Beneath the Mask

The Grayson’s never lock the door. I watch them leave to walk the dog, and when they come back, they never fumble with the keys. They walk right in. That’s how lazy they are. The whole process would take maybe a minute. Maybe they aren’t lazy. Maybe they just think that highly of themselves. That their time is worth more than their safety.

When I told this to the officers on the scene, they eyed me up. Like maybe I was the one who broke in to the Grayson’s condo and stole their jewelry. If I was them, I’d suspect me too. I had the perfect cover after all. I’m the night-shift security guard of the bayside complex. If I’d wanted to sneak in and rob them blind, I could have.

I told that to the officers too.

They asked me to come down to the precinct the next day.

“You didn’t see anything suspicious?” asks Detective Gordon. Her gun peeks out beneath her suit jacket. She sits across the metallic table inside the interrogation room. White walls reflect the overhead lights, and instead of a window, there’s a single silver mirror. I can’t tell how much time’s passed; the caged clock is frozen on midnight.

I told the detective everything I had seen. Everything I’d already reported to the police the night before. I sat in the cave—what we guards call the security booth—watching all the feeds. The night was particularly dark. A Fog rolled off the water. Particles of mist floated in the floodlights. I didn’t see anything unusual. At 21-hundred hours, the Grayson’s left their unit to walk their German Shepard, like they did every night, and like every night, they’d be gone for fourteen to seventeen minutes, and from fourteen to seven minutes, their unit was susceptible to a break-in. I try to keep an eye out, but I’m just one man. I can’t always know where crime will occur.

“You saw the suspect leave through the front door?” asks the detective. I’d told the police this too. The front door opened from the inside—while the Grayson’s were still out. A person in black exited. I couldn’t see his face because he wore a mask. For all I know, he might have been a she. I don’t know the gender split for cat burglars.

“May I ask,” says the detective, “why do you wear a fanny pack?”

“It’s not a fanny pack,” I say. “It’s a utility belt.”

I’m not licensed to carry a firearm, but my belt holds a flashlight, zip locks, a multi-tool pocket knife, and pepper spray. Before I entered the interrogation room, Detective Gordon confiscated the belt. I always feel like a fraud without it.

“Why didn’t you stop the suspect?” she asks. I’d told them this part too. I chased the suspect through the alley. I saw their shadow in the fog beneath the floodlights. I cut through the patch of woods behind the complex, where the poison ivy grows. A tree branch caught the back of my hand. I looked all over, but the suspect had vanished. I ran back and dialed the police.

“Why did you scream at the Grayson’s?” the detective asks.

“That’s a lie,” I say. “I never screamed.”

The Grayson’s returned before the cops got there. The first thing I said was, You should’ve locked your damn door.

“Why did you tell them to lock the door?”

“This never would have happened if they had.”

“Were you sending them a signal?”

“Signal? What signal? Like a distress signal?”

“Were you sending them a message? Were you trying to imply you’re the thief?”

“Why would I steal their stuff?”

“What were you trying to accomplish when you told them to lock their door?”

“I was trying to protect them.”

“Why?”

“Because—that’s my job.”

I’ve trained my entire life to protect others. I’m the son of parents gunned down in a street robbery. My whole life I’ve wanted to defend justice. Fight the bad guys. Be the hero.

“Are you in on the crime?” the detective asks.

“I’m no criminal.”

“But you were a cop.”

“Yes,” I say. “I was a cop.”

For two days. Until the background check came back. The report said I never graduated high school. I had one semester left. Close enough, I thought, to claim I had.

“Why couldn’t you stop the suspect?”

“I looked everywhere. Up down, left, right. The floodlight hardly filled the alley. I couldn’t see anything beneath the fog. I cut through the trees. I—.”

“You said something scratched your hand. May I see?”

I hold out my right hand. I search for the scratch beneath the third knuckle—but like the suspect’s shadow, it’s gone.

“I swear there was a scratch,” I say. I’m a quick healer, but I don’t have super powers.

The detective leans back in her seat. “Sometimes, in battle, we don’t know what we see or what we feel. We can’t always remember what happened. Sometimes, we don’t want to remember.”

“I remember. I remember the masked man sneaking out the door. I remember grabbing the pepper spray. I remember scrambling out of the cave. I remember—.”

The memory freezes there. I try to see the details—the dim alley, the narrow thicket, the invisible branch sweeping across my hand, the fog…

In the mirror, my reflection stares back at me. The night suddenly feels like a riddle to which I don’t know the answer.

“I have no more questions,” says the detective. She is no longer eyeing me up. “You are free to go, Mr. Wayne.”

In the hallway, she hands back my belt. I push past a crowd of officers laughing at some inside joke. I don’t put the belt back on. I’m no crusader. I’m not even a cop. I’m still frozen in the cave as the villain steps into the fog and disappears into the dark night.