The tech raised the camera and popped four overlapping images of the pistol.

Then he reached down with his gloved hand and carefully picked it up.

Now they had a better view of it on the TV monitor.

"A snub-nosed revolver," Rapier added. "Looks like maybe an S amp;W Model 49?"

"Uh-uh," Payne said, shaking his head. "The Bodyguard has a hammer shroud. And that hammer is not only exposed, it's cocked back."

"Then it's a Chief's Special," Rapier said with more conviction. "At least both are.38 caliber."

"Yeah," Payne said absently.

They watched as the tech, with what obviously was practiced skill, put the thumb of his gloved right hand on the knurled back of the hammer and, keeping a steady pressure with the thumb, squeezed the trigger with his index finger. The released hammer rotated forward-but slowly, the pressure from the thumb preventing it from falling fast enough to fire off a possible live round.

Then he thumbed the release that allowed the cylinder to swing open and carefully removed the round that had been under the hammer. It was a live one. He shot another series of four photographs of the pistol in that position. Then he extracted all the bullets from the cylinder-three spent rounds and two live ones-and photographed them. He threaded a plastic zip tie through the barrel and clasped it in such a way that it was visually obvious that the gun could not be fired, either accidentally or on purpose. Finally, he put the fired and live rounds in a clear plastic evidence bag, put the pistol in a separate clear bag, and labeled both bags.

Payne sighed.

"Okay, I've seen enough," he said. "It will take some time for them to process all of that hellhole."

"And then even more time to begin updating these master case files with the information and images," Rapier said.

After a moment, Rapier added, "What do you think are the odds of that being the doer's weapon?"

Payne shrugged.

"Who the hell knows, Kerry. You heard Kendrik's mother say in the interview that the gunshot made a big 'boom.' Arguably, a.45 is a helluva lot more of a 'boom' than a.38-a.38's more like a 'bang.' But what does she know? A damned cork popgun would probably sound like a boom to her." He looked at the video feed of the basement. "Maybe there's a.38 embedded in the wall there with Kendrik's blood splatter. Or maybe it's a.45-cal. round, which could bring us back to our mystery shooter"-he looked at his notes-"good ol' SNU 2010-56-9280, who now has, at last known count, seven notches on his gun. But, if there is a.38 in the wall, maybe there's another doer's fingerprints on that snub-nosed Smith and Wesson. Which means another candidate for Task Force Operation Clean Sweep. And on and on. Until we get lab results, we're basically in hurry-up-and-wait mode."

"And we're at least an hour away from getting a response from IAFIS on the two prints taken off Reggie Jones."

As Payne looked at him and nodded, he felt his cell phone vibrating. He pulled it from his pants pocket, read the caller ID on the screen, and said aloud, "Wonder what's on the Black Buddha's mind?"

He put the phone to his head and said, "Boss, I sure as hell hope you're not calling for a progress report on Task Force Operation Clean Sweep. Because we've yet to make any ground."

"Matthew," Jason Washington said, "we just got a call from the Twenty-sixth District. More bodies were found a little over an hour ago. Three dead."

"Jesus! More pop-and-drops? Wait-the Twenty-sixth? That's north of here, not Old City."

That news caused Harris and Rapier to look at Payne curiously.

"No, they're not pop-and-drops in Old City," Washington said. "In fact, quite interestingly, there's no obvious cause of death at all with two of them. They say the third looks like he succumbed to blunt trauma. May or may not be a connection with your doer, but because Carlucci says your Op Clean Sweep gets priority, you are hereby officially in the loop."

"Where's the scene, Jason?"

Payne pulled out his notepad, flipped to a clean page, and wrote "Jefferson amp; Mascher" on it.

"On our way," he said. "Thanks." [THREE] 2408 N. Mutter Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 4:35 P.M. Michael Floyd, sitting up in the front passenger seat of the Ford Freestar, was grinning from ear to ear under the brim of Will Curtis's grease-smeared FedEx cap.

Curtis steered the minivan off the curb. Because Mutter was a one-way street northbound, he headed for the next street up, Cumberland.

"No! No!" Michael began shouting.

Will slammed on the brakes, forcing them both against the shoulder straps of their seat belts. The FedEx cap flew off Michael's head and landed on the dashboard.

Michael pointed over his shoulder and said, "That way."

Curtis pointed out the windshield. "This street is one-way."

Michael looked at him with an expression that suggested the statement was meaningless to him.

"He live that way!" Michael then said, pointing south again.

Well, Curtis thought, he probably only knows how to get there by walking.

If I drive around until I find a street that has southbound traffic, he may not have the first idea where he is.

Oh, hell. "This is a one-way street, Officer? But I was only going one way."

Will Curtis drove up on the sidewalk, checked his mirror for traffic, then cut the steering wheel hard left to make a U-turn. He had to back up once to make the turn on the narrow street.

Curtis was somewhat surprised that they'd had no trouble driving the wrong way down Mutter, then the wrong way down Colona Street. And at Mascher Street, he was relieved to find that it was a one-way going the right direction, south. But then, a block later, at Susquehanna Avenue, they reached a dead end.

They were looking at a park.

Curtis turned to his navigator, who was pointing straight.

"There," Michael said.

"Through the park?" Curtis said, incredulous. "Oh, for chrissake!"

"That way!" Michael said.

Well, hell, that's the way he walks.

Then that's the way we'll drive.

Curtis checked for traffic, then drove across Susquehanna Avenue and hopped the curb. There was a concrete walkway crisscrossing the park, and he followed it.

Michael Floyd seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the drive. He scanned the park as they cut across it. About three-quarters through, he suddenly pointed to a small stand of maple trees.

"Gangstas," he said.

Curtis looked. There in the maples' shadows were four or five tough-looking teenage boys, hoodlums in baggy jeans and hoodie sweatshirts and sneakers.

Those must be the ones who beat him.

He expected Michael to recoil, or at least hide, but the next thing he knew the kid was rolling down his window and throwing the bird with both fists at the punks.

Then Michael Floyd yelled at the top of his lungs, "Fuck you, gangsta muthafuckas!"

Now what the hell else is going to happen? Will Curtis thought.

That Tourette's, if that's what it is, is going to get him killed…

He accelerated, not waiting to find out if there would be any gunshots from the gangsta muthafuckas.

At the far end of the park he picked up Mascher again and, following Michael's pointing, drove south another nine blocks. Crossing Oxford, Curtis noticed that the block on his left, south of Oxford, was somewhat like the 2400 block of Mutter Street-basically barren but for a clump of the last remaining row houses.

"There," Michael said, pointing to the end of the block.

Will Curtis followed the direction of Michael's finger and saw that there were five houses altogether on the southwest corner of the block.

He also saw that there were police squad cars everywhere.

"There?" Will Curtis repeated.

He stood on the brakes and studied the scene.

He saw other emergency vehicles, including a big van with CRIME SCENE UNIT lettered on its side, and a bunch of heavy equipment-a tall demolition crane, a big Caterpillar bulldozer, and heavy-duty dump trucks.