look like a mugging, take his wallet, his congratulatory engraved Rolex, his wedding ring, when the wound clearly indicates the weapon was a damn rifle fired at least 30 feet away?"

Disher hesitated, brow furrowing as he tried to fit that one into the frame. "Maybe there was more than one person?" he said randomly, not feeling too confident about it. "I mean, there's no way you can make that shot and then get down to reach the body. Unless you're like Superman, which is almost completely impossible."

His nervous laugh betrayed the fact that he was just as perplexed as Stottlemeyer, and Randy was forced to admit, after a small pause just long enough to make him squirm, "I've got nothing."
"I've got nothing."

"I've got something. A splitting headache from this case. Half the evidence makes no sense and the other half that does make sense..."

He shook his head, voice trailing off. Frustration wouldn't help them now, but Stottlemeyer was actively inching towards that threshold, the one where he picked up the phone and punched in that certain number. One of his officers suggested putting Monk on speed-dial, but Stottlemeyer loathed the idea. He relied on Monk too much. But sometimes...sometimes circumstances demanded that he call in that damn basket case.

"Randy, if Carner's people get a hold of this, they're gonna bring in the feds. Feds walking all over this case. Sniffing around. Taking charge. Confiscating evidence. I'm surprised they're not busting down my door right now."

His eyes flicked towards the phone.

"You think I should call him?"
"You think I should call him?"

"If it's a choice between working with Monk and working with the feds, I'd take Monk any day of the week. At least then we'll be working with him." This was a lot more clean-cut for Disher, who seemed a bit disappointed that he couldn't figure out what was going on himself. "We're going to catch a break, eventually. We have to. No such thing as the perfect crime, right?"
"If it's a choice between working with Monk and working with the feds, I'd take Monk any day of the week. At least then we'll be working with him."

"Yeah. You got a point there, Randy." He started gnawing on the toothpick set in the side of his mouth. "But...well...you know how much I respect Monk, right? I just...the higher-ups are starting to talk, you know? That we can't solve anything bigger than a shoplifting case without his help." He let out a slightly indignant sigh. "They're calling him 'The Crutch.' And I don't think I can keep bringing him in when we're at the end of our rope. And there's still no way they're letting him back on the force either."

His fingers drummed anxiously on the desk for a few moments while he thought.

"We're going to catch a break, eventually. We have to. No such thing as the perfect crime, right?"

"Nope. At least, there shouldn't be. But I'm stumped. And your stumped. And the whole damn force is stumped."

The phone seemed to beckon to him, urging him to grasp at the receiver and punch out the number. Why hesistate at all? Why not get Monk in before the feds slide their sneaky selves in and take over?

Dammit.

He dialed Monk's number.
Disher lingered, leaning himself against a filing cabinet. It gave him a fair amount of distress to have what Stottlemeyer was saying pointed out to him. He hadn't thought about it that way...

...and he didn't want people to think that. Ambitious, maybe, but he was also loyal. He flipped pages again, trying to look for something, and pretending he wasn't listening to the conversation.