After Landsman shuffles off, Bunk lets McNulty -- and Freamon, who happens to be lingering by the cubicle -- have it. "Proud of yourselves?" Bunk asks. If Freamon's expression is anything to go by, that's meant as a rhetorical question. Freamon protests they're just a week or two away from having Marlo dead to rights; Bunk points out that's small consolation for the victims of Kima's triple homicide. Man, some people just like to dwell on the negative. "How does it feel knowing that you got surveillance teams out there, and district units, and tactical -- all of them chasing bullshit?" Bunk demands. Silly, Bunk -- McNulty's too pickled in whiskey to feel much of anything at this point. "I don't even want to know whose picture you got running in the paper or where that motherfucker actually happens to be," Bunk continues. You know, I'd kind of like to see Bunk find out the answer to that riddle, if only to see how wide the blast radius would be when his head exploded. Five blocks? 10? Half of Baltimore? Would the shock waves be felt out on the Eastern Shore?
Because Freamon and McNulty aren't feeling bad enough at this point -- well, Freamon feels bad at any rate -- Kima walks up and asks McNulty for the names and addresses for next-of-kin so she can handle those background checks. "Don't kill yourself," McNulty pleads. Hey, a little late to be concerned about inconveniencing your fellow detectives at this point. Kima says she's got McNulty covered and turns to go, but not before asking one last question: "I'm getting my kid for an overnight. Where do I get kids' furniture?" "IKEA," McNulty says. And you know what? Nothing -- not the drinking or the womanizing or the faking of the serial killer evidence or even kidnapping the homeless guy -- can match the pure, unadulterated evil of dispatching one of your fellow human beings to an IKEA. Those Swedish fiends and their thrice-damned do-it-yourself projects have caused more friction in my marriage than debates over finances, arguments about in-laws, and disputes over which husband had too much drink combined. Many's the weekend where we've come home with what promises to be an easy-to-assemble end table and wound up with hex keys pressed against each other's throats like some sort of Stockholm version of a Mexican standoff. God damn you, IKEA, and your cursed meatballs, too. "Shame on y'all," Bunk says, after Kima leaves. "I mean it." He's probably referring to this serial killer business, but I think he's letting this IKEA thing slide a little too easily.