He would not. Instead, he's down in the lab, badgering a particularly disheveled technician about the missing labwork. Cries of budget cutbacks and staffing shortages fall on unsympathetic Bunk ears. "My heart pumps purple piss for you," Bunk huffs. "Now I got the worst mass murder in B-more history, and you can't get the casework back to me inside of a year? C'mon, Ron." Ron glances around nervously and asks Bunk to stay mum about the tale he's about to unfold -- especially around the press. (No worries there -- the local press has discovered that "making shit up" is far more efficient than ferreting out real stories.) Anyhow, on the bright side, what he's about to tell Bunk isn't really anyone's fault -- "In fact, it's a little bit on you in a way," Ron says sheepishly, earning himself a snarl from Bunk. So here's the problem: the city hired a temp to handle the excess casework, and she was in charge of sorting and filing the individual trace elements from the fourteen unprocessed murder scenes. In the initial paperwork, homicide detectives wrote out all 22 C.C. numbers...but, in subsequent requests, Bunk put all the incidents under the first C.C. and added "et al." The poor, dumb temp didn't know what "et al." meant -- and so now all the trace elements from fourteen different crime scenes have been combined and sorted into one case number. "We have no idea which of your scenes any of this shit came from," Ron says, pointing to the tainted evidence that is now kept under lock and key. "We don't have a clue." And with that, Bunk's offspring now has new fodder for another chapter in his future memoir, Why Daddy Drinks. On the bright side, Ron points out, the temp has been a pretty good employee. Except for, you know, compromising the physical evidence in an ongoing investigation into fourteen murders -- that earned her a demerit and a strongly worded memo.