With one swift movement, Julia turned and the door met her boot in a quick and informal matter. The lock tore through the wood of the frame and immediately, the smell of tin and flesh spilled into the hall.
It was so condensed that Julia gagged. It smelled like red.
NYPD cops piled up behind her with their guns drawn. Off the bat, Julia was already a little irritated with the fact that there were foreign cops on her crime scene. She breathed and held her gun steady and shouted into the room.
“You have three seconds to show yourself.” She impatiently tried to adjust her eyes to the even darker black in the room. The smell of the victim’s blood was thinning.
One of the cops tried to push through in front of Julia, but she extended an arm and said, “One more step and I’ll see that your boss has you doing procedural paperwork for a few weeks.”
Julia turned to the room again. There was no sound, just smell. Deciding it was time to stop playing around, she put one foot in the door of the room. The rug felt soft and let out a soft, squelching sound. Her right hand searched for the light switch.
A soft light from the corner of the room came to life, and a wave of gasps escaped the six officers behind Julia.
The room was covered in blood. The rug was soaked. The walls were covered. Some hand prints were identifiable. The ceiling had splatters.
In the middle of the room, a lifeless, bloody pulp sat.
“Holy hell,” one cop breathed. Another one nearby promptly vomited.
“Get your officers out of here,” Julia shouted irritably. “Get CSI in here; I want to know how this got so fucked up.”