My headcanon is that Randall has been mostly or completely alone all of his life. In MU, his concern with fitting in leads me to believe that he doesn't have that much going for him in the way of friends. And by the events of MI, there doesn't seem to be a single monster who takes notice of just how "on the edge" he is, so I feel that by then, he's pretty much completely alone. That gave me the idea of a post-scream extractor investigation in which the authorities have essentially no information on Randall except for what they know from Mike and Sulley's testimonies: testimonies that may not be entirely true, given the legality of what happened to Randall.
Also, as much as I love the character of Rex, he's not exactly canon yet, so I think I can safely write a story in which Randall has no siblings.
According to the two witnesses, the suspect had turned invisible and fled the factory, headed off to parts unknown. It almost seemed too simple an explanation. But there were only three monsters who had personally seen what had happened, and with one of them being the missing suspect, there was no one to say otherwise.
Besides, these two witnesses had unearthed a major conspiracy, and the information they were providing was invaluable. With so many big questions to ask them, a comparatively minor one about a henchman didn't get much priority. And so, as far as the authorities were concerned, Randall Boggs was simply a suspect on the run.
And evidently, this suspect was extremely good at running. His trail seemed to go completely cold at the moment the witnesses said he fled. Detective Krieger was well aware of the difficulties of tracking down a fugitive, but he hadn't anticipated making this little progress. The tyrannosaur-like monster was trying his best to stay optimistic as he stood in the apartment hallway and waited for someone to answer his knock on the door, but in an investigation like this, it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his spirits up.
After a long wait, an elderly, grey-feathered monster slowly creaked open the door.
"Yes, can I help you?"
"Good afternoon, sir," the detective replied, producing his badge. "I'm Detective Max Krieger, Monstropolis Police Department. Are you the landlord for this apartment complex?"
"I am. Is there a problem, officer?"
"A tenant of yours, one Randall Boggs, is a suspect in a case I'm currently investigating. Do you have any information regarding Mr. Boggs' whereabouts?"
"What? You mean that nice young man…"
The landlord paused, placing a hand upon his brow and tilting his head down.
"…a criminal? He was such a wonderful tenant! Never any trouble at all from him…I saw him just last week, when he paid his rent for the month…well, I didn't actually see him in person, but he did drop his check off…he never missed a payment, you know. First of the month, every month, that rent check would be underneath my door. Like clockwork…"
He trailed off and kept on staring downwards, leaving Krieger to break the silence.
"Sir, I understand that this must be difficult for you. But I just need to make sure; you don't know anything about Mr. Boggs' recent whereabouts?"
"No, I…I don't know…"
"No sign of him having stopped by his apartment in the past twenty-four hours?"
"Not that I'm aware of, no…in fact, I've seen very little of him as of late. There was a time when he used to actually speak with me in person… he'd knock at the door, hand his check to me, and we'd chat for a bit. But he hasn't done that in, oh, I'd say…about two years now."
Two years. It wasn't the first time the detective had heard that. Apparently, the scream extractor conspiracy that the suspect was involved with began around two years ago. And the neighbors that Krieger had interviewed all mentioned that, up until about that time, the suspect used to be seen leaving his apartment and returning home at normal working hours. He wasn't particularly sociable, but if you were to actually engage him in conversation, you could have a polite, if brief, discussion with him.
But for the past two years, he'd been spotted very infrequently. One neighbor, who worked a graveyard shift, would sometimes see the suspect returning home late at night as he was leaving for his job. The neighbor said that he appeared lost in thought, practically oblivious to his presence. He figured that something unusual must have been going on with him, but since he didn't really know the suspect that well in the first place and he didn't want to be late for work, he hadn't bothered to say anything to him.
And Krieger knew very little beyond this, aside from the fact that the suspect was Randall Boggs, a 26 year old male. No known next-of-kin; records indicated that his father had died when he was 2 and his mother when he was 23, that he had no siblings, and that he had never been married. He certainly wasn't close with his co-workers, who had described him as "unapproachable" at best and "hostile" at worst when they were interviewed. Not even his scare assistant seemed to know that much about him; apparently, the suspect rarely spoke with him except to talk business. That, or to yell at him.
If Krieger didn't pick up some new information about Boggs soon, he wasn't even sure where to turn next.
"I've been authorized to search Mr. Boggs' apartment for evidence as part of my investigation. May I please borrow a key to the unit?"
"Yes, of course, officer."
Still looking rather dazed, the landlord shuffled off and returned holding a key, which he handed to Krieger.
"Thank you very much for your cooperation, sir. I'll return the key to you shortly. That will be all for now."
The landlord nodded in response. "Damn shame about that boy," he muttered, shaking his head as he closed the door.
"Monstropolis Police Department! Open Up!"
Krieger couldn't help but smile at that. The very idea that the suspect was simply lounging around his apartment and waiting for the police to arrive was laughable. But regulations were regulations, and he couldn't just go barging in. After getting no response, he unlocked the door to Boggs' apartment and cautiously made his way inside, keeping his hand upon his pistol. Though he was only planning on finding information about the suspect (provided he was lucky enough to find even that) and not the suspect himself, survival instincts were hard to shake.
Afternoon sunlight filtered in through cream colored curtains, casting a warm glow upon the white-walled apartment. Krieger entered the kitchen and opened up the fridge, hoping for evidence as to when the suspect had last been in. All he found were assorted microwavable meals and a half-empty bottle of cola. He removed the cap and listened for a fizzing noise: completely flat. The neighbors seemed to be correct about him not being around much lately. Glancing over to the stove, Krieger noticed that it was covered in a layer of dust. He wondered when the suspect had last used it. Seeing how often "about two years" kept coming up in this case, he figured that was a safe bet.
Finding nothing else of interest in the kitchen, he walked into the living room and scanned his surroundings. The neatly-arranged furniture certainly looked comfortable enough - especially to a detective who had spent most of the past 24 hours on his feet - but overall, it didn't strike him as a particularly welcoming room. There were no photographs, no books, and no portraits: no personal effects at all, for that matter. Most importantly, there didn't seem to be anything that would help him track down the suspect.
Making his way past the plush black furniture, Krieger found himself facing two doors, one open and one closed. The open door lead to a bathroom, and he figured that the closed door was probably the suspect's bedroom. He decided to save the bedroom for last.
Krieger entered the immaculate but otherwise unremarkable bathroom, heading straight to the medicine cabinet. He'd been involved in more than a few cases in which knowledge of the medical conditions or drug habits of the missing monster had proven useful in tracking them down, and so he always made a point of searching medicine cabinets. The detective took inventory of its contents:
One tube toothpaste
One bottle mouthwash (non-alcoholic)
One can odorant
Two boxes sleep aid tablets (non-narcotic)
Two bottles antacid tablets (extra strength)
He still wasn't learning much about the suspect; what else was new? He couldn't make any guesses about Boggs' medical condition, except perhaps that he was stressed. With detective work being so stressful, Krieger often found himself eating antacid tablets like candy during the day and relying on sleep aid tablets to get to bed at night. Maybe the suspect shared this habit?
And that was the only addiction (if you could even call it that) which Krieger could theorize that the suspect had. There was absolutely nothing in the cabinet that indicated any sort of illicit drug use. Well, theoretically, aerosol odorants like the one that Boggs used could also double for "huffing" purposes. But given that he was able to design something as complex as a scare extractor, it didn't seem likely that he'd been getting high via a method with such a tendency to kill brain cells.
The detective slowly exited the bathroom and stood before the closed door. He gingerly placed his hand upon the doorknob, hesitating to turn it. This was the last room in the apartment: the last chance to find something, anything, to keep his search going.
Bracing himself, Krieger opened the door but found only darkness; the blinds were drawn and barely a trace of light was entering through the window. With a flick of the light switch, a small room with a narrow, neatly-made bed was revealed. He opened the drawer of the nightstand next to the bed: empty. He rummaged through the bedroom closet: nothing of interest.
So that was it. No matter where he looked - at the factory, at the apartment, anywhere - there wasn't a single damn sign as to where Randall Boggs was. He pondered the benefits of calling in a forensics team to do a more intensive search of the locales. Krieger doubted that they would find anything, but at least then he wouldn't be alone in coming up empty handed in this investigation.
The detective decided to retrace his steps and double-check the entire apartment, just in case he'd missed something. As he turned around to make his way back to the kitchen, he spotted an object on the bedroom wall that he hadn't noticed before. Moving closer to get a better look, he saw that it was a framed photograph of two lizard-like monsters, a male and a female, beaming proudly as they held a small, purple-scaled baby.
Krieger found himself staring at the picture for much longer than he expected. Something about it prompted memories of the numerous missing monster cases that he'd been involved with in his decades of police service to begin flashing through his head at once. Almost always, someone was left behind in the wake of a monster's disappearance; he'd met scores of parents, siblings, spouses, children and friends in his investigations, all of them anxiously hoping for some sort of sign that their loved one was still alive.
This case was different. The suspect had been on this earth for 26 whole years. But once he disappeared, there was scarcely anything beyond an old photograph to indicate that a monster by the name of Randall Boggs had ever even existed.
The detective finally turned away from the picture and headed to the kitchen. As he was passing by the bathroom, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror of the medicine cabinet. It was only then that he became aware of the frown lining his weathered face.
Krieger let out a long sigh. It really was a damn shame about that boy.