Josh Maxwell had been a journalist for four years, ever since he left Cardiff University. He'd been lucky to get a job as a news researcher with BBC Wales. He then moved on to research for a regional paper. It was far from the excitement he'd wished for, but jobs as foreign correspondents in war-torn wherever where hard to come by.

   It was late and all the usual crew had already left to sleep off their business lunches, so the editor came to Josh.
   "Maxwell," barked ED, who was old, fat, and dull enough to have gone into politics, but instead started a career in tabloid journalism because he couldn't hack the corruption.
   "Maxwell, you're not doing anything are ya." It wasn't a question, ED couldn't afford to question him, as he was still working past his log-out time, "You're s'pposed to be a trained journo, right." That wasn't a question either. "Some psycho's killed some people over in Maryston. Get your arse out there and check it out, yeah?"
   "Overtime?"
   "Yeah and a big promotion too." There was a definite edge of sarcasm.
   "Yes, Sir."
   "Details are on here." ED dumped the proffered sheet on the next desk.
   The Editor turned away and Josh turned back to his work.
   He got out to the crime-scene about an hour later, it had been a long drive over. There wasn't much left. He approached one of the two boys in rain spattered blue.
   "Hi, officers. I'm a reporter for The Journal, can you tell me anything."
   The one who was hunched forward over the railing vomited, vomited some more and then groaned weakly.
   "Can i quote you on that?"
   "You can fuck off." The other copper, the one who hadn't just splashed his dinner over Josh's shoes, seemed just a tad agitated, possibly a tad and a half. He was a nasty looking piece of work to begin with and the ghoulish pallor (which we assume for kindness sake was not the norm) did nothing to enhance the mans appeal.
   Josh wasn't entirely at ease, but he had a mission to accomplish, so he persisted. He first awkwardly hoiked his Press ID from his inside pocket and shielding himself with this made clear his intention to enter the crimescene. He decided to assume an air of authority, "I'll need to see someone in charge here.", -should have said command, -someone in command.
   The more upright of the police jerked his thumb toward the derelict appartment building, and then scampered off at a tangent and at the double.
    Josh peered through the enclosing darkness, blind from the harsh streetlight glare. The door had been smashed low down and forced aside. The lock had torn open. It was an old redbrick building derelict for a few years now and degraded to rain protected housing for the pigeons.
   Peering into the dark a chill breath caressed Josh's neck. He stepped forward blindly into absolute silence. His feet scraped across the gritty flooring. There was an unusual smell in the old room, blood. A cracked board let in a fine line of sodium light from the street outside. Josh stepped into the yellow slash and was dazzled, stepping back his foot struck something and he dropped to a low crouch to balance, fervently holding his hands above the invisible floor and the yielding obstruction.
   Faint noise drifted in and Josh rapidly got out. Out into the light, he looked at his hands, they were clean. He looked at the streetlight, harsh, ugly and yellow. He ducked under the police –crime scene- tape, and moved away.
   Josh recognised the Chief of Police, Manfred Caddy, from a previous encounter at a press release a month ago.
                                                     ...sorry that's the lot.