Invigorated by his investigative good fortune, Bunk returns from the field to head into the lab and tell Ron what's what. "Don't fucking tell me you mislabeled this, too," Bunk says, slamming Devar's homicide file on the table. "I want comparisons between known suspects and the DNA from this scene. By the looks of it, we've got a whole lot of DNA out of this mess." Uh yeah...about that, Bunk ol' buddy: Ron would love to expedite your request, he really would. But first he's got to process the trace evidence from the homeless killings. "It's the priority, Bunk," Ron says helplessly. "The homeless killings," Bunk says with a palpable touch of disbelief. Indeed, that's backing everything up. "Your boy McNulty has everybody's attention right now," Ron adds, just to reduce Bunk to incomprehensible mutterings. Hey, Bunk, just do what I do whenever this fake-serial-killer thing puts actual police work on the back burner: stare heavenward and, shaking your fist, bellow, "McNulty!" at the top of your lungs. If your neighbors are anything like mine, it will scare the hell out of them at least.
McNulty is driving the homeless guy -- his name is apparently Larry -- and reassuring him that everything's going to be fine. I don't think Larry's dosage is strong enough to make him believe that. And onto I-95 South they go. Just when I think this plan can't get any worse, a new detail emerges to make me marvel at its all-encompassing awfulness.
The Bad Idea trend continues at the State Attorney's Office, where Bond has just gotten through telling Pearlman that he's going to try the case against Davis. "It's been a while since you tried a criminal case personally," Pearlman points out. "Sends a statement, I think," Bonds replies. Yes -- the statement is: "I'm a micromanaging nitwit looking for headlines." That, or "Oh God, I've ruined everything." That statement comes later, I guess. Pearlman has other matters on her mind -- she hands over the folder that Daniels gave her. Indeed, it contains the sealed indictments that turned up in Prop Joe's possession. "We have a leak," Pearlman declares. Ba-ba-buuuuuuuuuuummmmm, the imaginary soundtrack in my head goes.
Night's fallen, and we're in Richmond, Virginia now -- a two-hour, 38-minute drive if Google Maps is to be believed, and as a guy's who sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic on every part of that stretch of I-95, let me tell you: Google Maps lies. Anyhow, McNulty is ushering Larry into a homeless shelter, where he tells an understanding social worker some cock-and-bull story about how Larry showed up disoriented at his office, so McNulty brought him here. Anyhow, Larry is now named Donald, because that's the name on the ID McNulty planted on him to prove that he's from Cleveland, no matter how much Larry/Donald protests he's from Baltimore. The ruse works like a charm, and I hate McNulty just a little more than I did 60 seconds ago.