DETECTIVE RYAN DIENER is navigating working in the police department and living in a high-crime neighborhood. The 36-year-old homicide detective joined the police force 14 years ago. Convicted about racial reconciliation and serving the poor, he also joined New Song Community Church (Presbyterian Church in America) and then moved into Sandtown a decade ago. He mentors teenagers in the neighborhood through a Young Life Bible study, and now he’s an elder at New Song.

“I work and I do church, and that’s kind of it,” said Diener, who isn’t married. “It’s enough.”

The violence from his daily job has intersected with his personal life. One boy who was in his Bible study, Taymen Brown, was murdered in Sandtown last summer at age 22. Diener had known Brown since his early teens. His case is unsolved.

Right now Diener is the primary investigator on a homicide that took place one block from his house. He knew extended family members of the victim and thought because he had built so many relationships in the neighborhood over the years that he would quickly find leads on the case. But so far, nothing.

At Diener’s desk in the homicide unit, he has a Bible by his computer, a taped-up note listing his primary cases, and accordion folders for cases currently in court. One of the detectives calls him “Rev.” A sleeping bag is rolled up under his desk, and he is usually in the office well before his shift begins. Potential witnesses come in and out of the office for interviews, and one wall has a board with the names of victims printed out in dry erase marker.

‘With the violence going on around you, it is frustrating, at times over-whelming. … We take it personally when we’re not able to solve a case.’ —Diener

I asked Diener why he thought the homicide rate was so high. He wouldn’t attempt an answer. He repeated my question to another detective, who shook his head. There were too many variables: ages, locations, times, life circumstances. Even if the victim was part of a gang, the murder might be over a girlfriend or a personal beef. As people take the law into their own hands, more are carrying guns, so situations can escalate into violence more quickly, the detective suggested.

Diener led eight homicide investigations last year, well above the recommended caseload. For him, the hardest part of the job isn’t witnessing gore every day, but feeling the burden of solving the crime on behalf of grieving family members.

“With the violence going on around you, it is frustrating, at times overwhelming,” said Diener just before starting his evening shift. “No one is sitting around eating bonbons. … We take it personally when we’re not able to solve a case.”

LT. COL. RUSSELL, a 37-year veteran of the Baltimore police force who was born and raised in Baltimore, believes he has an answer to the homicide problem: More community trust will lead to lower crime. He put that principle to work when he was commander of the city’s Eastern District in 2008, using community relationships to drive down crime rates in a violent area. He built relationships with gang leaders.

Now Russell, who is also a pastor, oversees the department’s community collaboration division, where his officers spend time building relationships all over the city. But he has struggled to get personnel or the proper structure to integrate community policing into the entire department. Most police leaders these days spent key parts of their career in the “zero tolerance” era of the 1990s, he said, and don’t know how to do community policing.

“Old heads like me, we came up when everyone was a community police officer,” Russell said. “Baltimore is bankrupt of relational equity. My job is to restore that.”

The Baltimore Police Department already has difficult work, but it has created some of its own trust problems. Federal prosecutors recently indicted seven officers for racketeering, among other charges. The officers allegedly stopped residents and stole money from them.

And last year the U.S. Department of Justice (DOJ) released an investigation showing that the police department had a pattern of making unconstitutional, discriminatory stops and using excessive force. In response, the city signed on to a series of police reforms with the DOJ, an agreement called a consent decree.

When Jeff Sessions became U.S. attorney general, he tried to halt Baltimore’s consent decree amid a review of Obama-era policies. The city and the police department objected. Mayor Catherine Pugh said halting the decree would “have the effect of eroding the trust that we are working hard to establish.” In April a federal judge ruled the reforms should continue because the DOJ had already signed the agreement.

BALTIMORE POLICE VAN INTERIORS now have cameras, and police wear cameras too. Complaints of excessive use of force are down. Arrests are also down. But to some in the city, that is evidence that the police have pulled back from policing.

“The police’s hands are tied,” said the Rev. Rodney Hudson, the pastor of Ames Memorial United Methodist Church in Sandtown. “[They] are … fearful that if they step over the line, we’ll get the riots again. So what’s happening now is because there’s a more relaxed approach to policing.”

Hudson knew Freddie Gray since he was a teenager, and tried to calm protesters when Baltimore descended into chaos after Gray’s death. He remembers taking a brick out of a young man’s hand and telling him to go home. He and Pastor Louis Wilson from New Song in Sandtown agree that police are trying to reform.

“I do see some improvements,” said Wilson, who grew up on the South Side of Chicago and has experience with police and living in a violent neighborhood. “Murders are still going up generally because there’s not the fear of authority that there used to be.”

Pastors Wilson and Hudson are attempting to address the violence and heal spiritual wounds, yet churches in the community are tired. Within one mile of New Song in Sandtown there have been 292 shootings since 2015, according to data compiled by The Baltimore Sun. Of those, 107 were fatal. One shooting took place inside New Song itself last year, when a family not connected to the church was using the space for a funeral repast and a conflict arose.

New Song was founded three decades ago as a church with a range of community development arms, like renovating abandoned homes and opening new businesses. Wilson, who became pastor of New Song just before the Freddie Gray riots, wonders if the church got “distracted” from its primary mission.

“Suppose we had really evangelized 348 men who were sold out for Christ. Would that make a bigger difference than 348 homes that were built?” Wilson said. “We can do these other things, but it has to be directed toward our mission.”

New Song still does community development. The church just started classes using local entrepreneurs to train aspiring ones. And it hosts addiction support groups. But Wilson wants the church’s focus to remain on Bible studies and teaching people about Christ.

AFTER 13 YEARS, Juan McMahan’s murder case remains unsolved. Sharon McMahan thinks Juan’s friends must know who did it, but no one has come forward to share. Yet his mother hasn’t forgotten him.

The shot to Juan’s leg was significant to McMahan: She said it gave her son a moment to cry out to God before he died.

“The way we were brought up is when we cry out to the Lord, what did He do?” said McMahan, recalling the story of Peter walking on the water with Jesus and crying out when he began to sink. “And I believe he was given that chance.”

Today, residents of Baltimore are still crying out. One night in early April, Ames pastor Hudson was walking around Sandtown talking to people and evangelizing when a series of shots rang out. He and fellow pastors ran for cover. Hudson turned on his Facebook live feed and asked his parishioners to pray, the red ambulance lights flashing on his face. People on the street approached Hudson: “I need some prayer, pastor.”

Hudson, shaky, prayed for the corner where the shooting took place. It turned out to be the city’s 84th homicide death this year: 30-year-old Tyrone McMillian.

“It’s a scary scene, man, but you know God has everything under control,” Hudson said to his Facebook viewers. “Anyone who doubts for a need for the church to be here, you’re sadly mistaken.”

Just as he finished speaking, a young man came up and grabbed him in a hug. The man’s grandmother attended Hudson’s church, and Hudson hadn’t seen the man in years. Hudson prayed for him there on the street.

“When are y’all going to come back to church?” Hudson asked. “Maybe God had you out here so I could see you again. … You just come on back. Next Sunday.”

—Gertrude Too-Rom contributed to this report