Sexy FBI Agents, Prostitution, and Forensics: All in a Day’s Work

The last time I held a gun in my hand I was ten-years-old and shooting my father’s 22 rifle. Of course, I fell back onto the ground when the shot went off and my dad stood there laughing and help me up from the ground. He knew that was going to happen. Even though I nagged my father to let me shoot that gun, I grew up to hate them. I don’t own any guns. But I write about them—not in great detail—or rather, I write about people who use them. I’m not sure I’d ever really need to know a lot abou...