Young Writers Society

Detective Jane Rizzoli had seen many gruesome sights in her time served as a Boston homicide detective but none had shaken her so as this. The stench of death had greeted her in the hallway, that alone making her a little reluctant but Rizzoli was no squeamish girly girl. The moment you let the big boys see that in you it's over Rizzoli.
Rizzoli scanned the scene taking everything in. She couldn’t help flinching a little.
It’s amazing how the human body reacts on impulse. It can save a life or it can give away the game. She thought, checking to see if Crowe had noticed her wincing. She and Crowe had always clashed. It was his haughtiness she despised. Such a typical male chauvinist cop. While Jane herself admitted to being a little arrogant at times it was only because she was a minority. A gazelle in a herd of lions, although, perhaps not quite so elegant. She was the only female cop in her team. Luckily they weren’t all like Crowe. On that thought Detective Barry Frost strolled in, his relaxed pace becoming noticeably stiffer as he regarded the scene.
The woman was a blonde; her age not yet determined but from what Rizzoli could see she wasn’t very young but not old either. She lay as she was found, face down on the floor in a pool of blood that was soaking into her once golden locks. She had been hit on the head from the back and front it seemed and as if that wasn’t enough a large slash had shredded through the back of her shirt and her skin leaving a meat read gash on her back. She wasn’t the only victim of this horrendous attack. A man, probably in his twenties was sprawled on the bed. His nose had been broken and the glasses on his face shattered leaving little red slices around his eyes and on his face. There were several visible stab wounds on his body. So many on his abdomen that the colour of the shirt he was wearing was almost undeterminable.