Speaking of Bunk, here he is, with McNulty, in a parking lot surrounded by three-story apartment buildings, at what McNulty exposits is a six-month-old crime scene -- Diedre's. Bunk holds up the "narrow-ass file": "Keeley didn't do shit on this." McNulty protests that he did the scene, but Bunk is unimpressed: "This is Keeley we're talking about." "Fucking Jay and his leaps of logic," McNulty complains, dramatic-ironically. "This case is nowhere near anything we're doing." Bunk tells him to "give it a shake or two anyhow, make a sergeant happy." "Whatever," McNulty pouts. Oh, shut up, McNulty -- you're not the only one who can have a damn hunch. As they head in, McNulty asks whether Bunk knows Lester. Bunk says he does, a little. McNulty says that Lester's on the detail, and Bunk says he thought the detail was full of humps. McNulty says he thought so, too, adding, of Lester, "He looks like a hump. He acts like a hump, sitting there, playing with his toy furniture." Bunk chuckles: "Jimmy, he makes more money off of that shit than you do off of this job. Don't let Lester fool you." McNulty says that he already did, but that he showed something that day at roll call. Bunk: "Hey. He's natural police. He used to be Homicide." McNulty quietly asks why he left, and Bunk says McNulty should ask Lester. A building super appears with a gigantic ring of keys, saying that the apartment hasn't been rented since the murder. Gee, I wonder why.

Inside, Bunk and McNulty are admitted to the vacant apartment. It's no great shakes, sure, but the walls are painted a nice brown-mustard colour and looks like it was carefully cleaned. Which I guess former crime scenes usually are. The kitchen is set off from the living room with a thin wall and a tile floor, instead of the carpet in the rest of the place. Standing at the threshold, Bunk fans out his crime-scene photos and breathes, "Fuck." McNulty, looking over his shoulder, offers, "Motherfucker." With the super standing by, Bunk and McNulty start arranging the little evidence they have. Bunk spreads photos on the floor, McNulty on the counter. As the camera lingers on one, we see that Diedre also had a bullet wound just above her left breast. Bunk, by the way, is still muttering curses under his breath: "Fuck, fuck. Fucking fuck. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck." At the counter, McNulty sets the shots of Diedre's front and the one of her back next to each other, and murmurs, "What the fuck?" He points to his upper chest with one hand, and to the lower-back wound on Diedre with the other. Using a dry-erase marker, Bunk circles a couple of spots on the kitchen floor: "Fuck." McNulty looks down at the floor, starting to pull out a measuring tape, which snaps back on his thumb: "Fuck!" he cries, sucking it. Bunk sets a couple more photos up against the kitchen window, circling the spot where at least one shot came through, and we get the sadly touching detail that Diedre had kept a couple of plans there, on the windowsill. McNulty tries again with the tape measure, putting one end on the floor and then squatting a little, to put himself closer to Diedre's height, and pointing to his chest again. Bunk reaches out to put his own hand on McNulty's chest, and McNulty holds the gun up as high as it would have had to be, were Diedre standing, for a bullet to enter through her upper chest and exit down by her hip. "No," says McNulty. "Fuck," says Bunk. McNulty tries it again, kneeling. "Fuck it," he says, and puts his gun back in its holster. Down on the floor, he looks at something near the dishwasher, uttering another "fuck" in the process.