An accoutrement that Jimmy refused to accept in his own profession.
Sure, he owned one. But he kept it locked in his office safe. He’d never taken it on a case. The only time he’d ever shot a gun was during his academy days at a course-mandated firing range. Hating the sound of each violent blast as he hit his paper target. Jimmy had been praised for his aim, his accuracy. Still, the recoil insinuated itself deep inside him, like a cancer. The metal cold, the intent behind each shot even colder.
Guns. If you had one, inevitably, you used it. He knew the power of the bullet, often heard the blast of a gun in his sleep. He’d witnessed it as a fourteen-year-old, almost in slow-motion, the release of it, its trajectory, its impact as it shattered the organs of the only father he’d ever know.
