Chapter Text
Season 3, Episode 1: A Spencer Home Wrecking, Part 1
A Disher & McNab Story
Opener
Dawn light, fractured and pale, sliced through the kitchen window of Henry Spencer’s old house. Dust motes danced in the shafts, illuminating a scene that would forever be seared into Shawn Spencer’s memory as both profoundly mundane and utterly catastrophic.
He had envisioned a triumphant return to his former stomping grounds, a quick grab of sentimental junk or precious keepsakes, and a witty, psychic observation about the ghosts of his childhood. Gus, ever the practical ballast, trailed behind, a cardboard box heavy with files clutched to his chest.
“I just need a few boxes,” Shawn muttered, his voice echoing unnaturally in the empty space. “Memories, ghosts, trauma. You know, Tuesday.”
He pushed open the kitchen door, a sense of familiar ease settling over him, the kind that came from years of illicit entry. The aroma of stale coffee, however, was not part of the nostalgic package. Neither was the rustle of a newspaper. And certainly, certainly not the sight of the figure seated at the kitchen table, a beer bottle sweating beside a half-read section of the Santa Barbara Chronicle.
It was Henry Spencer. His signature glare, honed over decades of fatherly disapproval, was firmly in place. He looked exactly the same: craggy, formidable, and radiating an aura of “I told you so” that spanned decades.
Shawn froze, the box of files slipping from his grasp with a muffled thud. His jaw, previously agape in a silent gasp, now hung open in utter disbelief.
“Oh, come on!”
The words were a strangled squawk, laced with a potent cocktail of shock, betrayal, and deeply wounded pride. Gus, who had seen enough Spencer family dramas to earn a doctoral degree in passive-aggressive communication, merely leaned against the doorframe, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
“This is going to be good,” he whispered, though the words were loud enough to be heard in the abrupt, silence.
Henry took a slow, deliberate sip of his beer, his gaze never leaving Shawn.
“Hope you didn’t think you were solving crimes in this town without me, kid.”
The words were a low growl, a challenge, a declaration. Shawn’s carefully constructed world, a world where he was the unchallengeable psychic detective, had just imploded, and it smelled faintly of stale beer and old newsprint.
Scene 1
Shockwaves of Henry’s unexpected return reverberated through the Santa Barbara Police Department faster than a speeding bullet, or, in Shawn’s case, faster than a hastily concocted psychic vision. By mid-morning, the entire bullpen buzzed with the news, a mix of relief, apprehension, and outright bewilderment.
Randy Disher, still sporting a faint bruise on his ribs from the dockyard battle, practically vibrated with nervous energy at his desk. He kept glancing at the chief’s office, where Henry, the retired cop, had been closeted with Chief Vick for the better part of an hour.
Buzz McNab, ever the steady anchor, sat beside him, meticulously organizing a stack of evidence photos from the marina fire.
“He’s really back, huh?” Buzz asked quietly, almost to himself. “Mr. Spencer?”
Randy muttered, “Yeah, and he’s already giving off that I-know-better-than-all-of-you vibe. You can just feel it.”
Randy’s own personal screw-up, though redeemed in action, still left him acutely sensitive to perceived judgment. Especially from an old-school legend like Henry, the air felt thick with unspoken expectations.
Scene 2
Suddenly, the chief’s door swung open. Karen Vick emerged, looking surprisingly composed, followed by Henry, who managed to make a Hawaiian shirt look like a bespoke uniform. His gaze swept over the bullpen, pausing on Randy and Buzz for a beat longer than Randy found comfortable.
Lassiter, who had been openly scowling at the mere mention of Henry’s name, quickly averted his eyes to a stack of paperwork, muttering about outside interference. Juliet, however, offered a polite, if slightly wary, smile.
Henry cleared his throat, a sound that commanded immediate attention.
“All right, people,” he announced, his voice a gravelly rumble that cut through the bullpen’s usual din. “Chief Vick has asked me to consult with The Syndicate case. Effective immediately, I’ll be coordinating our efforts to track down the king and the scarred man from the docks.”
He paused, his gaze piercing.
“This isn’t a suggestion. This is a war.”
Scene 3
The war room was already set up, a large conference room with maps of Santa Barbara’s coastline, shipping lanes, and known syndicate fronts plastered across the walls. Red strings crisscrossed the maps, connecting burned-out warehouses to suspect names, old San Francisco intel, and shipping manifests.
It was Monk’s handiwork, his meticulous mind organizing chaos into a terrifying tapestry of crime. Monk himself stood stiffly beside the main map, tugging at his sleeves, a haunted look in his eyes. Natalie Teeger stood beside him, a calming presence.
She was the one who crisscrossed the strings for Monk, following his instructions, because he couldn’t bear to be the one to touch strings that had to be tangled instead of laid out in the neat, symmetrical lines he always preferred. He hated it.
But he did it anyway.
Stopping the Syndicate mattered more than his need for symmetrical perfection.
Captain Stottlemeyer leaned against a table, arms crossed, looking very much like he belonged.
Henry walked directly to the map, his gaze sharp, immediately identifying a weakness.
“They’re moving product through small private charters,” he stated, tapping a finger on a section of the marina, “not the main docks. Too much heat after the fire. They’ll be using local fisherman, guys who know the waters, who don’t ask questions.”
Stottlemeyer nodded.
“That matches what we saw back home. The king always uses local talent for his muscle, then discards them when the heat gets too high.”
Scene 4
Shawn, who had been attempting to communicate with a bowl of office jelly beans for psychic intel, scoffed loudly.
“Oh, come on, Dad, that’s just common sense. Everyone knows small charters are the way to go for smuggling after a big bust. It’s practically in Smuggling for Dummies chapter three: when to use smaller boats.”
Henry turned, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you were an expert in maritime crime, Shawn. You gonna tell me what kind of boat the king is using, too? Or are you just going to channel the spirits of the gummy bears again?”
Gus, who had seen this particular family dynamic play out countless times, wisely took a step back, adjusting his shirt collar. Natalie sighed, preparing for the inevitable verbal skirmish.
Scene 5
Randy, who had been quietly observing from the back, felt a surge of professional jealousy mixed with a healthy dose of fear. Henry’s insights were undeniable, cutting straight to the heart of the syndicate’s likely strategy. It was the kind of intuitive leap that Randy himself craved to make.
He wanted to be the one to impress Chief Vick, to finally be seen as a competent detective, not just the screw-up who cared too much. Buzz, sensing Randy’s internal conflict, subtly nudged him.
“Hey,” he whispered. “He’s good, though, right?”
Randy grunted, unable to deny it.
“Yeah, he’s good, too good.”
He watched Henry and Stottlemeyer discuss old case files, the two experienced former officers falling into an easy rhythm. It was intimidating.
Scene 6
Lassiter, meanwhile, was bristling openly. He slammed a file down on a table.
“Look, with all due respect, Mr. Spencer, our officers are perfectly capable of handling this. We don’t need a retired fishing enthusiast telling us how to run our investigation.”
Henry turned slowly, his eyes narrowing.
“No, detective, you need someone who knows how this rat operates, someone who’s seen the collateral damage this syndicate leaves behind.”
He glanced at Monk, then at Natalie, a somber note entering his voice.
“Someone who knows what happens when you underestimate them.”
The implicit warning, aimed as much at Lassiter’s pride as his competence, hung heavy in the air. Juliet stepped forward, trying to diffuse the tension.
“Mr. Spencer has valuable experience, Carlton, and Chief Vick specifically requested his assistance as a consultant.”
“Of course she did,” Lassiter muttered, crossing his arms and glaring at the map as if it were personally offending him.
Scene 7
Later that afternoon, Shawn decided to conduct his own reconnaissance by attempting to find his old fishing gear in his dad’s now-reoccupied house. Gus, armed with a legal pad, was there to document the inevitable emotional fallout.
The house, freshly tidied and sparsely furnished, felt alien to Shawn. The familiar scent of old wood and the ocean was now overlaid with Henry’s signature combination of coffee, stale beer, and a faint hint of aftershave Shawn didn’t recognize.
“He changed the paint in the den,” Shawn whispered dramatically, gesturing at a wall. “The den, that was our den, Gus. Now it’s just beige, a beige den of betrayal.”
Gus scribbled on his pad.
“Beige den of betrayal, got it. You sure you’re not just upset he’s here and not asking you for help?”
Shawn scoffed.
“Please, I’m above petty jealousy. I’m simply concerned about the psychic interference. All that old man energy is throwing off my chi.”
He paused, then picked up a framed photo on the mantelpiece: a younger Henry beaming, holding a surprisingly large marlin. Shawn frowned.
“He actually looks happy here. What is this? Some kind of alternate dimension?”
Henry’s voice, sharp and sudden, cut through the moment.
“It’s called Morro Bay, Shawn. It’s where I was living before your mother called and begged me to come save your little town.”
Shawn visibly bristled.
“Mom called you? To save my town? I’m right here, Dad. I’m practically solving crimes in my sleep.”
“You’re still solving crimes in your sleep? That’s not normal, Shawn,” Gus interjected.
Henry just shook his head.
“You haven’t changed a bit, kid. Still making everything about you. This isn’t a game. This is The Syndicate. People are dying.”
The gravity in his voice was undeniable.
Scene 8
Back at the SBPD, the mood grew heavier as more grim details emerged. Woody, with his usual oblivious cheer, provided an update.
“Good news, everyone. The dock workers weren’t just dead from the fire. Two of them had traces of a very potent tranquilizer in their system. Bad news: it’s the same tranquilizer we found in the San Francisco cases. Very specific, very illegal, and very syndicate.”
He paused thoughtfully.
“Good news: I think I figured out why the morgue coffee machine is broken. It was the tranquilizer. Someone tried to brew it. Bad news: It was me.”
Chief Vick rubbed her temples. Randy felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. The tranquilizer, the specific accelerant, the Black Knight emblem, it was all lining up. This wasn’t just a new case. It was a continuation, a festering wound from San Francisco that had now spread to Santa Barbara. The Syndicate wasn’t just a local problem anymore.
Scene 9
Buzz, ever watchful, noticed Randy’s distant stare.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Randy said, though his voice was thin. “Just, this is exactly what Monk warned us about. They spread. They don’t stop.”
He looked at the map, then at the photos of the burned-out warehouse.
“We need to catch that Scar-faced guy. He’s the key.”
Juliet, who had been listening from her desk, nodded grimly.
“He’s definitely a lieutenant for the King. Getting him would be a major blow.”
She glanced at Henry, who was deep in conversation with Stottlemeyer, their heads bent over old SFPD files. Their combined experience as former officers was a formidable, if slightly intimidating, asset.
Epilogue
Later that day, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the bullpen, a strange quiet descended. The weight of The Syndicate’s confirmed presence was palpable.
Henry Spencer, after another long session with Chief Vick, paused by Shawn’s desk.
“This isn’t over, Shawn,” he said, his voice low. “It’s just beginning.”
Shawn, for once, didn’t have a snappy comeback. He merely nodded, looking at the Black knight emblem pinned to the board.
His dad was right.
And that, in itself, was a troubling thought.
To be continued.