It's 5:50 in Baltimore -- do you know where the street-level lieutenant in your drug operation is? If he's Monk, he's just standing there shooting the shit, and Sydnor, watching from an abandoned building across the way, couldn't be more puzzled. Whatever that clock in Marlo's message means, it has nothing to do with meet-up times.
Back at Extreme Makeover: Homicide Division, it's Crutchfield's turn to beg for a taste of some of McNulty's largesse. He wants the OT hours for him and a partner to stake out a suspect for three nights; McNulty counters with two, and when Crutchfield pushes, he threatens to cut it down to one. Two nights it is! McNulty leans in to tell him to put the case number on the overtime slips so they can sneak it past Landsman, but Crutchfield interrupts. "It's cool," Crutchfield says. "I know the drill." McNulty's a little taken aback by the realization that stories of his handouts are making their way around Homicide, but Crutchfield reassures him. "You're doing good here, boss," he says. Oh man... call McNulty anything -- motherfucker, drunky, bottom-feeding horndog who's probably carrying around more communicable diseases than a transport ship full of hookers -- but whatever you do, don't call him boss. It makes him sound so...boss-like. Before McNulty can wash the sting of that insult out of his mouth, Kima drops a folder full of reports on his desk. "Families of your victims, debriefed in full," she says. "And believe me, it ruined my week. ...I'm sitting there, explaining to the salt of the fucking earth, why their eldest, who was living on the street because nothing they did could fix his problems but God knows they tried, why he met his end being bit on and fucked with by some sick motherfucker who used him for jerk-off purposes." McNulty squirms noticeably, as he's forced to consider the human cost of his antics. Just 700 more hours of that, and it maybe the full weight of what he's done will finally sink in. Anyhow, Kima's gotta jet -- she has IKEA furniture to assemble. Debriefing the families of murder victims is about to look a whole lot more appetizing, dear.
Fletch is wrapping up interviews with the homeless under Bubbles' watchful eye -- it was apparently a rewarding and insightful session, free of the Templeton-esque bullcrap we've come to expect whenever a reporter goes on one of these assignments. Fletch thanks Bubbles for his pains and pulls out a wad of bills to pay him for his time. Bubbles turns him down flat: "Not about that," he says. "Just...write it like it feels." Bubbles turning down a fast buck? He really is a new man.