Harold's body had been there for at least a month by the time Bradshaw's team found him. He lay dead in a pool of his own vomit, hair still combed in a greasy part and eyes glazed over. He was dressed in his favorite t-shirt. The stench of rotting flesh was overwhelming. Hardened policemen turned away to keep from becoming sick.
A local ganster had been bragging for weeks that it was his own cooking had done in the undercover cop. No one had really believed it until now. Bradshaw shook his head. It was a real shame to lose good man like Harold. There weren't many people who could operate so deep inside the mob’s network without betraying their ethics. Unfortunately, those like Harold who didn’t turn on the law usually ended up like this.
"Interesting way to go, though." he thought. "Now that's one spicy meatball-a!"
Word Count: 148
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