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Detective Simons stepped out of his car and walked towards the crime scene. The ground leading up to the venue was covered with broken glass over smooth round stones. Looking around he noticed that the padlock on the service entrance of the venue was broken. Simons stepped inside and was immediately motioned to a hallway behind the stage by a uniformed police officer. Stepping passed the forensic scientists fiddling with small pieces of evidence on the floor he shook the man’s hand and looked passed him to see the body of well known rock star, Kennedy Powers. He was lying on his back with a guitar pick in his hand. His arms and legs were spread out like a starfish and he had a small knife wound in his side. Leaning over the body were more detectives with clip boards.
“Detective!” Another officer shouted from the main room
“We have a suspect.”
Simons rushed into the main room. Sitting on a bench at the end of the room was a teenage boy surrounded by officers who were holding him down.
“Get away! Get away!” The boy screamed.
We think he’s retarded or somthin’. He won’t say anything helpful and we can’t find a weapon on him,” said the officer now escorting Simons closer to the boy who had now calmed down because the officers had backed away.
Now closer Simons could see the boy clearly. He had acorn colored hair that was uncombed and feathered. He was wearing a green Red-Wings shirt with a hockey puck on it and a pair of blue jeans, both of which were covered in blood. In his hand was a red autograph book. Simons approached the boy and put out his hand.
“Hello, I’m Detective Simons. Can you tell me what happened here?”
The boy paused for a minute and looked up with empty eyes.
“I don’t like being touched,” Said the boy angrily.
Simons lowered his hand quickly.
“Did you have any thing to do with Mr. Powers’ death?”
“He shoved me… outside… I don’t like being touched,” he repeated.
“Did you kill Mr. Powers?” Simons stated in a clear frustrated tone.
“He pushed me! He has no right! He can’t do that,” the boy screamed in a rambling manner.
“I think you’d better come with me,” said Simons as he grabbed the boy’s wrist.
The boy made a quick movement and Simons fell to his knees with a sharp pain shooting through his body. He looked down and saw the boy’s arm out-stretched holding a bloody quill pen that had been stealthily sheathed in his book, now driven into his stomach. As his sight blurred and the sounds of panicking police grew he heard the boy say:
“I don’t like being touched.”