It frankly reads like a short story, or an atmospheric and (intended to be) gripping prologue to a longer novel, not a serious bit of reportage. Obviously reporters, editors and even papers as a collective and combined entity have personal opinions and slants about any particular piece of news that they are going to convey (some imfamously so), but I found the emotive language in use to be... off-putting... Less an honest report (or honest
attempt to report, or even an honest-looking report that might well not actually be so) and more a rabble-rousing piece so blatant as to almost pictorially depict the uowards-pointing pitchforks and brandished torches held aloft by the target rent-a-mob audience.
Given I tend to lapse into the lyrical, myself, and was never quite satisfied about my ability to obey deadlines, I had long since decided against attempting a reporter's career. I now know that no such bar need ever have existed, at least so long as I could have presented myself at the headquarters of a certain state-side broadsheet (yes?) and presented myself as ready to serve. (Although, much apart from the geographic improbability, I'd still have to deal with the deadlines issue.
)
If nothing else, the reporter has clearly concentrated upon the aggrieved relative's account, thrown off the sole (reported) piece of information from the police involved as "a standard get-out excuse", laid down some heavy-handed implications off the basis of very little. It's very much conceivable that the official statements (only ever noticed for what they are when either unduly rushed
or over-cautiously reticent and delayed, regardless of whether the eventual and final analysis can clearly blame the authorities) are slower to arrive than this reporter cares for... Or are just being ignored, for the sake of an agenda.