Brrring, brring, brri-
A fumbling hand reached for its phone and pushed the answer button, illuminating the dark room with a painful white light before the phone was pressed to someone's ear.
"Hello?" A tired voice croaked.

"Mister Jones? I'm calling about your uncle, Otto Jones."
The half-asleep person suddenly sat up, alert.
"Uh- yes, that's me- what-?"
"Otto was found dead in his home early this morning."
My heart stops. My uncle- my best friend- dead? That can't be true. "W-What?"
"His neighbour, Betty Williams, found him dead this morning. We believe he had actually been dead for at least a day before that.

"Well- why are you calling me? Do you need me to-" Claude couldn't even get the words out. He couldn't believe this- he was surprised he hadn't hurled.
"Well, Mr Jones, we need you to come and investigate the scene."
There was silence on the line for a full thirty seconds.
"Mr Jones?"
"You what?"
"Your boss suggested you for this job. You are a homicide detective, yes?"

"Y-Yes, but- I mean, surely that's a conflict of interest, or something-"
"Conflicts of interest only apply when a suspect is someone you know, not a victim. Can you be here by eleven?"
"I- I- yes, okay-"
The line went dead with a beep, and Claude was left in a dark room, staring down at his hands in disbelief.

At exactly eleven hours, Claude's red Honda civic pulled up outside his uncle's house- a place he had been many times, but never under such terrible circumstances. The swing on the porch where he had had his first beer with his uncle creaked in a way that seemed almost threatening, and the porch light was taunting rather than comforting.

Claude stepped into the house and made his way down to the living room-kitchen combo. Everything seemed familiar- not just the house and it's comforts, but also the stark contrast of his grim job. Police officers taped around the property and a forensic he knew came running over to him.

"Claude!" She said. "You look terrible- did the call this morning wake you up?"
"Laura." Was all he replied, giving a tight nod of greeting.
"We've found a few things that are useful. Spilt hot chocolate, which tells us it likely wasn't suicide, and a knife, which we assume is the murder weapon."

Claude shuddered. He didn't want to think about someone using a knife on his uncle. He didn't want to think about any of this. He wanted to go back to bed, wake up, and have this all be some sort of terrible dream.

"The victim is an elderly man, likely around fifty, and-"
"That's my uncle, Laura. And he's forty-one. Jesus, be a little more sensitive."
She blanches. "Oh- Oh, Claude, I'm so sorry- I didn't know-"
"It's fine. Now, are there any suspects?"
"So far, only the neighbour- but the investigation only just started. Plus, that's kinda your job."

The scene in the living room makes Claude want to run, screaming, out of there. His uncle lies sprawled in his favorite arm chair, old blood crusted on his shirt, with a stab wound in on his chest. His eyes are open and cloudy, his skin is pale and bloated, and he's already gone through rigor mortis and returned to being limp.
It's horrific.

"I'm sorry.." Laura says. "If this is too much, you can-"
"Don't be ridiculous," Claude says, steeling his jaw, "this is my job. I'll be fine. I've seen worse."
Claude closes his eyes for a second, focusing on draining himself of feeling and memories. Opening his eyes again he steps forward, examining his- the corpse. Just a corpse.

"Alright, let's organize a fingerprint scan on that knife, and a DNA test on some of that hot chocolate."

{640 words}