The Best Detective. (On hold) (going to be re-written)

Chapter One.

 The morning started like any other, he woke up at 6 am exact and would wait for his guards to take him out of his cell. The guards would always come around at 7:30 sometimes 8 and dragged him off to a glass boxed room. And would give him his pills and breakfast, this wasn't a psych ward if you were wondering. But a jail for the most criminally insane. He was considered insane, forced to be separated from the rest of the prisoners, for safety reasons of course.

His name was Micheal Johnson, he was 27. Had been in jail for 3 or 4 years by now, he was a rather secretive man. No one knew much about Micheal, he was very mysterious, to an extent that no one really knew what crime he had done to get him here. Well, as I was saying, Micheal was 27. He was about 6'3" but it was theorized that he was taller, his hair was buzz cut, the color was some sort of Tawny brown. His eyes though their color was unknown since Micheal was known to wear sunglasses. Which really gave off this douchebag vibe.

But anyways, After Micheal ate he usually dragged back to his cell, which was hidden from the rest of the public cells and such. His cell was nicely sized and looked like every other cell. Uncomfortable bed, toilet in the corner, a bookshelf- the books were nothing really interesting- he had no windows, so the room did give off a dark gloomy vibe. The only light was a small lamp on his side table and the broken ceiling light.

They pushed Micheal into his cell, the biggest guard uncuffed him before leaving, slamming the heavy metal doors behind him. Micheal scanned his room quickly before glancing at his side table, there was just a notebook- no pencil, they had sharp edges so he wasn't trusted with them. Besides, that useless notebook was a bunch of mail. Sometimes he'd get mail, which was just news articles which most of the time was his only entertainment. Micheal sat on the old chair in the corner of his gloomy room, he expected some more news articles later today, probably around noon.

He dreadfully needed more entertainment, he had re-read those articles 5times out through this tortuous weekend and had read all of the books on the shelf about a million times out through his 3 or 4 years in jail. Micheal let out a huff grabbing his notebook, he used to be able to write down how long he was in jail. As a countdown method, but he had his pen taken away after one of the guards had noticed it was a bit too sharp. Yes, yes. I definitely can stab and kill someone with a pencil! Micheal thought to himself as he did the math in his head. 3 and a half years, 4 months, and 23 days, he thought to himself, this was just a guess really, he wasn't totally sure if this guess was true or not... probably wasn't.

Micheal thought about it for a bit, he had forgotten how many years, months, or days he had left until he was released. He tapped a finger on his chin, about to continue to think but was interrupted. The biggest guard, whose name was Phill, came in slamming the mail onto his bed. "We'll get you in 6mintues for a shower, lunch starts at noon'' Phill told him blandly, no expression worn on the guard's face. Micheal watched as the guard left, the mail had come early, he glanced at the time. Yes, it was a bit early for mail but Micheal was glad he had some sort of entertainment, he got up walking towards the old rusty bed, grabbing the articles and newspapers, which most of the time had some sort of fun thing going on. He flicked through the articles and mail, scanning at them all until his eyes focused on a small envelope, it was pink and kinda crinkled up. He grabbed the small envelope, flipping it over to see where it had come from- or if it was even his- he never got letters, just articles, and some boring trash mail, so this was odd. Though kinda expected, he sometimes got other prisoners mail by accident and usually read them out of curiosity. And in need of drama and amusement. But this was somewhat different, he flipped the note overseeing that it had his name written upon it. Micheal Bennett Johnson, he lifted a brow reading who sent the letter. Madame Priscilla McCoy. He pursed his lips together into a straight line, he had heard of the McCoy family. They were an old-money family lineage, very well known. A type of family that Micheal had despised. He never liked the rich folk much, they were just too snobby and stuck up for him, always taking things for granted. Or that is what he believed.