With a tired expression on his face, looking at the obscure pictures on top of a make-shift dresser, Belvedere took a long drag on his wooden pipe and let out a thick smoke curl out through his nostrils. Somehow it helped cover up the stench of rotten flesh which choked the room. Any other person would just refuse to be in the immediate area or might even throw-up just before entering the room. There were no windows to open, and the foul odor had been building for some weeks before it caught the attention of the surrounding neighbors.
He glanced again at the decomposing corpse lying on the bed. She was young. Her ivory-white throat had been cut wide open. A pool of blood had congealed in thick clots on top of the cheap nylon comforter she was lying on. To the untrained eye, it might appear that she had been slain on her bed, but looking back at the floor, there was a thin trail of blood leading from approximately the center of the room towards the bed.
Beyond that distracting detail, a second question caused him to worry: when the paramedics tried to enter the room, they had to force the door open. They found the key still in the lock of the door.