Back to the Detail Office, where Freamon and Sydnor are comparing call logs and surveillance photos, to see what everyone's doing when those single-ring, static-y calls are being placed. The answer: Standing around and looking at their phones. The conclusion: "It's not what Marlo's saying," Freamon chuckles. "It's what he's sending." Text messages, Sydnor concludes. "Need I remind you, detective, these young men are products of Baltimore city schools?" Freamon replies. So? Not like you need to be Horace Walpole to master the intricate language of texting. u no what i mean? lol! More to the point, Sydnor's surveillance photo shows Monk holding a phone at arm's length -- too far away to read a text message, but just about right if he was looking at an image of some sort. "Pictures," Freamon concludes.
A dank section of Baltimore reeking of hopelessness and despair just got a little more grim -- Templeton has wandered into the area to do his "Let's Hang Out With The Homeless" treacle. I'm surprised he didn't just check into the Hyatt and file the story from there. He's also wearing a Kansas City Star T-shirt, and I bet the newspaper's grateful for that branding opportunity. ("The Star: Written by Asses For Asses.") Templeton immediately learns this about the life of the homeless: They're not terribly interested in talking to reporters. Also, apparently life on the street is fairly unpleasant. These are the insights one can only capture from the front lines, baby.
The Madness of King McNulty continues apace, as Baltimore's hardest-drinking detective rants and raves about the state of his investigation. Doesn't seem so crazy, you say? Well, what would you think if I told you he was ranting and raving to a statue of War of 1812 figure Samuel Smith on Federal Hill? Though in McNulty's defense, it has been 194 years since the British tried invading, so Samuel Smith certainly seems to be more on the job than the higher-ups in the Baltimore P.D. "They tease you. They let you get close," McNulty fumes. "And just when you're about to pull the case, they rip the fucking rug out from under you." The statue has no comment on that. "I'm not lying," McNulty continues. "We've got a fucking serial killer on the loose." Presumably, he means Marlo and not the one he made up -- hence, McNulty's justification for all the awful, awful stunts he's been pulling lately. Or maybe not: "You didn't know that?" he asks the statue. "Well, it's in the goddamn paper." At this point, McNulty's phone rings -- McNulty asks the statue to excuse him, and answers. It's Oscar with another body ready for McNulty's special brand of tampering. McNulty slinks off to do his dirty work; the statue of Samuel Smith breathes a sign of relief at the return of peace and quiet.