Oh, masks. I could never wear one while carrying out His will, but during my off hours, I'm sure to slip one on. A figurative mask, shrouding my identity and my involvement in a shadow of doubt in no time. Burning all the bridges connecting me to the deed before they're even built. It's great. A real test of my mental fortitude. How long can I act like I'd ever associate myself with such godless heathens before becoming physically ill? Evidently, quite a while. Though I never provide near enough information so that the investigators have a reason to follow up on interviewing me. Why would I ever make it that easy on them? If they want me bad enough; it's not like I'm a hard person to find. They just never know where to look. How could they? I'm not a threat to them. Them being this heretical organization; the silver tongued hypocrites that the last three to meet the Lord belonged to. They fancy themselves a secret order, but nothing's a secret to Him.

With my tool belt nestled safely in the glove box of my car, and the blood stained latex gloves in the dumpster out back behind the building, I slip into the complex through the unguarded front door and muster up my best shell shocked witness face. Tears well up in the corners of my eyes, as I contort my face in a wide manner of shocked and appalled expressions, forcing out labored breaths while clutching my chest. My free hand fans my face, as I try my hardest to console myself. After a few seconds of suffering in silence to the apathetic reaction of the first responders, I decide to take matters into my own hands regarding it. Taking a deep breath, and bracing myself, I fall back first into the wall. Upon impact, I gasp loudly, turning the attention of the lanyard wearing crowd chatting amongst themselves at the foot of the stairs away from each other for the first time since I've been inside. One of them, a scrawny man of vaguely Asian descent, comes towards me, cursing under his breath. Not a particularly friendly demeanor, but that was probably the least of his concerns, considering his employer. Would he be the next one the Lord told me to dispose of? He very well could be. Anything's possible, after all.

"Are you alright?" he asked, making no real effort to hide his lack of concern for my imaginary state of distress. Maybe he saw through the mask, no. Couldn't be. I continue my frantic breathing and run a hand through my hair.

"Yeah, I uh, I just uh, I think I saw who did it."

His ears perk up right as the words leave my mouth. He's going to bite right down on the bait. Though my wording was vague enough to imply that I don't quite know, he tries his hardest to contain his enthusiasm before, after clearing his throat a taking a deep breath to ensure that he speaks in a calm and collected voice, asking me the million dollar question.

"What did he look like?"

"Well, I only saw him from the back. He was short, and kinda on the fat side. Short, cropped hair. He was wearing gloves, like winter gloves."

"Winter gloves?" he repeats, dumbfounded. Yes, that was what he was hung up on. Perfect. I take a deep breath and the back of my teeth, before shoving my hands into my pockets.

"Yeah. I thought it was weird; something you don't really see this time of year."

"No, not at all. Though, that does give us something to work with. Thank you, Mister... ?"

"Walker. Thomas Walker."

Not really. He didn't need to know that, though. I "try" to smile; flashing my teeth in an anxious, eager motion before slipping back into the shocked, glazed over eyes look I've been pressing into his subconscious since I caught his attention. The kind of frightened mask I need him to remember. So he'll write me off as some shell shocked witness and send me on my way. So when he finds no traces of winter gloves anywhere near the scene, he'll chalk it up to a misunderstanding. Not even think to question anything else. The hunt for a short, fat man will commence. I eagerly await the outcome of that. Maybe, they'll send someone to deal with whoever they pin this murder on. A bullet in the head, body swept up and dumped in the ocean maybe? No, they could get away with killing him in the street. Not that they'd test it. It'll be obvious.

And when it happens, I'll just have to poke my head out to say hello. I'm sure the Lord will have someone for me by then. He's ever so punctual in matters of punishment. It's a gift; a freak of divine intervention. I'm a very lucky man indeed.

The interviewer stays by me. Odd, I figured after I gave him the reddest of all herrings, he'd be off to his colleagues, bragging about how he's got a tip that could crack the whole case wide open. But no, he's still right in front of me, not bothering to conceal the grin and erection that my "clues" gave him. Like he's having fun with this; not in the supposedly sick and twisted way people would say I do when snuffing the lives out of scum. He doesn't seem to have it in him. Good for him. I doubt the Lord would put him in my crosshairs anytime soon.

"Is, is there anything else you remember about him?"

"No, not that I..." I start before dropping my jaw agape as far as it's willing to extend, breathing in a gasp and making some noise symbolic of revelation. "Right! How could I have forgotten?"

"What? Forget what?" he asks, almost salivating.

"He uh, had a limp."

"Limp, eh? Anything else?"

Oh, he was pushing his luck. Trying to hit the jackpot trifecta. Maybe I should tell him about a fake murder weapon. No, I might be pushing the scene a little too much if I did that.

"No," I say, shaking my head.

"You've been a big help."

"Th-thank you."

You'd think, that someone who I'm guessing has had experience doing this before in the past would be able to accurately identify a fraudulent eyewitness account from a mile away. It's almost hilarious, actually. He turns away from me and heads back over to the crowd around the stairs, buzzing with life and likely telling them all about my story. After a few seconds of a verbal exchange between him and some initially skeptical woman standing on the bottom step that I just couldn't make out, the group embarks up the stairs and to Ramos' body. That's my cue to leave. Don't wanna be too close once they realize how they've been misled.

I turn to leave, when something-- nay, someone catches my eye. A man, lanyard around the neck, coming down the stairs with a frustrated look on his face. His face gruff and unkempt, much like his hair that wasn't so much long as it was wild, going out in all directions. Someone doesn't care what they look like, do they? I freeze in place, hand pressed against the wall perpendicular the front door as he continues down to ground level and closer to my field of vision. My eyes don't find themselves fixed on his untrimmed face, or his wrinkled shirt, or the one size too small pair of pants that stop just high enough for me to see he's wearing two different colored socks and one of his shoes is untied. No, what catches my attention is the name on the ID card hooked onto the chord. One word.

Lazarus.

Oh, what a name indeed. There's some kind of connection I could make, and though my brain is racing to that conclusion I have to force myself to remember that this group and I aren't necessarily like minded. No, there has to be some practical reasoning, a rationale of sorts for why such a name would dare find itself printed on anything even closely relating to these godless heathens but then it hits me. Like a punch to the face, or more accurately a hand on the shoulder.

"Hey man you gonna stand there all day lookin' like a moron or are ya gonna fuckin' move?"

Thus spoke Lazarus as I snap out of my thoughts to see him staring me in the face. I can see just how disheveled he is now, from this close up. Dried toothpaste sticks to his facial hair and his eye's bags have bags of their own. Around his left nostril I see a ring of red, probably from a recently bloody nose. His eyes shift from annoyance to frustration as he shakes my shoulder, which he still had a tight grasp of to try and get my attention as if I could focus on anything else.

"Well? I ain't got all fuckin' day and you're blockin' the damn way man."

"Uh, yeah um, sorry 'bout that," I mutter out in a desperate attempt to draw a little less unwanted attention to myself before shoving the door open and shuffling outside, closely followed by him. My eyes flash down to his ID card again, just to give myself an excuse to bring it up in conversation. "Lazarus, eh? Odd name."

"Just a little."

Not a talkative one, eh? That's fine, the name says it all anyway. The only reason someone would go by the name Lazarus would be because they were successfully resurrected. Brought back from the dead with only minor wounds to show for it. But what, who could've been the one to do the deed and fail? Someone else like me, only not nearly as talented? Another enemy of their's? Or maybe, it was himself. Looking at him, even as he takes off into the blackness of the night around us I can tell there's something lurking deep in his soul. The cause for his unkempt appearance. It's obvious and he thinks he's hiding it so well. If that's the case, if he attempted suicide only to be brought back, then he must be pretty important.

I don't think the Lord will be asking for him soon either. Hopefully He thinks like me, and wonders just how useful someone could be to an organization with so many expendable members that they'd bring him back after a suicide.

Maybe He wonders just how tough this Lazarus is.

I know I do.

I turn around, pivot on my foot and walk off in the same direction as him; not a stalk or a hunt or anything drastic. Just need to get back to my car.

After all, I need to make one more stop before the sun comes out.

***

"Too fuckin' weird," Luca said softly to himself as he made his way down the sidewalk to the alleyway that led into the parking lot where he'd left his car. It occurred to him on the longer walk that he could've retraced his steps and come out the back door. But if he did, he reasoned with himself, he wouldn't have gotten a look at the guy eyeballing him all through his walk down the stairs. Some scared looking motherfucker. Probably the witness Li was blabbing about as their paths crossed on the second floor.

Trying to shake the man from his thoughts, he clicks the unlock button on his car's automatic lock mechanism, pulls the door open and almost falls into the driver's seat. He closes his eyes and shakes his head for a few seconds, this time to keep himself awake. Jamming the keys into the ignition, he turns it and as the engine revs to life, so does he. Suddenly, he looks into his left palm to see the lanyard; his proof of employment and the same accessory that he ripped off at the foot of the stairs, well before the ever so conspicuous witness commented on it. Which left him with two questions:

How did he read it? Obviously it had to have been earlier on but still, that's a credit to the man's eyes. Though the second question was much more unnerving to him, and didn't occur until after he pulled out of the space, and made his way down the road, past the building.

Why did he care?