44
I called Harvey, my gun guy, before leaving Hendersenville, but got his voicemail. I’d already hit a drive-through for lunch and was on the interstate on my way back to Tallahassee when my cell rang.
“So you want to know about reloading?” Harvey asked, straight to business and speaking even more quickly than usual.
“Yeah, thanks for calling me back,” I said, nearly dropping my phone as a passing trailer pushed Cecil toward the shoulder. “I might want to dig deeper later, but right now it sounds like we’re both in a hurry, so let me just ask you one quick question. How does it fit in with forensics? Presumably there’s a possibility of leaving fingerprints on the brass.”
“Sure, but that’s just the beginning,” Harvey said, enthusiastic now that I’d piqued his interest. “We talking a ga
