A fine drizzle slicked the cobblestones outside Station House No. 4. Inside, Detective William Murdoch stared at a most peculiar piece of evidence: a flat, black, glass-like rectangle, warm to the touch, humming with an impossible energy.

“Macro… what?” Julia-on-the-screen scoffed. “The victim was poisoned with digitalis, not pixels.”

“Well, that’s dashed useful,” Brackenreid grumbled.