You write the next chapter....here's the beginning

It was quarter to one in the afternoon when twenty-two seventy-seven told dispatch he would go canvas on the 5th floor of the apartment building. He got a ten-four in reply. The door to number 515 was unlocked and open an inch. A bad smell hit his nostrils. He drew his automatic. Pushing open the door with the nose of his .38 he found the room had been tossed. He radioed his findings. He touched nothing in the living room and stepped over the books, broken glass and clothes strewn on the floor. He didn't touch the door frame leading into the study, nor the edge of the end table, nor the edges of the chair, nor the remote control for the television balanced on the arm of the chair nor any portion of the dead man sitting in it. The volume had been muted. His eyes were glazed over. His body was stiff. A tiny few splatters of blood dotted the top of his right ear and the right collar of his shirt. His mouth hung open like he had wanted to say something. The handle hung in the air just behind of his right temple. The blade was pretty deeply imbedded into his skull. The hair was wet and mushy around it. There was very little blood otherwise. First-class ice pick work, he thought. Then he radioed his findings. He was thinking about where to go to lunch while walking back out to the hallway. He pulled the door almost shut then stood waiting for the medical examiner.