After McNulty and Freamon slink off to wallow in their guilt -- or whatever it is that McNulty wallows in now that he's beyond shame -- Bunk picks up the phone to leave what is apparently the latest in a series of increasingly hostile messages for the crime lab to get a move on processing his crime scene. "Well, tell him I called, and tell him I'm going to keep calling until he feels my fucking pain," Bunk barks into the phone after getting what I take to be an unacceptable answer to his request. In a way, it's a good thing there's only a few more episodes left in The Wire because if this goes on much longer, we're going to be treated to shots of Bunk jumping on Ron the Lab Tech and beating on his head like a gong. Before we can dwell too much on that visual, Carver walks up with a handcuffed Michael: "Gift-wrapped," Carver says brightly. And off to the interrogation room Michael and Bunk go.
In the Homicide unit's parking garage, McNulty is heading out just as Christeson -- you will remember him as the younger detective from the season premiere. Detective Christeson is not happy -- perhaps he's still sore about McNulty swiping his desk. Actually, the source of Christeson's irritation is a lack of surveillance teams to help him close a murder investigation. Man -- if only there was a detective who managed to con the department brass into giving him limitless resources. I bet he could help. Say, McNulty's brain suddenly realizes, I'm such a detective! He offers to provide Christeson with two additional men for all his surveilling needs -- he'll just write up the hours on his serial-killer investigation. "And you can do that?" Christeson asks, somewhat dubiously. Hey, kid -- this is McNulty talking. They haven't invented a rule yet he couldn't bend or a regulation he couldn't skirt. "Go with God," McNulty tells Christeson, genuflecting for that extra touch of self-important sacrilege.
In the interrogation room, Bunk has produced some photos of Devar's tenderized corpse for Michael's edification; Michael manages to suppress his grief. Or, perhaps more accurate, his great delight. "Look at you," Bunk observes. "Not even blinking." Michael stares at the photos impassively. "Not that I blame you," Bunk continues. "After what this heinous motherfucker did to you." That merits some eye contact from Michael, who fixes his gaze on Bunk for a moment for turning his eyes downward again. Bunk notes the viciousness of the crime and then regards Michael: "Now I know it wasn't you. Because, with all due respect, you don't have the physicality to do this kind of damage." Ummm...thanks? The perpetrator, Bunk concludes, had to be a full-grown and powerful person -- "A fearsome individual," he adds. Fearsome like Marlo or perhaps one of his henchman, he does not add, but that's clearly what he's hoping Michael will volunteer. He had best latch on to another hope. "You the murder police," Michael says impassively to Bunk's inquiry. "How the fuck would I know?"