At Police HQ, Landsman is reading the Sun (motto: "Published in spite of, not because of, upper management"), specifically the Twigg-fueled story on Burrell's ouster. "Did they not know I had made myself a candidate?" a pained Landsman demands of Norris. "I feel dissed." As well you should, my man. I, for one, welcome the profane, pragmatic leadership of Jay Landsman -- murder rates down, sexual harassment claims against the department dramatically up. "So the Great White Rawls finally has his day, huh?" Norris notes snottily. "Not much more than a day, it shall be," says Landsman, apparently adopting the role of a one-man Greek chorus. "Daniels by year's end." Bunk interrupts this light-hearted banner by strolling in and dropping a report on Landsman's desk, which Landsman promptly files in a desk drawer, unread. "You're not even going to read it?" Bunk asks. "All you do is change the date," Landsman points out. This is a report on all the bodies found in the vacants, and Bunk, as the primary detective on the case, is a wee bit perturbed that he hasn't gotten trace analyses on fourteen of the crime scenes. "The lab can't keep up with this year's cases," Landsman says wearily. "You want action, show me some traction. Or buy yourself a chemistry set." Landsman for Police Commissioner: You can have an efficient department or you can have a competent one, but you can't have both.
A perturbed Bunk leaves Landsman's office only to see something more perturbing -- McNulty arranging color-coded index cards for the "victims" of the "serial killer" he's "investigating." "Just doing background on my vics," McNulty says, a little too earnestly. "Looking for a common thread." "Motherfucker, don't even..." Bunk begins, before realizing that he's working on a lost cause. "Fuck you, too, motherfucker," he concludes before storming off. McNulty smiles the smile of a man who needs to be hit repeatedly by someone bigger than I. At this point, Kima wanders in, wondering what's eating Bunk Moreland. "Beneath that gruff veneer, he's actually very emotional," McNulty deadpans. Anyhow, Kima hasn't the time for idle chit-chat -- she's off to interview the little boy who witnessed the Marlo-ordered home invasion from a few episodes back. That's sure to be uplifting television. She leaves, and McNulty is left to glance around furtively, to make sure that people are observing his "excellent" "police work" on this "serial killer" case.
Over at the Western, Colicchio's fellow cops are consoling him that he was well within his rights to yank a civilian out of his car for failing to show Baltimore's Stupidest Cop the proper deference. Carver strides in, and he's somewhat less reassuring: turns out the guy Colicchio roughed up was a schoolteacher on his way to an after-school program. So...uh...whoopsie? "Boy, I seen some stupid shit in my day," says Carver, who was partnered with Herc and therefore could write a multi-volume chronicle of Stupid Shit I Have Seen in My Day: Travels With Herc. J. Hercelsten, Esq. "But even by Western standards, this rates a whole new category." Bottom line -- Internal Affairs is down the hall talking to Major Mello, and after that, it's Colicchio's turn in the hot seat. So Carver suggests that he play it cool -- blame it on all the horns and the rowdy hoppers, and maybe you can live to fight another day. "Fuck that motherfucker," Colicchio snarls. That would be...a different defensive tack. "Shitbird lays on his horn, he should be locked up," Colicchio continues. "Fuck his ignorant ass." Well, that gives us a brief glimpse on what we're missing out on now that Rudy Giuliani's dropped out of the presidential race, but that's of little comfort to Carver right about now. He takes a good long look around the room before turning his attention back to Colicchio: "Tony, I'm writing you up. Excessive force. Conduct unbecoming." Colicchio is shocked that Carver won't back him, which, if nothing else, is a sterling testimony as to the size and composition of Colicchio's balls. "You charge me, you're a fucking rat," Colicchio threatens. "Then I'm a rat," says a not-at-all-concerned Carver, as he walks out of a now-deathly silent room. Right on.