Crime can seem abstract at times, particularly when presented as statistics. Crime is up, down, all around town, but what does that have to do with me?
And then Crime creeps a little bit closer. Just ask my neighbor.
Crime didn’t creep in on little cat’s feet. It literally kicked its way in, in the form of two hooded men with guns, who shattered my neighbor’s front door, robbed him and his family at gunpoint, and then disappeared into the night.
Home invasions are becoming more and more common here in Atlanta, the crime of choice, if you will. Newspaper ads hawk “indestructible doors” and “home defense classes” as possible precautions, as well as “home defense weapons” such as tactical shotguns, revolvers, semiautomatic pistols, and rifles, each loaded with caliber-appropriate “home defense ammo,” special loads designed to knock down an attacker in devastating fashion without fear of having the bullet pass through him and kill the baby in the crib next door.
Here in Georgia, you can buy a weapon as easily as you can buy a loaf of bread. No license, no registration, no waiting required. Just pony up the cash, and you too can be armed and dangerous. [See also, Road Rage.]
I must admit to falling prey to this fear, not to mention paranoia, and have done quite a bit of research on home defense weapons. [I never thought Guns & Ammo and Shooting Times would be my bathroom reading of choice.] Whether I actually buy a gun (or a complete arsenal) or not—and I’m leaning toward not—I certainly can write about guns with some authority now. All I need is a plot to enfold them. I guess that means writing another mystery to go along with Skeleton: A Bare Bones Mystery. Perhaps I’ll call it The Man Who Thought He Was a Glock.
Hold on a minute, there’s someone at the front door.