Opening credits. Did you know Sam feels like he's landed on a different planet?

When we return to the 125th Precinct, Brother Love Butter is holding forth on the radio about the coming civil unrest, and the rest of the police force apparently believes that a hard rain is indeed going to fall. Annie dutifully reports that the drunk tanks are being emptied out in anticipation of all the arrests that are to be made when society crumbles. Boy, did those guys in the drunk tank pick the right day to tie one on. Sam is dabbing at the boo-boo on his noggin from this morning's bombing and grousing that by all rights he should be dead. "Maybe you're already dead and you just don't know it," mutters one of the drunk tank ejectees as he shuffles past Sam. "That would explain a lot." That's a familiar tone there, friend -- you wouldn't happen to be in league with any Mars Rovers, would you? Sam is jarred out of his what-did-you-just-say-there-drunky stupor by Hunt's roar; the lieutenant would like very much to know who tossed that bomb in the general direction of Sam and Carling, and he would like his squad to find out now. Sam suggests that maybe it would be a better idea to devote their resources to finding Angel Ramirez and staving off the inevitable race war. The other detectives furrow their brows as if someone has just asked a difficult math problem. "A little pig-tailed girl is on a slab downtown," Hunt snorts. "This war has already started."

Just then, a youngish African-American gent walks into the station house with two handcuffed gentlemen in tow. "I know who bombed your car," he says helpfully. Hunt demands to know who this interloper is. The gent asks if everyone will excuse him while he whips something out, and the detectives in the 125 react much in the same way as the good people of Rock Ridge did, only with a lot more drawn weapons. "Gun!" Carling screams, as the gent reaches into his coat, and the handcuffed prisoners cringe. The gent chuckles, as Sam does a double-take and suddenly the youngish man morphs into Clarke Peters, who you may remember from the pilot where he appeared as Sam's commanding officer. So this younger, less graying version you see before you is apparently the 1973 version of that guy. "I know him," Sam whispers to Annie, after he tells the other officers to holster their weapons. "That's Clams." No... it's Clarke Peters. Used to play Freamon on the The Wire? Do try to follow along here, O'Mara. "It's a nickname," Sam says of the Clams moniker. "I would hope so," Annie responds. While this is going on, Carling has strolled over to Clarke Peters' younger self and pulled his identification out of his coat pocket. Indeed, it's Detective Fletcher Bellow, all the way from Brooklyn's 86th Precinct. Well, on behalf of the 125, allow Carling to apologize for the callous, casual racism you've encountered here -- from now on, please accept the more refined institutional racism you've probably come to expect in your professional life.