Cold Cocked
I snapped four shots of Stephen Kilbourne with the Polaroid his wife had given me. He made such a gruesome sight lying on the hardwood floor that I wondered if I’d overdone it. I set the pictures aside, tucking one in my coat pocket for a little insurance. For the pièce de résistance, I fired three shots from Kilbourne’s old .357 into his sofa, coffee table, and expensive hardwood floor. Mrs. Kilbourne would probably scream bloody murder.