Mike and Roxy, chapter 1

October 13th 1978
Chelsea Hotel, New York City

"I'm going to ask you one last time bub, who killed Roxanne Milbert?" the police officer got in my face. I stared blankley at my hands which were rested in my lap.

"No answer again, eh?" he flipped his notebook shut and shoved it into his pocket. "Well Mr. Pritchard," he stated, "If I don't get some clues soon we're gonna have to take you downtown." My eyes stayed glued on my sneakers.

I already knew I was going to be charged guilty whether I said anything or not, so why take the chances. A shiver ran up my spine as my eyes darted to the closed bathroom door. A man with a plastic bag in one hand and a camera in the other, exited the room, leaving the door wide open. "Oh God," I whispered, seeing the blood dried to the walls and floor tile.

"Son," the police officer placed his hand on my shoulder. For the first time since the police found me in the hallway in the early morning, I looked into the cops eyes. "I hate to tell you this but-" having a deep grasp on my shoulders he finished, "-you're gonna be spendin' along time in the slammer."

He patted my back and said, "C'mon son. The judge is waitin' for you down at the courthouse." My eyes locked on the silver handcuffs around my wrists. Tears swelled my eyes once more. Hiding my face in my hands, I whispered, "I can't live without her...I didn't kill her, I swear I didn't." After a few minutes of blubbering, I lifted my head up to see the officer staring at the top of my head.

He shook his head pittifully at me and picked me up by the arm. A few other coppers stood infront and behind me to make sure I would try to escape. Its not like I could anyway once we got outside the hotel room. Reporters and photographers were everywhere. The flashes burned my eyes and a few times I got very dizzy and almost tripped over my won feet.

As we walked down the stairs that led to the open street, I accidently missed one stair and tripped. A police office thought I was trying to escape so he grabbed the back of my sweater and yanked me as hard as he could back up the stairs. "I don't think so ya punk," he snarled.

"Mr. Vicous, did you really kill Roxy Milbert?" A guy with a comb over shoved a microphone in my face. I hung my head, keeping my eyes closed as we hit the New York streets. "Get outta here....I'll fucking kill you...Leave me alone," I mumbled to them. I was shoved into the back of a cop car. All doors and windows were locked and sealed shut.

I leaned my head against the clear window where photographers were attempting to get pictures. A scowl covered my face and I flicked them off. They loved it. How could they love something so horrible? Horrible meaning me.
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