gaps. Then they did the same with the Reading Terminal Market scene.
When they had finished, Byrth grunted. “Almost as busy as one of our days just on the south side of Houston.”
“Still no surveillance imagery from the Reading Terminal Market,” Rapier then said. “But there are new images of evidence from the scene.”
“Such as?” Payne said.
“Still digital photos of the spent shell casings. And the drugs. Let me punch it up.”
Rapier manipulated the console and the main image replicated the smaller one from panel number sixteen. The image of the Reading Terminal Market on-screen now was updated with a still shot taken at the crime scene. It even included rubber-gloved investigators working it.
The text box popped up in the right-hand corner, and Payne’s eyes went to the text, which read:
Cause: Shooting. one hundred percent probability drug-related. heroin-based product recovered at the scene. also 42 5.7- x 28-mm shell casings and 10 9-mm shell casings, and a Rwuger P89 9-mm semi-auto pistol.
Payne noticed that the underlines looked like they were hyperlinks. Rapier was manipulating an on-screen cursor over them.
“Those are hyperlinks?” Payne said.
“Yeah. As the information is added to the master case file, the links are added. These links weren’t there earlier. This is sweet. Watch.”
He clicked on RUGER P89 and an image of the pistol popped up as an inset. Along the bottom of the image frame was a series of digitized buttons.
The pistol was on a concrete floor, an inverted V plastic marker beside it bearing a black numeral 44. The pistol’s slide was in the full-back locked position, indicating the semiautomatic had fired all of its bullets.
“They shoot these with digital cameras, taking four overlapping angles so we can construct on the computer a three-dimensional rendering. Watch.”
He worked the joystick on the console. The pistol practically spun on the screen, allowing almost all angles of view.
Payne said, “Now, that’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah,” Rapier said proudly. “And if there’s detail on the evidence, you can drill down. Like this…”
He moved the cursor to the series of digitized buttons. He clicked on the one with a question mark on it. A text box popped up over the image of the pistol. It was translucent; they could still see the pistol. The text read:
Ruger P89 9-mm semiautomatic pistol.
Serial Number R34561234
Sold 02 JUN Seller: Philadelphia Archery and Gun Shop, 831-833 Ellsworth Street, Phila., Penna.
Buyer: Harold Thompson, 1201 Allendale St, Phila., Penna.
Notes: Owner Thompson Reported Weapon Stolen 15 AUG from Owner’s Personal Vehicle Parked in Front of Allendale St. Residence.
“Jesus,” Payne said somewhat disgustedly. “Another careless owner lets his gun get stolen, and not two weeks later it kills innocent people. Another reason why citizens probably shouldn’t be allowed to have guns.”
Byrth raised an eyebrow. “I take it you don’t believe in the Second Amendment, Matt?”
“To a degree. But with all the illegal guns and shootings in this city? Are you kidding me?”
Rapier said, “Matt-”
Byrth interrupted him. “That didn’t answer my question. So you’re telling me that the guns are the problem? You just said ‘it’ killed.”
Payne looked at him a long moment.
“You’re telling me,” Byrth pursued, “that if a law were passed that miraculously made every gun go away- poof!-all the problems would disappear, too?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” Payne said more than a little lamely. He motioned toward the TV. “This gun wouldn’t have been on the street.”
“Matt-” Rapier began again.
“Let me see if I can finish that thought,” Byrth interrupted him again. “Only cops should have guns, right? Because only they can use and care for them reasonably. Because cops never make mistakes.” He paused. “I guess you missed that little anecdote from the Super Bowl. The FBI boys at the Holiday Inn?”
Matt shook his head.
Byrth explained: “The hotshots left their cache in the van in the parking lot. Long about oh-dark-thirty, while they were having sweet G-man dreams of their hero J. Edgar Hoover, their van got burgled. The thief made off with four.308-caliber sniper rifles, a pair of fully auto M4 carbines, and-you’ll appreciate this, Marshal-a pair of Springfield.45s. The thief then sold ’em all to his cousin the drug dealer.”
“Jim, I’m not suggesting that that doesn’t-”
“Wait,” Byrth interrupted, putting up his hand, palm out, “I’m on a roll here. And maybe you missed that hilarious video clip of the DEA agent with the dreadlocks. He’s in a classroom setting, wearing the obligatory T-shirt with the big D-E-A lettering in case anyone should forget who they are. And he’s warning the students how dangerous guns are, that only the select few should have access to them. Then, to demonstrate, he pulls out his Glock-and promptly puts a round through his foot. Then he commences with what we real professionals call the I- Just-Shot-Myself Silly Dance.”
“Hey, I’ve got that on my laptop, attached to an e-mail,” Corporal Rapier said. “It is pretty funny. Want me to punch it up on-screen?”
He immediately regretted speaking when he saw Payne’s expression.
“Matt,” Byrth said, “I’d suggest you do a little research. Take a look, for example, at our friends in England. They passed a law that pretty much turned every citizen’s gun into scrap metal. And you know what then happened? Crime went up. So now the brilliant political minds in Parliament that brought gun control are tinkering with a law banning the carrying of pocketknives. Why? Because that’s become the punks’ new assault weapon of choice.”
“That’s a bit of comparing apples and oranges.”
“Is it really? And when they ban pocketknives, what next? Cardboard box cutters? Those came in pretty handy on the aircraft that the terrorists hijacked on 9/11. The problem is not the weapon.”
“Look, Jim, I take your point,” Payne said. “I still maintain, however, that this Ruger would not-”
“Matt,” Rapier now interrupted, “I’ve been trying to tell you that Harold Thompson is a Twenty-fourth District blue shirt.”
Payne did not say anything for a very long moment. Then he laughed.
“Okay, okay. I surrender.”
Jim Byrth sighed, then said, “Matt, I apologize for all that. I’m the guest here.”
“No apology necessary. I guess I deserved that,” Payne said. He smiled. “Besides, I’ve been known to let loose with some strong opinions myself. Political correctness be damned.”
He looked at Rapier. “Let’s get back to the images.”
“You got it,” Rapier said, and clicked on 5.7- X 28-MM SHELL CASINGS.
An image of scattered spent shell casings popped up in another inset.
“That 5.7-millimeter round was developed by FN to pierce body armor,” Rapier said. “You don’t see many of them.”
“That’s because there’re only about five weapons chambered for the five-point-seven round,” Byrth said. “If we find one, odds are those casings will belong to it. Click on the smack link, would you?”
They watched as Rapier moved the cursor to HEROIN-BASED PRODUCT. The image of the white packets scattered on the concrete floor appeared.
“Is that the best shot?” Byrth said. “Can you do what you did with the three-dimensional shot of the Ruger?”
Rapier clicked on a button that had a plus sign on it. The image zoomed in on one of the white packets. Then he used the joystick to turn the packet so that they had a better view of it.
The packet had a rubber stamp imprint in light blue ink of a cartoonish block of Swiss cheese. To either side of the cheese block were three lines that shot outward. Above the cheese was a legend in blue ink.
