So Beadie and McNulty have taken their show on the road, visiting Doc Frazier at the morgue: all three are poring over photos. McNulty explains, "If it's crushed by another container, it should've been one single movement. Maybe two, if something shifts, and then shifts back again. This looks like someone has been pounding on it in a bunch of spots." We cut to another angle so we can see that they're looking at a shot of the flattened ceiling ridge. Frazier says that he wants to consult with a metallurgist before he makes his ruling, but that it looks like Beadie and McNulty have just picked up thirteen homicides. Beadie looks totally terrified, and like she really misses the days when her biggest bust involved catching some dock guy jacking cigarettes.
So now Valchek's escalated his campaign even further, and is meeting with Burrell in his office, pleasantly asking, "If the commissioner goes down to Washington, it's you, right?" Burrell, grinning, says that's up to the mayor -- and that he'd have to "clear the council, too." He doesn't look that concerned about it, and Valchek points out that with the mayor in Burrell's corner, none of it should be a problem. "You been around as long as me, you make a few enemies," murmurs Burrell smugly. Of "the First District guys," Valchek promises, "They're not gonna start nothing." Burrell says that they're pushing someone named Shipley, and Valchek pronounces, "See, that's racist. You know, it personally offends me that anybody would reach down past you to elevate some colonel just because he happens to be white." Burrell takes a beaming sip of coffee as Valchek goes on: "I'm gonna get on the phone and call my friends at the Hall. That'll bring the First District in line." Burrell, dimpling, says that's very kind, asking, "What, if anything, is there that I can do for you, Major Valchek?" Chuckling, Valchek announces, "I need a detail. CID people, mostly, though I can spare some bodies out of my district, too." Burrell, now grave, asks, "What for?" Valchek -- trying to be breezy and not telegraph how much this is totally all about him and his damn church window -- says that he's got some guys in the Southeast "showing a lot of money." He says that they're longshoremen. "I.B.S.?" asks Burrell. Valchek clarifies that he's not planning to go after the whole union: "Just a couple of guys in one local that look fat. Drugs, maybe, or the usual thieving. Frank Sobotka -- you heard the name?" Burrell hasn't. Valchek adds that he's not sure the problem even goes past Frank. Burrell, starting to get it, goes back to his shit-eating grin: "What's he to you, Stan?" "To me?" asks Valchek disingenuously. There's a beat, and then he says, "He's an asshole!" Both cops share the kind of lusty guffaw that only a moderate abuse of power can inspire, and then Burrell grants Valchek "six men for six weeks," adding, "Rawls will pick them." Valchek, bursting with excitement, nods and doesn't say anything else to queer it.