National Novel Writer's Month

He pictured himself back at the crime scene; the smell of god-only-knows-what decomposing in the dumpsters which lined the alley; the rustling noise made by the rats as they scampered up and down in search of food; the body lying on the cold ground, surrounded by the pool of scarlet blood which spread from the single bullet hole in the centre of the victim's chest. A wallet was found in a jacket pocket, along with what looked like a brand new cell phone and set of car keys; this clearly wasn't just another robbery gone bad, and whoever had pulled the trigger was obviously not desperate to make it look like one. They had, however, taken care not to leave anything behind, making the job one hell of a lot more complicated for whatever lucky individual was assigned to investigate it.

Dale pulled the cord to turn the light off and rolled onto his side, telling himself that things would look better in the morning, before drifting off to sleep.