Jamaica Plain (9780738736396) by Colin Campbell

leaned against the wall. “Camera’s pointing the wrong way.”
    Miller hit Rewind, then paused the image showing the reception desk. “Not really. In-house cameras are for staff protection—assaults and threats at the counter. They aren’t for security like burglary CCTV. Cameras point outwards for that, covering points of entry. So, really, they’re pointing the right way for what they’re supposed to record.”
    Kincaid patted Miller on the back. It was as much praise as he’d ever received from the veteran detective. He almost blushed. He hoped that Grant was similarly impressed. He was disappointed when the Englishman simply turned and left the room. Kincaid followed. Miller stood up and shouted after them. “What’s up? Where you going?”
    Grant shouted back. “Where cameras fail, you can’t beat the real thing.”
    Miller tumbled out of the room and raced to catch up.
    Kincaid called over his shoulder to his protégé. “Basic rule of crime scenes. Photograph everything, but get down and dirty.”
    Miller fell in step with the older men. He understood. CCTV might capture the suspect in the act but, failing that, physical evidence was at the scene, not on film. He felt like he was learning every day. He was smiling as he followed the two big men down the stairs.
    Grant checked the waste bin in the corner. Sometimes the simplest thing was the obvious mistake. Not this time. He hadn’t expected the spray can to be dumped at the scene of the crime, but it was worth a shot. He glanced at Kincaid, but the senior detective was already ahead of him. Kincaid nodded at Miller. “Get uniforms to check every bin for half a mile. All directions.”
    Miller looked like he wanted to stay where the action was. Grant liked him even more. The young detective did as he was told and went to see the patrol sergeant for manpower. Grant concentrated on the camera. It was high up on the front wall above and to the left of the doors. It was angled down so that its wide-angle lens covered most of the reception.
    The lens was black. Paint covered the entire front face of the camera and speckled the wall on either side of it. One quick burst. A direct hit. Some collateral damage—the speckled wall—no reason to touch the camera. No point having it fingerprinted. He glanced at the interview-room door. Kincaid was already looking at it.
    The door was half off its hinges because of Kincaid’s shoulder charge when he’d been trying to get in. The fire department had barged it open even further. Even so, the door and frame near the lock mechanism was shrouded in fingerprint powder. Nothing but smudges and partials. Grant would be surprised if anybody got identified off them, and even then there were plenty of reasons their prints might be there.
    The front door was the same. Grant was pleased to see the BPD were taking care of the fine details. It was the least he expected from the oldest police force in America. The outside and inside surfaces had been powdered; even more smudges and partials. Trouble with fingerprinting a front door was how many people used it during a day, let alone a week. Fingerprints would stay on a surface until they were cleaned off. Someone else using the door would overlay the original print. Multiply that by a hundred, and you didn’t have a snowflake in hell’s chance of getting an identity. But you had to try. A snowflake in hell’s chance was better than no chance. For certain, if you didn’t try, you’d lose. Trying gave you options.
    Kincaid joined Grant at the front doors. They both looked outside through the dirty glass. Grant focused on Yessenia’s Market across the intersection. He was searching for cameras but could only see one. It was on the front wall angled down towards the shop door, facing away from the police station. Kincaid saw where he was looking.
    â€œWe checked it.