Adrian Monk: What was that? What was that?
Oates: It's 8:00! Irrigation sprinklers.
Adrian Monk: Do they come on every night all over the property?
Oates: Every night.
Adrian Monk: Oates, I know how he did it. I know how Belmont killed Randy's uncle. Get me outta this.
Oates: Okeydoke.

Oates: What do we do now?
Adrian Monk: Call the sheriff.
Oates: [groans]
Adrian Monk: What? What is it?
Oates: Well, I was just thinking it would have been nice if Randy had been able to figure it all out. He's been feeling pretty down about himself lately.
Adrian Monk: That's true.
Oates: Solving a big case like this one, he would have felt like a cop again.

Lieutenant Disher: Morning. Any coffee left?
Oates: Got a full pot. How'd you sleep?
Lieutenant Disher: Fine, I guess. It's sour. What kind of farm is this? Don't even have any fresh cream. [slaps his forehead]
Adrian Monk: Randy, what is it?
Lieutenant Disher: Mosquito. So, fill me in on what happened on Belmont's farm.
Adrian Monk: Not much to tell. It was a dead end. Ho- How 'bout you? Any new thoughts on the case?
Lieutenant Disher: No. [stops]
Adrian Monk: What? What is it?
Lieutenant Disher: No, it's nothin'.
Adrian Monk: Wait! Wait a minute! Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Monk, call the sheriff. I think I solved the case.

Deputy Hatcher: It would explain a lot.
Sheriff Butterfield: It would explain everything, including the deer. They were lickin' the salt.
Jimmy Belmont: Now, that is a nice story. See, that's all it is. Where's your proof? Physical proof. You don't have any, do you?
Adrian Monk: I think he's right.
Lieutenant Disher: Sheriff, do you have an evidence bag? Monk, your pen. This truck was never touched or moved, right? [removes key from the truck, blows on it] Yes. That's a fingerprint. See that? If this is your fingerprint, that means you were the last person to operate that vehicle. Is that proof enough?
Deputy Hatcher: Mr. Belmont, could you wait in the cruiser? You have the right to an attorney...
Sheriff Butterfield: Lieutenant Disher, do the people a favor, get your butt back to San Francisco. You are a cop. You don't belong here. Mr. Monk, I don't know where you belong. I got a feeling you don't know either. But if you're ever in Chambers County again, bring your dancing shoes. Gentlemen, now if you'll excuse me, I got a prisoner to process.

Lieutenant Disher: Captain, I'm done. I'm leaving. Hey, I already sublet my apartment. You remember my uncle? Uncle Harvey?
Captain Stottlemeyer: Sure. The farmer. The suicide.
Lieutenant Disher: Yeah, well, an estate lawyer called me last week. He left me his farm.
Captain Stottlemeyer: You're kidding.
Lieutenant Disher: I know, I was gonna- I was gonna sell the place, but, you know, after this I'm gonna do it.
Captain Stottlemeyer: You're gonna do what?
Lieutenant Disher: Take it over, run the place, work the land.
Captain Stottlemeyer: Work the land. What are you, Woody Guthrie? Randy, you're not a farmer.
Lieutenant Disher: Well, you might be right. All I know for sure is, I'm not a cop.