Carver was the kind of agent who'd been born in a suit. He was never a baby or an infant. He was a serious man with a serious gun who rolled off the assembly line in Quantico, Virginia. He had the standard issue white face with the ubiquitous square shoulders and squarer chin. He was close shaved 24/7 and he spoke with a baritone voice and clipped legalistic words. Life had no colour for him, no shades of grey either, it was all black/white right/wrong legal/illegal. When he wasn't preparing perfect paperwork he was chasing down criminals with that action-man run of his - his fingers held straight as if their aerodynamic form could conceivably make a difference. He clocked more hours than any of the rest of us in the firing range. He was the perfect FBI agent, but I didn't want him for a partner. I never had a fragile ego or anything. I just didn't trust anyone without a visible weakness, it made me wonder if it was all a facade over something less stable, less honourable...
There was something puzzling in the man's gait, enough to send my hand to my holstered pistol just in case. It was like something was weighing him down on one side and his muscles were struggling to compensate for his lack of balance.