I remember being dispatched to a robbery assignment during my years as a Milwaukee patrol officer. We had information about a vehicle associated with the suspect, and Flock cameras were helping us locate it.
Dispatch would advise me whenever a camera identified the vehicle. I would respond to the location, only to discover the car was already gone. Another camera would pick it up elsewhere. Another update would come over the radio. And once again, the vehicle had disappeared before I arrived. We never caught that car.
The technology hadn’t failed. It had done precisely what it was designed to do. It told us where the vehicle had been. But knowing where a suspect was moments ago is not the same as knowing where he is now.
That distinction speaks to a larger problem confronting modern law enforcement. Technology has given police officers capabilities previous generations could scarcely imagine. But somewhere in our enthusiasm for innovation, we risk forgetting that the most valuable investigative tool has always been the person behind the badge.
When I began my law enforcement career, experienced officers possessed something no computer could replicate: street tradecraft. It was an accumulation of knowledge, instincts, relationships, and investigative techniques developed through years of working the same neighborhoods.
A seasoned patrol officer knew the regular players. He recognized their vehicles, remembered their associates, understood their habits, and knew where they tended to congregate. He remembered license plates, nicknames, and seemingly insignificant details that might become crucial weeks or months later.
That distinction speaks to a larger problem confronting modern law enforcement. Technology has given police officers capabilities previous generations could scarcely imagine. But somewhere in our enthusiasm for innovation, we risk forgetting that the most valuable investigative tool has always been the person behind the badge.
He knew which residents could provide reliable information, which stories didn’t add up, and when something simply seemed out of place. These weren’t merely tricks of the trade. They were professional skills requiring patience, judgment, initiative, and experience.
Good officers didn’t simply respond to crimes. They developed information, recognized patterns, and sometimes identified trouble before another victim was created. That was the art of policing. And it required something increasingly scarce in modern law enforcement: time.
Today’s officers have extraordinary investigative resources. Flock cameras use automated license plate recognition technology to record vehicle sightings and create searchable databases that can help investigators identify vehicles associated with criminal activity.
Body-worn cameras serve a different purpose. They document police encounters, preserve evidence, and provide an important measure of accountability. Business surveillance systems, residential doorbell cameras, and cell phone recordings offer still more investigative possibilities.
These technologies have unquestionably improved law enforcement. In September, Wisconsin Right Now reported on six Milwaukee homicide cases involving eight victims in which Flock technology helped investigators identify vehicles associated with suspects. Those successes deserve recognition. Families who have lost loved ones to violent crime deserve every legitimate investigative resource available.
But technological capability should never be confused with investigative competence. A Flock camera can tell an officer where a vehicle was photographed. It cannot explain why the vehicle was there. A body camera can document an encounter. It cannot replace an officer’s ability to evaluate conflicting statements, recognize suspicious behavior, or exercise sound judgment. And no surveillance system can substitute for an investigator who knows how to ask the right questions.
Technology should enhance those abilities, not become a substitute for developing them.
During my 25 years with the Milwaukee Police Department, I watched the demands placed on patrol officers change considerably. One of the greatest challenges was simply finding enough time to conduct meaningful investigations.
As staffing became increasingly strained, officers found themselves moving from call to call, often with little opportunity to pursue leads beyond the immediate assignment. An officer might identify a potential witness, discover an investigative lead, or recognize circumstances warranting additional attention. But another call was already waiting. The officer had to move on.
Detectives generally have more opportunities to conduct extensive follow-up investigations, but their resources are finite as well. The result is a system in which officers can become so consumed with responding to crime that they have fewer opportunities to prevent it.
And when that happens, trained law enforcement professionals risk becoming little more than glorified armed report takers. That isn’t a criticism of the officers themselves. Many entered the profession precisely because they wanted to investigate crimes, protect neighborhoods, and make a difference.
But how can young officers develop street tradecraft when they barely have time to learn the neighborhoods they’re assigned to protect? How can experienced officers mentor the next generation when everyone is struggling to keep pace with the next call?
Technology may help officers work more efficiently, but it cannot create the investigative time that inadequate staffing takes away.
Technology has also changed expectations within the criminal justice system. Toward the end of my career, I increasingly encountered situations in which prosecutors appeared reluctant to pursue cases without video evidence. Investigations supported by witness statements, physical evidence, and officer observations sometimes faced additional scrutiny simply because an incident hadn’t been captured on camera.
Some cases were declined for prosecution, commonly called being no-processed, without explanations officers found satisfactory. That was my experience, not a statistical conclusion about every prosecutor or every case.
Video evidence can be invaluable. It can corroborate testimony, resolve conflicting accounts, and strengthen prosecutions. But it is not the only legitimate means of proving a crime. Probable cause remains the constitutional standard for an arrest. Prosecutors must separately consider whether admissible evidence can establish guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Those standards serve different purposes.
For generations, skilled investigators built successful cases through interviews, observations, physical evidence, and persistent investigative work. The proliferation of cameras hasn’t made those methods obsolete. Yet when video becomes an unofficial expectation, we risk creating a criminal justice system that places greater confidence in recorded images than in the professional judgment of trained investigators.
But how can young officers develop street tradecraft when they barely have time to learn the neighborhoods they’re assigned to protect? How can experienced officers mentor the next generation when everyone is struggling to keep pace with the next call?
There is another question that deserves equal attention: individual liberty. Flock cameras can help investigators identify vehicles associated with violent crimes. But the same technology can also create searchable records of the movements of ordinary, law-abiding citizens.
Who should be authorized to search those records? What justification should be required? How long should the information remain available? And who ensures the technology isn’t misused?
Civil libertarians have long warned against allowing government to accumulate information about innocent citizens merely because the technology makes it possible. The Fourth Amendment protects Americans against unreasonable searches and seizures. Whether a particular use of license plate recognition technology violates that protection depends on the circumstances and applicable law.
But constitutionality is not the only standard by which government policy should be judged. Something can be legally permissible without necessarily being wise. There is a meaningful difference between using technology to investigate a particular crime and routinely collecting information about people suspected of nothing.
A society committed to both public safety and individual liberty should be capable of recognizing that distinction.
After 25 years with the Milwaukee Police Department, I witnessed extraordinary advancements in law enforcement technology. Most were welcome improvements, and many undoubtedly made investigations more effective. But I also witnessed changes in the profession that no camera, computer, or software program can correct.
Technology cannot compensate for inadequate staffing. It cannot restore investigative opportunities lost to overwhelming workloads. And it cannot pass along the street tradecraft that generations of experienced officers developed through years of observation, persistence, and community relationships. Those skills must be learned, practiced, and passed from one generation of officers to the next.
Milwaukee should embrace technology that helps investigators solve crimes and bring violent offenders to justice. But that investment must be matched by a commitment to the officers and detectives whose experience, judgment, and initiative make those tools effective.
And as surveillance capabilities expand, protecting constitutional liberties must remain as important as protecting public safety. The two responsibilities are not mutually exclusive. The future of policing should not be a choice between sophisticated technology and skilled police officers. It should be a partnership between the two.
Because a camera can record a crime. A database can identify a vehicle. And a computer can connect information in seconds that once required hours of investigative work. But none of them can replace an experienced officer who knows the neighborhood, recognizes when something is wrong, and possesses the judgment to act.
When technology begins replacing experience, judgment, and initiative rather than strengthening them, we risk losing something no camera can ever capture: the art of policing itself.
About the Author
Michael S. Murphy is a retired Milwaukee police officer who served 25 years with the Milwaukee Police Department and one year with the Wisconsin Department of Corrections in Probation and Parole. He currently serves as the President of the Wisconsin Fraternal Order of Police, Cream City Lodge #8.
