The Traffickers (Badge of Honor 9)

Philly Inn 7004 Frankford Avenue 1135 hours, 09 Sept “As you can see,” Walker said, “there is not much going on at the scene.”

No shit, Denny Coughlin thought. Thank God for gee-whiz gizmos. I don’t know how we would’ve learned this otherwise.

But he saw that his boss was nodding thoughtfully, impressed with the crisp imagery. And

Coughlin did have to admit that the huge screen and its clarity made one at least feel like they were indeed on the scene.

But isn’t that just an artificial sense of accomplishment? “Kerry,” Walker said, “transpose number fourteen on that.”

A second later, a box appeared in the lower right, just above the text there. It was a list of data:

Cause: Explosion. Ninety percent probability from a methamphetamine lab.

Known Dead: Two Hispanic males, approximate age mid-20s, no known history. Both suffered fourth-degree burns. One of the deceased suffered a cut to the throat. Jagged flesh of cut thought to be made by serrated blade of knife found at scene.

Known Injured: Two, a White male and a White female. Male is one J. Warren Olde, age 27. Female is one Rebecca Benjamin, age 25. Olde suffered extreme burns, possibly/probably fourth-degree. Benjamin suffered lesser burns but serious blunt-force trauma. Both now in Temple Burn Ward ICU.

“That data,” Walker then added, “is due at any moment to be updated. As we know, Olde is now dead.”

“Yes, we do,” Police Commissioner Mariani said dryly.

“So let’s go to that,” Walker said almost excitedly.

“Why not the scene of the shooting at the Reading Terminal Market?” Mariani asked.

Coughlin thought he saw Walker wince.

“It would appear that the security camera system there has been neglected,” he said, looking a bit embarrassed.

“Meaning what exactly?” Mariani snapped.

“Compromised,” Walker said carefully. “Rendered inoperative.”

“Then we have nothing from this morning’s shooting.”

Walker shook his head. “No, sir. Nothing yet.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“We do have this,” Walker said. “Corporal Rapier, number fifteen, please, and put sixteen on it.”

The image of the Philly Inn disappeared and was replaced with a static shot of the Reading Terminal Market. The image even had text across it, reading, Visit Historic Reading Terminal Market!

Coughlin, despite great effort to hold it back, snorted.

Matt Lowenstein, Henry Quaire, and Jason Washington were showing rapt interest in their shoes’ tips and the color and texture of the carpet-anything not to make eye contact with one another.

“What in the hell is that?” Mariani said incredulously.

“Well, sir,” Walker said, “because we have no live feeds from the market, we pulled a stock image off the Internet to serve as a placeholder.”

“Jesus H. Christ!” Mariani sighed disgustedly. “What’s in here-a million bucks’ worth of gadgets? Two million? — and we’ve got a goddamn Chamber of Commerce promo picture of a crime scene!”

“We are working on a live feed, sir.” He waved his hand at the bank of TVs showing newscasts. “And we do have an image of the market via the FOX 29 news cameras, but it’s not a steady real-time feed.”

TV number sixteen popped up in a corner of the big image as an inset. It 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 Ruger P89 9-mm semi-auto pistol.