The Boston Police Department had invited Johnny and his immediate boss, Smart Metal Security Director William Bozzone, to inspect their not-yet-complete Command Center, a veritable Starship Enterprise located in a disaster-proof shelter under the Charles River. Besides the normal communications gear one would find in a class-one emergency call center, BCPD Command had dedicated links to a dozen nearby police departments, the Massachusetts State Police, the National Guard, Homeland Security, and even the Pentagon. Police video cameras, set up at every substation, municipal building, and historic site, provided real-time visuals of what was happening around the city. Visual input could also be received from up to twelve helicopter drones, which were piloted from a room within the complex. Commanders could not only speak in real time to any officer on the force, but could “push” data such as video to their devices — phones, tablets, laptops — as well. Sophisticated computers utilized face- and voice-recognition software to ID suspects and present their rap sheets in less time than it would take a police officer to tell them to put up their hands. The center also received status reports on the city’s T or subway, buses, electrical grid, and its internet systems. And while still in its infancy, software that integrated all of the available information promised to provide alerts that would make the department far more proactive than imagined even a decade before.
To Johnny, it looked like nirvana: a twenty-first-century tool for law enforcement that would put police officers two steps ahead of criminals. So he was baffled when he noticed Bozzone’s frown deepening with every step they took around the center. What had seemed like a quizzical annoyance as they passed through the metal and chemical detectors before boarding the tram at the entrance had blossomed into something that suggested disgust. Bozzone didn’t voice it — he was nothing if not disciplined and polite — but having worked with him closely for several months, Johnny realized he was about ready to explode.
Their tour guide, Police Captain Horace Wu, seemed oblivious. Wu, a fifth-generation police officer whose great-great-grandfather had been one of the first Chinese American members of the Boston PD, led them from the Situation Room down a hallway past some as-yet-unoccupied offices to the Galley — a full-service cafeteria that, unfortunately, was not yet manned. Coffee and pastries had been put out on a table; Wu directed Bozzone and Givens to help themselves while he checked on the other groups being shown through the center.
“This is going to kill your diet,” Givens told Bozzone, glancing at the array of fruit tarts, jelly donuts, and squares of cheesecake.
Bozzone silently poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. Johnny helped himself to a Danish and followed.
“Not even tempted?” asked Givens.
Bozzone shrugged.
“What’s up?”
“You realize this is Big Brother Central, right?” said the security chief.
“I don’t follow.”
“The gear here, the coordination, the inputs, and the abilities — it can be used for a lot of things.”
“Catching criminals. Sure.”
Bozzone focused on his coffee, stirring it slowly.
“Danish is good,” said Johnny.
“The problem is balance. And responsibility. Who do we trust with the keys?” Bozzone raised his head and stared at Givens. His expression was somewhere between that of an interrogator and a philosopher, both accusing and pensive at the same time. “Who do we trust watching our every move?”
“It’s an extension of the guy on the beat,” offered Johnny. “In the old days, a cop would patrol a few blocks, know just about everybody, see just about everything going on. That was community policing.”
Johnny, who’d earned a bachelor’s in criminal science after his Army service, knew this was an exaggeration, and that in fact it bordered on an idealistic fantasy. But it was the best he could offer at the moment.
He expected Bozzone to counter, but he didn’t. Instead, his boss rose.
“Let’s get going. I don’t really feel like spending all Easter here.”
“Good idea,” said Johnny. “Otherwise I’ll be tempted to grab another Danish.”
It occurred to Johnny that their intel shack at Smart Metal, which had been set up to help the CIA complete a mission in occupied Ukraine, had even more capabilities than BCPD Command; Bozzone had raised no objections about that. But this wasn’t the place to bring that up. He fell in behind Bozzone, following as he walked back through the hall to the Situation Room, looking for Wu so they could say thank you and take their leave.
They had just spotted Wu across the room with a pair of Massachusetts State Detectives when a buzzer sounded. Givens looked up at the massive LED video panel at the front of the room. A large red banner was flashing across the top of the screen:
Shooting Reported in Old Town District
A systems operator at a console on a raised platform near the back of the room typed furiously, and the image changed from a map of Boston to a bird’s-eye view of the area near the harbor. A red marker glowed near a building Johnny recognized as the Patriot, a pricey five-star old-world-style hotel in the center of the city’s historic area. The screen divided in half; a video from a police car responding to the scene appeared at the top right, next to the map. Below it was an image from one of the two helicopter drones currently flying above the city.
“Is this a tech demonstration?” Johnny asked.
Before anyone could answer, another banner appeared on the screen, just below the earlier one:
Explosion in Orange Line Station: Back Bay
“Come on,” said Bozzone. “Fast.”
Johnny followed his boss as he beelined for the exit portal, running to one of the waiting trams. Johnny had barely gotten in when Bozzone hit the Transport button. The magnetic-impulse car shot away from the Command Center toward the facility’s guarded entrance.
“We need to get out of here before they go to lockdown,” said Bozzone. “Boston is under attack.”
“You don’t think it’s just an exercise?”
Bozzone shook his head. “No way.”
3
As a practical matter, most days, even Sundays, religion did not intrude too greatly into Louis Massina’s thoughts, let alone his schedule.
Easter was different.
Easter high mass was a must-attend event; he had not missed one in his memory, which extended back to his days as a toddler. Accordingly, the mass was an exercise in nostalgia as well as devotion. The scent of lilies and incense as he crossed to the narthex from the vestibule returned him to his childhood; by the time he knelt in a pew to pray, he would remember the hard wooden kneelers he’d bruised his knees on as an altar boy. The choir would transport him farther back, to a neighborhood church — boarded now, but at the time crowded with blue-collar parishioners and their prayers. Massina would see his great-aunt, a nun, face beaming as she fingered her rosary beads. He would remember his parents, and the long walk home to the apartment where his mother had hidden their plastic eggs in various crevices.