Michael sat at the kitchen bench top, sadly sipping his coffee. It had been a few weeks since he and Lisa had split, and the moment she was out the door, he realised how much he loved her, and wept in his bed, empty as ever, save for him and his sorrows. She didn’t even leave a note, here one day, gone the next. Michael had started talking to himself, wishing harder and harder that Lisa-Marie would come back, wondering what he did wrong to her.

The other night, he thought he heard Lisa crying, asking him to come and hold her in his arms. The wind kept whispering her prayers into his ears, and he had heard from a friend that she wasn’t coping well since the split.

“How did I slip away? How could I let her go? Oh, if only I were there to help her, oh Lisa…” He finished his coffee and placed a hand on his head. He then started to let the tears flow again since that morning. “So stupid of me…” he whispered, “So, so stupid of me. Lisa, I don’t wanna be alone anymore. Just whisper three words and I’ll come running to you. I’ll be there for you again. Just three small words. ”

“I love you.”

Michael looked up, tearstained, to see a pair of blue eyes of an angel staring back into his.

“Lisa? Am I dreaming? Is that- -” He was silenced by her warm hand gently stroking his face, and in the next moment, pure bliss as their lips locked. Oh how sweet she smelled and tasted! He had missed that wonderful feeling so much! “Oh my God Lisa,” he whispered after coming out of the kiss for some air, “I missed you so much. I was such an idiot. Will you ever forgive me?”

“Of course I do,” Lisa replied affectionately, giggling, “I missed you too Turd. I was at a bad point in my life and I thought I needed some alone time. In fact, all I needed was time with you.”

Michael sighed in relief. He had a huge weight off his chest lifted off when he heard his wonderful wife speak and knowing at last that it wasn’t his fault that she vanished.
‘Oh Lisa,’ He thought, ‘I just wish I had told you that you didn’t have to face it alone. I love you so much. You are not alone. You are not alone…’

Here I was, another day in my office when the big case came up: the murder of Annie Wilkinson. At the news of this, I became enraged, saddened, and very determined to find this killer.

"When the fuck did this happen?" I muttered to myself as I tied my long black frizzy hair into a ponytail and deciding to don a black suit and a red armband, I sped to the scene. 

The moment I was in that apartment, it became hard to breathe; the air smelt of death and tobacco. I felt dizzy, but attempted my strongest not to fall on the floor from the disgusting stench.

“Hey, Jackson,” a voice called from Annie’s old bedroom. My old pal Prince Nelson, long-time friend and colleague. His short black hair barely swept over his eyebrows, his butterscotch skin being upturned into a small smile as he took another breath of his cigar, the smoke gently moving near his brown eyes.

“Princey boy, whatcha find?” 

“Nuthin. Not even a single fingerprint. This guy is real good.” 

“Hmph. Nothing?”

“There’s bloodstains on the carpet, but it’s fake. Her body was right in her own bed, no blood. Hey, man, before I go on, sorry ‘bout what happened to your girl.”

I sighed deeply, wiping away the ever-so-strong stench of death mixed with Prince’s smoke, “Hey, it’s alright, anything to do for her.”

Prince nodded. “If she were mine, I’d do it too. Say, there’s not really any evidence to suggest the motherfucker who went after Annie. Some other agency found something like that on another case on some darl named Billie Jean and failed it. They only got to one step, finding that the alias of the guy was a Mr. Big.”

“More like Mr. Big-Head,” I snickered, “Sounds familiar. No evidence left behind, huh?” The air became tense and somewhat constricting as I started to remember who the possible suspect might be. I snapped my fingers in realization. “Prince! You know of a Frankie Lideo going out anywhere tonight?”

“He’s a famous person around these areas, he’s gonna do a speech to commemorate a new club or somethin'. Club 30’s, I think.”

“That’s all I need Princey boy. We’re going to get this psychopath down tonight.”

A FEW HOURS LATER

“…And so, I now announce that Club 30’s is open for business!” Frankie Lideo announced proudly, a cheer erupting from everyone in the crowd (apart from me, Prince and my sister Janet, glaring at him through his glasses). According to our estimations, Jan looked like the best bait to catch out Mr. Big tonight.

“Mike,” she whispered, a concerned tone subtly hinting in her voice, “You owe me ‘bout a hundred fuckin bucks tonight after this if I come out alive. If not, you’re paying for the fucking funeral.”

“Jan, I swear on my own damn grave that you’ll come out alive from this. No way am I gonna let my favourite sister get killed.”

“And now,” our suspect called out, drawing our attention back to him, “To supply the very first tunes of the night, let’s give it up for Prince Nelson!”

Prince’s face was one I’ll never forget when his name was announced. Janet couldn’t stop giggling her head off as the applause came up when he walked on the stage, horrified expression still there. But thankfully, he started to sing, and it was one of his own personal tunes that he wrote when he had spare time, ‘Purple Rain’. 

It was only a minute into the song when Lideo came up to my sister and asked, “May I have this dance? If your brother won’t mind, of course.”

I was about to say something, but Jan put her hand on my arm, “It’ll be ok. I’ll be back soon.” And with that, she left the table and started to slow dance.

I didn’t have to wait long before trouble came.

Soon, I saw Frankie walk away from the floor and up a corridor with my sister following behind. Cocking the gun in my pocket, I stood up from my table and followed the two, being careful not to blow my cover, though it was harder to stay in the shadows when I had changed into a white suit with a blue shirt and armband for the opening.

Pulling the pistol out, I kept my back to the door that became instantly locked the moment Frankie and Janet went in. Keeping my ear to the cool wood, I stayed silent as a mouse as I listened to the conversation. 

“Here, before we go on, take these.”

“What do you mean by, ‘go on’, Lideo? And what the fuck are these?”

“Crack!” Lideo exclaimed proudly. I felt sick. I always hated drugs ever since the smell of cigarettes had reached my nose for the first time.

“Excuse me? You expect me to have a night out with you while having stuff that fucks up your brain? That’s utterly disgusting. Who the fuck are you anyway?”

“Look here sweetie. If you don’t do it, I’ll have another added to my list of ladies who refused me and paid the price for it. I’m really big in that area, ya know.”

That was enough for me. I shot my pistol at the door handle and kicked it open, aiming at Mr. Big. “Hands up Lideo. You’re under arrest in the name of the law for murder and rape.”

“Oh, by the way,” Janet taunted, pulling the spare pistol out my other pocket, cocking and aiming it, “I forgot to mention: My brother is Michael Jackson, private detective.”

“I should have known,” Big growled, “That you would be here tonight. And I also know that I’ll see another day and you won’t!” He pulled out a desert eagle and aimed at the both of us. “Stick ‘em up, both of you!”

But Janet had other ideas. 

She shot the gun out of his hand, blood spilling out from it quickly. “Michael, this is your chance for Annie, I’ll alert the others.” And with that, she dashed off. Big however took this chance as a means of escape, he had barely made his upper body out an open window when I pulled him back in and held my pistol to his face.

“Surrender now Big Boy, if you’re willing to cooperate you’re going to find yourself real fuckin lucky when you get a 20-year jail sentence. If you don’t…” I left it hanging, but he didn’t get the message.

“You’s the one who’s gonna get a jail sentence. Right for killin’ your girl.”

“You son of a bitch. THIS IS FOR ANNIE!”

BANG!

***

I jumped out my thoughts as the director then at last closed in prayer. “…In the Lord’s Name, Amen.”

I sighed deeply as her coffin was being laid down into the ground, dirt gently flying in from everyone around. 

A few hours after the funeral, I was looking down sadly at the newly placed tombstone which had the words engraved on it:

HERE LIES ANNE WILKINSON

Girlfriend and Lover to Michael Jackson

1912-1934

Rest in Peace

I swallowed after reading the second line. Before the funeral I had asked if I could give one last thing to Annie before she would be buried.

The coolness of her hand will shake me to this day as I slipped the ring on her finger. 

All Michael Jackson expected was to hang out with some friends of his at a small party, have some talk, and have a good time.

He didn’t expect that a crazed fangirl would try to convince him that he was the father of one of her kids.

“What do you mean he’s my son?” Michael asked in disbelief, “I don’t remember doing something like that with you at all!”

“Listen up Jackson boy, that kid is your son and there is no doubt about it.” Billie Jean handed out a photo to Michael. He knew very well that he did no such thing as Billie Jean claimed he did, but he had to admit, she was clever. The photo of the baby that was shoved in his hands had eyes like his.

"Nice try, but that isn't convincing me Billie Jean. And if you excuse me, I have to leave." And without another word, Michael left the dance floor and the crazed fan behind.

Little did he know was that someone had listened to the entire conversation.

***

"For fucksake!" Martin cursed, "I can't seem to finish this bloody article about that fucking conversation between Michael Jackson and that chick from  fourty nights ago! It's a good story, but I need more information!" Martin Bashir had already picked up the false baby photo and had the entire conversation down, but it lacked something. "If I don't get it down in time, Mr. Sneddon will kill me." He muttered.

Then he got it.

"Pictures," he whispered, "Of course! I need pictures! Then I'll be able to get the article finished!"

"MARTIN! ARE YOU TALKING TO YOURSELF AGAIN?"

"Uh, no mom! I'm not!"

"Will you hurry up for dinner? It's your favourite!"

"Okay mom, just five more minutes!"

"What are you doing up there?"

"Uh, nothing mom! I'm coming!" As Martin came out of his bedroom to dinner, he began to plot on how he would get the photos.

***

Michael sighed. It had been fourty days ever since Billie Jean had tried to prove that he was the father of her child, but it had never seemed to escape his mind. That particular day his mind was on it so much that he decided to take a walk around town.

After about ten minutes, he smiled as nobody had recognized him in the early of the morning. It was still quite dark anyway, and the street lights were still on.

But however peaceful it was, Michael couldn't help but feel like he was being followed. He decided to ignore it as he kept walking past the shops, imagining that every pave that his feet touched lit up as he hummed a tune.

***

Martin was getting pissed off more and more every time he was close to getting a picture of Michael unnoticed when BAM, always disappears.

The first two times, Michael seemed to disappear entirely out of the picture. The third time, Martin fell into a trashcan. The fourth and fifth times, his camera had been stolen by someone and had to get it back off them. He had to get it the sixth time lucky, he had to!

There was Michael again, and the perfect angle too! Martin aimed his lens at the star's face and...

"GYAAH!" His foot slipped on a banana peel, and he nearly had the camera break when it hit the impact on the ground, but thankfully it didn't. But bloody hell! Jackson had gotten away again!

Martin swore to himself that this would be the last time Jackson would be able to escape from him.

He checked his pockets and his bag. Article? Check? Notepad? Check. Baby photo--wait a minute.

"Where the fuck is the baby photo?"

***

Michael kept walking around town, smiling as he hummed the tune.

He then stopped smiling as he saw the photo from that long time ago and picked it up. It looked a bit dirtied now, and he saw an address on the back of the photo.

Billie Jean
Apartment No. 201, Level 4.
Alex Street
91380

Michael sighed. He decided to have a peek through the window to see if she was okay. She was a fan after all.

A few minutes later after walking around, he saw the street and the block, deciding to see if she was alright through the back door. An elderly neighbour saw him and he saw her. He put a finger to his lips, signifying that she mustn't tell anyone, before stepping up the steps to the fourth level and climbing up to the balcony, guessing the room where she slept.

He guessed right. He could easily see in the dim light that her room was covered in posters of him all over and an open journal was left on her bedside table. A window had been opened earlier, he noticed.

Michael felt like it would be better if he would just drop the photo through the hole and leave immediately. So he did.

What Michael didn't notice was that a shadow was coming gently up the steps holding a camera, and his elderly friend had was the phone as he slipped away.

***

'Damn and blast!' Martin thought furiously, 'That's the fucking SEVENTH time he's gotten away from me! AGAIN! Perfect angle too! Oh never mind, I can get a picture of Billie Jean at the least.' He thought, aiming his camera at the sleeping body through the window, just as he started to hear sirens.

***

Martin Bashir was arrested that night for stalking on the young that night, everyone believing him to be a crazed paedophile. He was sentenced to prison for life, under the public's request. Tom Sneddon was arrested with him on the same charges and sentence, the public believing him to be the 'brains' behind a terrible operation for hurting the young.

***

Billie Jean managed to get her photo back and vowed to herself she would never claim such a thing ever again. She still was in love with Michael and went to his shows, but she always wore a bit of a disguise so the media wouldn't recognise her, or Michael for that matter.

***

Michael Jackson never did get much of a rest of saying 'kid is not my son' as more and more girls tried to do what Billie Jean did, one of them saying that he was the father of one of her twin children.

The tune came to his head again. It was the very same tune that had popped up in his head when he came by Billie's apartment to drop the photo off.

'Maybe,' he thought, 'I could making a song out of this and what's been happening?' Then the lyrics and the music came together.

And the rest, they say, is history.