Back at the cop shop, McNulty is pecking away at his own report; behind him, Det. Ray Cole (the late Robert F. Colesberry), sleeping in his chair with some kind of neck pillow, peevishly turns around to tell him to "type quieter." Bunk enters, and McNulty asks for an update on the decomp: Bunk tried to sell it as a heart attack, but the ME didn't go for it once "this popped up": he holds up a little plastic vial with a bullet in it. D'oh! Bunk asks what McNulty's still there for, so McNulty recaps the Phelan story. "There you go -- giving a fuck when it ain't your turn to give a fuck," Bunk chides him, of course. They've just repaired to their corners when Jay wanders in for a little needling: "Look at 'em, Cole. Don't it just make your dick bust concrete to be in the same room with two noble, selfless public servants?" Cole crabbily realizes that his nap is over, stumbling off in his stocking feet. Jay asks Bunk to tell him he closed his case, but before Bunk can even break the bad news about the homicide, Jay goes on: "Of course not. And of course your partner here has to go over to the courthouse and lay our business out in front of a judge." "So you heard?" McNulty rather stupidly rejoins. Jay says that the Major called him at home and told him to come in early and read over McNulty's shoulder. McNulty hands him the crisp sheet, and we can see it's true when McNulty tells him, "It's got dots." "Fuck you and your dots," replies Jay. McNulty once again tries to defend himself by saying that all he did was not lie to Phelan, but Jay isn't buying it any more than anyone else is. Other than Phelan, I guess. Jay reminds McNulty that the deputy's the one who could bust McNulty back down to walking a beat in the Western. "Fuck it, I came from the Western," bluffs McNulty. "Well, where don't you want to go, asshole?" chuckles Jay mirthlessly. "Evidence Control? Personnel? Headquarter Security." "The boat," says McNulty, who must really think he'll just never get his comeuppance. "The marine unit?" Bunk clarifies. McNulty says that the diesel fumes make him seasick. Jay's, like, totally writing that down so he can transfer it to the "Fuck McNulty" file that's shared on the network of police brass who actually rate computers. Jay bets McNulty $10 that's where he'll end up -- not just on the boat, but midnight shift. McNulty looks a little seasick already.
Morning dawns, and D'Angelo gets off a bus at the Towers, calling for Stringer. "You here early," notes Stringer. D'Angelo says he's on his game today. He starts striding confidently toward the Tower lobby, but Stringer, in that fake-regretful Stringer way of his, calls him back: "New deal today. You going out on point, picking up business in the Pit...You're the man in the low-rises." D'Angelo says that a Ronnie Mo has that post, but Stringer says he got "851" today (which doesn't come up on any lists of Maryland police codes I could find, but is a stolen car in Illinois, for whatever that's worth). D'Angelo protests that he shouldn't get busted down to the low-rises when he'd had a tower "since summer." Stringer agrees that D'Angelo "had a tower," and that he might have one again: "If you can keep your mind to shit." "This is fucked up," D'Angelo chokes. "You show us you can run the Pit, and you'll be back uptown soon enough," Stringer tells him. And, seriously. You think they have unlimited resources to buy off witnesses, dude? What do you think happens with the ones they can't? Well, maybe you'll find out, I guess. "My uncle know about this?" says D'Angelo. Yeah, PLEASE try to pull rank with Stringer. That'll end well. Stringer chuckles, "What do you think?" I mean, honestly. Stringer calls to Wee-Bey to give D'Angelo a ride to the low-rises, and strolls off.