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left while stacks of ammunition boxes were meticulously placed on an identical table on the right. In between them was a testing jig, a device in which a handgun was mounted by adjustable grips and fired by an articulating metal finger. The height and angle at which the handgun was held was also fully adjustable, and at the moment was set at what appeared to be close to Lincoln’s height at just over six feet. At the end of the room were Rothgery’s targets: squares of amber ballistic gel approximately eighteen inches high and double the thickness of an average person’s abdomen. The one currently in the test gun’s sights had been hit at least five times, in Campanelli’s estimation. The center of the translucent block was chewed up severely and a multitude of lead fragments decorated it in plumes of dark gray.
                  “What are you doing?” Campanelli could not help but ask.
                  “I’m evaluating these seven firearms confiscated from some old friends of yours, the Triads, in order to determine whether any of them have been used in some cold case murders,” Rothgery explained in his mild mannered but carrying baritone.
                  “There aren’t too many men left in that outfit since Lei Wong died,” Frank said. “Are these recent confiscations?”
                  “Within the past few months, yes,” Lincoln confirmed as he flipped his glasses from his nose to rest on his bald cranium. “The gang is wrapped up in a civil war and its leaving a number of bodies behind. They’ll be long gone before we can prosecute any of them.”
                  “I’ve heard.”
                  The forensic scientist could read some urgency in Campanelli’s face. Even while the man’s eyes danced over the weapons on the table and the gel targets at the wall, his face betrayed much distraction. The expression was close to what Lincoln would have to call, ‘worry’, but on Frank Campanelli’s face, it was alien.
                  “What’s on your mind, Frank?”
                  “I have a bit of a favor to ask and from what I’ve heard you’re the one ‘in the know’.”
                  “Oh? This ought to be interesting,” Lincoln exuded in his superior façade as his gaunt and angular face beamed.
                  Frank sighed and his face turned gloomy, “Cut the crap, will you?”
                  Lincoln smiled but frowned at the same time. His cockiness melted as he said, “What is it?”
                  “There’s a little girl over in Juvi. Father’s dead. Mother’s going away for maybe a long while and there’s no other family.”
                  H. Lincoln agreed; the matter was serious. The forensic scientist knew well the conditions of the facility and understood that a lengthy stay was a life or death crapshoot. He nodded as Frank spoke.
                  “The girl hasn’t had a flu shot in two years and you and I both know the likelihood of a child in Juvi receiving one.”
                  “What’s the girl’s name?” Rothgery asked and stepped to the computer on the table. Frank told him and Lincoln entered it into the CPD database, not so much to confirm Frank’s story, but to put a face to the name. “Looks like she’s stuck there at least until the day after tomorrow.”
                  “Can something be done for her? My own booster shot is six months away,” Frank murmured.
                  Lincoln straightened and stepped back from the terminal. “I’ll see what I can do, Campanelli. I have a couple of doctor friends that might be willing to help her.”
                  “Thanks, Lincoln,” Frank said sincerely.
                  “Quite welcome,” Rothgery returned and shook Frank’s offered