Chapter Text
Season 1, Episode 1 – A New Beginning.
A Disher & Mcnab Story
Scene 1
Randy Disher had always been good at leaving things unfinished.
His old guitar, the one with peeling stickers from every bar gig he'd ever played, still leaned against the wall of his motel (he had already moved out and wasn't leaving for his big move for a few more days) strings slightly rusted, a silent reminder of half-written songs. His badge from the SFPD still sat in the drawer where he'd tossed it weeks ago, like it might call him back if he left it close enough. Even the band flyers were scattered across the floor, mocking him with promises of shows that never happened.
But this morning was different.
This morning, he was actually leaving.
The hatchback was packed to the roof with boxes of mismatched belongings — police files he probably wasn't supposed to keep, a few boxes of vinyl records, and a guitar amp that hadn't worked since 2002. A crooked homemade sticker — RANDY DISHER INVESTIGATIONS — was taped to the back window in faded marker. His attempt at branding, though it looked more like a high school art project.
The road to Santa Barbara stretched out like a ribbon of possibility, glittering under the coastal sun. Randy gripped the wheel and drummed his fingers nervously, the rhythm uneven, somewhere between a beat and a fidget.
"No more living in Monk's shadow," he muttered aloud. "No more being the guy with the bad theories. No more waiting for Coachella to call me back. This… this is a fresh start."
He glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. His tie was crooked. His hair had a mind of its own. But his eyes — they were bright with something he hadn't felt in a long time. Hope.
Scene 2
The office of his new PI gig was nothing to brag about. A second-floor room above a surf shop, buzzing fluorescent lights that hummed like lazy bees, and one dusty ficus in the corner that looked like it had been through a war. The desk wobbled whenever he leaned on it, and the "waiting area" was just two folding chairs he'd borrowed from his neighbor, who had warned him sternly to bring them back for bingo night.
Still — it was his.
He sat at the desk and practiced answering the phone, trying to sound professional.
"Disher Investigations — we're on the case!" No, too cheesy.
"Disher Investigations. Results guaranteed!" Too scammy.
"Disher Investigations… how may I direct your call?" Too… receptionist.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He didn't get a chance to decide because the bell above the door jingled.
A woman stepped in, clutching a crumpled photo in her hands. Her eyes were red, swollen, the kind of face you only get after hours of crying.
"Are you the detective?" she asked, voice cracking.
Randy straightened, nearly knocking his chair into the wall.
"Private investigator, technically. Randy Disher. How can I help?"
She pushed the photo toward him. A golden retriever, tongue out, smiling like it had just won a commercial audition.
"My dog. Muffin. She's missing. I've called the pound, the shelters, everyone. No one can find her. Please. I'll pay whatever you want."
Randy studied the picture. Muffin was the kind of dog you instantly wanted to hug.
His chest tightened.
"Ma'am," he said gravely, lowering his voice, "I used to work homicide. I know how to find… well, not dogs, usually, but people. Dogs are just people with more hair, right? I'll bring Muffin home."
The woman's lip trembled.
"You promise?"
"On my badge," Randy said automatically, then winced and corrected himself. "Uh. My old badge. But still."
Scene 3
The trail wasn't hard to follow. Muffin had been spotted running toward the wealthy side of town, tail wagging through the hedges like a streak of gold. Randy canvassed the neighborhood, awkwardly flashing his PI license like it carried weight, asking questions door-to-door. He found paw prints pressed into the soft dirt near a cracked fence around a sprawling estate.
Inside, Muffin's whimpering echoed faintly from the kitchen. Relief surged through him like a jolt. He crouched, whispering softly, "Hey, girl, it's okay—"
But then his gaze shifted.
Through the doorway into the study, he saw a man slumped over the desk. A glass of whiskey lay on its side, amber liquid seeping into the rug. Papers fanned out across the desk like they'd tried to escape. The silence of the house was heavy, suffocating. Randy froze. His heart thudded against his ribs. This wasn't just a missing dog case anymore.
By sunset, the mansion was crawling with squad cars. Red and blue lights painted the front lawn, and crime scene tape flickered in the breeze. Randy stood just outside the perimeter, Muffin's leash wrapped tightly around his hand, the golden retriever pressing against his leg like she'd already chosen him as her new person.
Then he heard it.
"Gus, the vibes here are intense. I'm sensing… betrayal. And also… cinnamon?"
"Shawn, that's the cinnamon gum you're chewing."
"Correction: spiritual cinnamon."
Randy turned and saw them — Shawn Spencer, grinning like he was in on a joke only he knew, and Burton Guster, skeptical and resigned. The legendary psychic duo. They looked like they'd walked straight out of a buddy-cop commercial.
And then came the man who would change Randy's future: Carlton Lassiter.
He stormed across the lawn, barking orders with his usual ferocity. His scowl landed on Randy like a laser beam.
"And who the hell are you?" Lassiter snapped.
"Uh… Randy Disher. Private investigator. I found the body," Randy stammered, straightening awkwardly.
Lassiter squinted. "You look like a PI. Which means you look like someone who doesn't know what he's doing."
Randy wilted. "… That's fair."
But as Lassiter turned away, Randy's eyes caught something the others missed.
On the edge of the whiskey glass, barely visible in the crime scene lights, was a faint impression. Not a fingerprint — too angled. It was the indentation of a guitar pick.
He pointed quickly. "That… that's from a pick. I know because mine leave the same kind of mark when I drop them in drinks. Which happens a lot, actually."
Shawn's grin widened instantly. "Ladies and gentlemen, the PI shreds. The killer strummed before he slayed."
Even Gus looked begrudgingly impressed.
Lassiter grumbled but didn't shove Randy away. Not yet.
Scene 4
After Randy returned a reluctant Muffin back to his owner (because she had formed a weird bond with Randy even though he had just met her) he went back to his new extended stay motel, feeling defeated. The words of that wiry detective, (oh what was his name again? Lassie something?) that he looked like someone who doesn't know what he's doing really stung, bringing back all if his insecurities.
He really had missed being part of a police department helping to bring down criminals. He didn't really want to be a PI, but he was too afraid to transfer to the Santa Barbara Police Department because of his insecure feelings of being treated like the bumbling idiot by the captain he often looked up to. He also felt insecure because he was often times overshadowed by the brilliant and observant, but OCD ridden consultant, Adrian Monk, that was often hired to help solve cases. He often felt like he was competing with Monk for Captain Leeland Stottlemeyer's praises. He also secretly, though he would never admit it, looked up to Monk. Often times Randy wanted to impress Monk as well, because of the genius Monk was!
He really wanted to try to make it in Santa Barbara on his own accord and not just be remembered as the bumbling idiot from The San Francisco PD. He didn't want to go back home with his tail between his legs.
Later, back at his motel, Randy sat on the edge of the bed staring at his phone. He dialed a number and almost hung up twice before it connected.
"Randy?" Natalie, Monk's loving caregiver and assistant answered, her voice broke immediately when she heard him. "Where are you? Stottlemeyer's worried sick."
Randy hung up. He just could not handle talking about his emotions, but something really stood out in his mind. It was Natalie's words, Stottlemeyer's worried sick. Did Stottlemeyer his hero, actually care more deeply for Randy than he ever let on? Randy's insecurities caused him to push the thought out of his mind.
Two days later, there was a knock at his door. He opened it to find Natalie, Stottlemeyer, and Adrian Monk standing together in the cramped space of his motel room. He was so surprised he was speechless. He was both elated, terrified, and embarrassed at the same time.
He couldn't meet their eyes. His throat was tight. How could he explain to the people that he considered family why he just up and moved away without letting them know? Of course the brilliant, Monk, figured out where to find him!
"I had to go," he said finally. "I felt like I was… nothing there. Just the guy with the wrong guess. Just comic relief. And my music—" His voice faltered. Let's face it, The Disher Project… His voice faltered again. I wasn't going anywhere."
Natalie's eyes filled with tears. "You weren't nothing, Randy. You were the one who made us laugh. You kept us human."
Stottlemeyer's voice was gruff, steady, but softer than Randy had ever heard. "You were family, Randy. If we didn't show you that enough… that's on us."
Randy swallowed hard, his gaze flicking toward Monk. The detective hadn't spoken. He stood near the window, twisting his handkerchief, stiff and restless.
"Say something, Adrian," Natalie whispered.
Monk's lips tightened. For a moment Randy thought he wouldn't speak at all.
Finally, Monk said in a strained, uneven voice: "I don't understand this. You leaving. You should stay where things are… controlled. Where I can… make sure you don't do something… Randy."
Randy gave a weak laugh. "That's kind of the point, boss. I've got to try something on my own."
Monk's eyes flickered toward him and then away again. "It's a mistake. You're making a mistake. But… you've made mistakes before. Sometimes you fix them. Sometimes you don't." His voice dropped, almost inaudible. "Just… don't get killed. Please."
The room was still. It wasn't an eloquent goodbye. It wasn't even warm. But Randy felt the weight of it all the same.
His throat tightened as he nodded. "I'll try, boss."
Monk gave the smallest of nods and stepped back, already edging toward the door, as if lingering in this mess of goodbye would crush him.
After the emotional goodbye, Randy sat down heavily on the bed after they left, He stared at the cracked motel ceiling and let out a deep breath.
It wasn't bitter. It wasn't angry.
But it was goodbye.
Scene 5
The bullpen at the Santa Barbara Police Department was quieting down for the night. Files stacked neatly in boxes, phones clicking over to voicemail, the hum of vending machines louder than the chatter of exhausted officers heading home.
Chief Karen Vick stood in her office, hands on her hips, surveying the day's end like a general reviewing a battlefield. She barely noticed when Carlton Lassiter walked in, stiff as always, his jaw clenched like he was about to lodge a complaint about paperclips being misaligned.
"Carlton?" Vick said without looking up. "What is it? I have fifteen minutes before I'm expected home, and I intend to use them."
He shifted, arms crossed. "It's about Disher."
That made her look up. One eyebrow arched, skeptical but curious.
"The former lieutenant from San Francisco?"
"Private investigator," Lassiter corrected with a scoff. "At least, that's what he's calling himself these days. He's… hanging around. Involved himself in a case today."
Vick leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. "And?"
Lassiter grimaced. He clearly hated what he was about to say.
"He's an idiot. A complete buffoon. He stammers, he trips over his own feet, and his theories are—how do I put this delicately?—the ravings of a concussed raccoon."
"Carlton!"
"However." Lassiter's scowl deepened, as though the word tasted bitter. "The idiot noticed something none of us did. A detail on the crime scene glass. A guitar pick. It cracked the case wide open."
Vick studied him, her lips twitching in the way they always did when she sensed Lassiter's reluctant honesty. "So you're saying he's good?"
"I'm saying," Lassiter growled, "that his brand of bumbling lunacy seems to… work. Occasionally. By accident. And when it doesn't, he's still useful as a distraction. Criminals underestimate him, which makes him… oddly effective."
Vick let out a small laugh.
"That almost sounded like a compliment."
"It wasn't." Lassiter snapped, then added grudgingly: "But if he's going to keep nosing around Santa Barbara, we might as well leash him. Better than letting him trip over evidence unsupervised."
"And you're suggesting… what, exactly?"
He cleared his throat, straightening his tie like it had betrayed him.
"Hire him. Bring him in as… something. A consultant maybe? Partner him with McNab. The two of them are cut from the same defective cloth. Moron A and Moron B. Together, maybe they'll stumble into usefulness. At the very least, McNab could keep him from accidentally shooting himself."
Chief Vick pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.
"So, to summarize: you want me to hire Disher, because in your words, he's an idiot… and therefore the perfect partner for another idiot?"
"Yes," Lassiter barked. "It's genius."
Karen leaned back in her chair, regarding him for a long moment. Then she nodded once, decisive.
"All right, Carlton. I'll consider it."
Lassiter gave a curt nod, turned on his heel, and marched toward the door. Just before leaving, he muttered under his breath — too low for her to officially hear, but just loud enough that he maybe wanted her to:
"He's still an idiot."
And with that, Carlton Lassiter walked out, already grumbling about how he was going to regret this for the rest of his career.
Epilogue
The bullpen had emptied out. Only a desk lamp or two glowed against the darkened windows, the hum of the copy machine filling the silence.
Randy sat awkwardly at one of the desks. He'd been waiting for the paperwork to clear, or maybe for someone to tell him to leave. He wasn't sure which would come first.
He was excited and terrified at the same time. He had quite surprised when he got a call from a chief Vick a week after his emotional goodbye with his former work family. On the recommendation of someone from the Santa Barbara police department, Vick was offering a job with their police department!
Buzz McNab shuffled past, arms stacked high with boxes of case files that looked one sneeze away from collapse. He paused when he saw Randy.
"Hey," Buzz said, blinking at him like he was still trying to place the face. "You're that guy. From the case today. You found Muffin."
Randy gave an awkward half-salute, then quickly turned it into a wave.
"Yeah. That was me. Randy Disher. Private investigator. Technically."
Buzz set the boxes down before they toppled.
"I'm Officer Buzz McNab." He reached out a hand, and his grip was warm and overly enthusiastic. "That was really great work you did. Noticing that guitar-pick thing. Most people wouldn't have seen it."
Randy chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Yeah, well, most people don't spend hours dropping picks into their drinks while they're trying to tune up at open mics."
Buzz laughed, a big open sound that made Randy relax just a little. They stood there for a beat, not quite sure what to do with the silence.
Finally, Buzz said, "You know… you should stick around. Santa Barbara's not a bad place for investigators. And, uh… people like you."
Randy frowned. "People like me?"
"Yeah," Buzz said brightly, oblivious to any offense. "Friendly. A little… unorthodox. But with heart."
For some reason, Randy didn't mind the way it sounded coming from him.
Before either of them could say more, Lassiter stormed past on his way out, muttering about "idiots multiplying like rabbits." Neither Randy nor Buzz took it personally.
It wasn't official. It wasn't planned. But in that quiet bullpen, two kindhearted misfits had just taken the first step toward becoming partners!