Smaller pieces of evidence, such as drugs and license plates, are kept in envelopes at the police department's property warehouse. (By Brian Smale – The Washington Post)

"We just don't have the manpower," Rice says, climbing into his cruiser to survey his turf, a patrol service area around Georgia Avenue NW. Only three of the six officers scheduled to work this beat are on the job this evening.

Less than 15 minutes into the shift, a dispatcher radios a report that a hit-and-run driver in Maryland has crossed into Rice's area, with a witness in pursuit. Aided by the witness, police converge on and corner the suspect. But when Rice arrives to see what is happening, three cops leave the suspect and immediately descend on him. They are angry that another officer, in a neighboring PSA, was closer to the scene but failed to answer the call. This officer was ending her daytime shift and chose instead to return to the station.

"Sarge, another PSA has the assignment," complains one cop. "She checked off ... We ended up having to come here."

"It's not right," says another.

"I agree with you. But now is not the time," Rice says calmly. "Right now, we need to deal with the people on the scene. The in-house stuff we can deal with back at the station."

Rice, 37, a 16-year veteran who joined after graduating from Howard University, is usually soft-spoken. But in this case he is outspoken. "What happened was an officer shirked her duties," he says, back in his cruiser. "She turned it over because she knew she was going to have to make an arrest and write a report. It goes on a lot, but I hate to see it. The only thing you can do is apologize" to the other officers, and report her to her sergeant, which he does.

Back at the Georgia Avenue station, Rice works in an office where 10 desks are crammed together, in a cluttered room missing a doorknob. One telephone line and six computers are shared by 14 sergeants. Sergeants often stay late to get their turn filing reports.

At neighborhood meetings, residents often complain that they want a more visible police presence, Rice says. "The community wants to see officers walking the street; they don't want to see them in a car. But in this district, they're not seeing it. Officers look at walking the beat as a demeaning assignment." Up to five officers per shift are assigned foot patrols, mostly in densely populated commercial strips. Some officers take seriously their mission to get to know and work closely with the community, Rice says, but others assigned to foot patrol sometimes just don't show up.

Late in the evening, the radio crackles with reports of a shooting in the 3200 block of Georgia. Rice flips on his siren, speeds through a red light and arrives on the scene a few minutes later. A crowd is gathered outside Flat Top Sil's Deli & Carryout, a Caribbean mom-and-pop store, where the victim sought refuge after being shot. He grimaces in pain as a woman ties a cloth around his arm to stop the bleeding; she ties another around his blood-soaked pants leg. Paramedics hoist him into an ambulance.

Then, half a dozen police with flashlights trace the trail of blood a couple of blocks to a stretch of rundown homes and vacant lots on Hobart Street. Looking for witnesses and evidence, officers start knocking on doors. Some people say they don't know anything; others just refuse to open their doors.

After 15 minutes, one of the cops finds a key piece of evidence – a shell casing. But knowing the victim was shot twice, Rice sends them back to find the other. Minutes later, the officers return empty-handed. Rice walks back to Hobart Street himself, retracing the officers' steps and, fairly quickly, finds the second shell casing. He returns, unhappy with his troops. Several of the senior officers who failed to find the shell fail to make eye contact with Rice.

"What happened was the officers screwed up," he says later. "They were embarrassed ... I found it, why didn't they? Now I've got to get on their ass about it."

Now, though, to have any prayer of finding the shooter, the police need to quickly gather as much information as they can. Huddling with the officers, Rice tells them to canvass the neighborhood again. Several officers are clearly not excited about this order.

"There're some nasty people on this block," says Rice's senior patrol officer. "They don't want to talk to us. They're not going to tell us anything."

This is the kind of attitude Ramsey is seeking to eliminate. Rice orders the officers to recanvass the neighborhood anyway.

A quick hit of community policing: Loud music blares from the upstairs of the suspected crack house in Southeast as James Delgado pounds on the front door. Pounding again and yelling "Hello," Delgado wears jeans, a T-shirt and a badge around his neck identifying him as an inspector with the D.C. Department of Community and Regulatory Affairs.

He is flanked by two police officers, assigned to accompany the unarmed inspector this day, in part for protection.

Neighbors have complained regularly about drug activity here in the 1200 block of G Street SE, on the fringes of Capitol Hill. But the 1st District police force has never found any evidence. Neighbors also have complained to their D.C. Council member, Sharon Ambrose, that this grimy row house has no running water, so its occupants have resorted to throwing buckets of urine and feces out into the back yard.

It is this health complaint that allowed the police to turn the case over to Delgado, a tough-talking DCRA veteran who is a minor legend in tough neighborhoods for his unusual work with the police in closing down drug houses. Which is the purpose here today.

Delgado notices a broken seal and telltale wire on the Pepco meter, indicating the occupants are stealing electricity, so he knows he has a second cause for possible legal action.

A heavy woman in an ill-fitting beige housedress answers the door. Delgado flashes his badge, identifies himself and asks if he can come in to investigate a sanitation complaint. The woman agrees and does not ask to see a warrant. Delgado and the police come inside. Delgado asks to check her water and electricity, including upstairs. The woman again agrees. She acknowledges the house was without water, but says it now has service.

In a stifling upstairs bedroom, Delgado spots a thin piece of copper tubing. "This is a crack pipe," he says, holding it up, then grabbing another. "This is two crack pipes."

The woman bursts into tears. "I was clean for two years," she sobs. "I didn't take it for two years, till they took my children." She covers her face with her hands.

Delgado, grim-faced, lays it on heavy: "I have to tell Section 8" – federal housing officials, who would likely evict her – "and I have to tell whoever is handling your children. It's not gonna look too good." He tells her she also could face arrest for theft of electricity.

The woman's body heaves with her sobs, and she gasps for breath.

"I can have you out on the street in 24 hours," Delgado says. He is bluffing, knowing that the wheels of justice turn much more slowly. But then he offers her a deal: If she agrees to move out, he will not turn her in. He warns her that authorities will keep the crack pipes and nail her unless she moves. After much sobbing and wailing, the woman agrees to be out within the month.

As Delgado and the cops leave the house, a handful of neighbors have gathered outside. "Thank you. It's about time," a middle-aged man tells Delgado and the cops. "Thank you." A month later, the woman is gone.