The Enigma’s Anomaly

I look at the computer screen in front of me, watching the cursor blink and blink. It doesn’t come easy to me, admitting defeat. I don’t like to admit that I can make mistakes. Everyone likes to pretend their perfect. For me, it’s quite a bit higher stakes. There’s a man out there who should be dead, and he’s not. This is a matter that the universe simply cannot let slip without repercussions.

I send a quick message to my client, sighing. I don’t want to go too into it with them, so I just tell them it’s being handled. I will handle it, it won’t take long.

I turn in my chair to look at the bulletin board which takes up a large section of my apartment. With every new hit, I cover the bulletin board, kind of as a dedication. I’m hoping that one of these days I’ll look into the eyes of the victim and their humanity, their purity, will get to me, preventing me from killing them. Something in their face will stop me from doing the thing that rips my soul into pieces. It hasn’t happened yet.

The reasons I kill aren’t very good ones. I need an income. I need some way to keep myself afloat. But I’m not really worth it, and I know that. But it doesn’t change things.

The money I makes goes to my small one bedroom apartment. It’s small, and isn’t exactly on the safe side of town, but it’s home. The kitchen and living room are only separated by a small counter, and the front door enters directly into the kitchen. You can’t open the refrigerator and have the front door open at the same time because it was poorly designed. The kitchen, like everything else, is kept almost spotless. I’m always ready to have guests over, but none ever come.

There’s a small couch in the living room, a black faux leather, that looks much newer then it is, because it’s hardly ever in use. My TV is incredibly old, deep and bulky because I don’t care enough to replace it. It makes a deep, gasping sound every time it turns on, like an old man having an asthma attack. It’s one of those homely sorts of sounds that you’d miss if it ever went away. To be honest, I don’t watch a lot of TV, I don’t have a lot of joy in life, and it probably has something to do with the fact that I’m a murderer. I only ever watch crime shows, just to pick up on any tricks that their criminals use. It’s not accurate, and I wouldn’t pretend it is but it can be informative to a certain extent.

I guess I’m a bit of a sentimentalist. I keep all the files of the people I’ve killed under a floorboard I carved out in the living room, along with my various guns, which is stupid and dangerous, but it’s my own way of honoring them. A lot of them might have been good people, but I did what I did. I guess you could say I’m The Enigma’s biggest fan because I know of every single one of his hits. All thirty-six. Soon to be thirty-seven.

I bet the cops don’t know about all of them. You know what they say about New York City cops. They ain’t too smart. I’ve never even worried about them, I guess I’m just that good. They’ve never come knocking. I might invite them if they did. It’s no secret that I’m a fucking monster.

I get a message back not long after I sent my own that’s very to the point. “Get it done.” There’s nothing more than that, but I suppose there doesn’t need to be. They hired me for a service, and I haven’t fulfilled my end.

That poor Gerard Way. He’s particularly good looking so it seems a shame to get rid of him, but I have my job, and I can’t turn it down at this point. It’s far too late. I wish I’d known what he looked like before I’d taken the job. Not like it means much of anything, but he’s got such a great face, and it’ll go to waste, literally. Wasting away in some cemetery somewhere, a place which I’ll probably visit someday and apologize.

We all have to pay our rent somehow.

I used to go to their funerals, but it became too hard after a little while. I would watch the mascara tears pouring down the faces of their loved ones, and I felt like shit. I deserved it too, I know I did, but it was hard. They would give the most amazing eulogies, ones that would make me realize what kind of a person the world had lost, and it’s heartbreaking. Those were good people.

There’s an obvious question that needs to be asked. How could a person live with themselves after killing so many people? The truth is that I have no choice. It’s a hard game to get out of. I’ve been in it for two, almost three years now, and it pays good money. I could survive a month off of just one hit, because people pay good money when they want someone dead. It’s a well-paying field, if you’re good enough not to get caught. Is it worth the cost of your humanity, though? Now that’s a question I’ve yet to answer.

I look at the board of Gerard Way. I have report cards, and newspaper clippings about him, as well as photographs I took while following him. He was terrible at math in high school. His teachers used to complain about him doodling in the margins, little did they know that those doodles would one day earn him a living.

He has a simple schedule which hasn’t been hard to figure out, but tomorrow will be weekend, and I haven’t followed him on the weekend, so I only have the word of my client to go by.

I sigh and look at the photo of the redhead. His hair suits him. It’s an ostentatious color, and fits perfectly with his job as a comic cook writer, considering he looks like one of his own characters. His eyes are beautiful, but the bags beneath them tell a story just as much as the eyes themselves. He’s a workaholic. He’s also a perfectionist. He doesn’t get enough sleep, works long hours into the night making sure everything is perfect, and then when he wakes up the next morning and it’s not perfect enough. If I weren’t a criminal I might have a promising career as a detective.

I sigh when I look at that picture, but turn away from it, turning off the light. I need to get some sleep before tomorrow, the day Gerard Way dies.

~*~*~*~

My alarm goes off far earlier then I would like to wake up, which is to say, any hour in the day. I pull the bed sheets away anyway and attempt to rub the sleep out of my eyes. I’m tired but I have to get an early start on today if I’m going to find a time to get Gerard Way.

I don’t know when I’m going to get at him today, but I’m not going to be able to snipe him if the cops yellow taped the rooftops, which I suspect they did. They know someone wants Gerard Way dead, and criminals don’t usually tend to give up after just one try. They know his life is still in danger.

I’ll have to use a handgun, so I grab my 9mm and load the barrel carefully. I keep the safety on, then set it on my bed to go take a shower. I take longer in the shower than is entirely necessary, but the day seems dark and gloomy before me and I want to start it feeling somewhat positive. I’ve done this over thirty times now, and yet every time it still feels like a funeral procession.

Eventually, I have to step out, being hit by the unwelcoming cold air of the world outside the shower. I dry my hair off, and dress, putting on one of my work jackets, which is just any with inner pockets. I tuck the gun away into the pocket, adjusting it to make sure it’s imperceptible to the eye, then walk into my small living room.

It’s about ten when I leave my apartment and make my way down the steps, onto the road, which is bustling with cars, and cokeheads. I catch a bus that’s going into the part of town where Gerard Way lives, which is of course a rather swanky place, because the guys a celebrity and gets paid too much. I make sure to get off a stop before the closest one to his apartment, even though no one’s going to suspect what I’m up to. I get paranoid about doing these things, because it’s harder to connect me to anything if I’m further from it.

I know where his office is, and I know where his usual coffee shop is as well. I know where his apartment is, his regular convenience store, grocery store, and the route he takes to get to all of them. I know everything about him. I wish I didn’t.

When I took the job, my client gave me a timid outline of his usual activities and schedule. According to the information, Saturday’s are when he visits a brother who also lives in town. He usually wakes up around noon, not even remotely an early riser, which is a benefit of being famous, I suppose. I check my watch to note that I’m an hour early, but that means I’m late. I don’t know if the schedule is accurate, so really, I should’ve been here hours ago, just to make sure he doesn’t pass by.

I need somewhere to stakeout his building, and there’s a small diner across from his apartment which will do the trick. I check my wallet, to make sure I have enough cash to pay for a coffee, and then I head over to the street corner where he’ll be. Obviously, I have to pay with cash because credit leaves a trail that can be followed. I also have to make sure I order something so it’s not strange that I sit in the restaurant for an extended period of time. Though, breakfast rush on a Saturday with a cup of coffee and a newspaper is not a particularly unbelievable occurrence.

I take a seat near the exit, which is also against the window, so I can look out. I order a coffee, pay upfront, grab myself a newspaper, and settle in for the long haul.

It’s not the front page, but a small headline does catch my eye. ‘Attempted Murder of New York Based Artist.’ Interesting, it’s a true wonder who they could be talking about, I smile to myself.

It’s rather quick to be reported, though. I can’t believe they found a story in that. To be fair, it’s not much of a story, just a few sentences, with very little detail, mostly a fluff piece to fit in a space that needed filling. I read the story carefully just to be sure.

“Up and coming comic book artist, Gerard Way, was shot at from a rooftop yesterday afternoon. No update yet on whether or not he was the intended target, but it is believed that this was the work of a paid hitman. Both the police and Mr. Way have neglected to comment.”

Looks like I got them scared at least. From what I’ve been able to tell by evaluating him, I highly doubt that Gerard Way would have any form of security on him, he’s not famous enough. He’s famous enough that you’ll get a few listings when you Google his name, but beyond that, the guy isn’t much to see.

I wait for about forty-five minutes before I see Gerard leave his apartment. He’s wearing a dark trapper hat, probably to cover up his siren of a head, but I spot him quickly anyway. It’s easy when you know what to look for. It’s not quite cold enough to need the hat, but everyone is just settling in to the new spring weather so it’s not exceptionally weird either.

He definitely appears agitated, very fidgety, which is to be expected. He was shot at yesterday, and even if he believes it was a fluke, anyone would be nervous being out and about after a trauma like that.

I exit the restaurant leisurely and start following him, a little way behind him. I stay on the other side of the street for a little while as he walks in front of me, I don’t want my stalking to be obvious. I do know where his brother lives, though I’m not familiar with his name, so I know how long a walk I have to get to him.

His brother lives about fifteen minutes away, and if all goes to plan, his life won’t exceed that length of time. I remember to thank heavens that Gerard Way decided to carry on with his normal schedule, otherwise this would be so much more difficult.

I wait for a minute and then cross to the other side of the street, to walk in tandem, a few yards behind him. I look around at the street signs to notice I lost track of time, because we’re only five minutes away.

I have to think fast on my feet, and decide to employ a tactic I learned when I was first starting out.

I know where he’s going, and I’m familiar with the area of the destination, so I walk right out in front of him, passing him swiftly. He doesn’t notice me of course, but I sprint forward to ahead of him. I glance backwards at him to see if he’s noticed me, but his head is down at the moment, so I take the opportunity to dart into an alley between two buildings. It’s a dirty, grimy, New York alley. There’s a dumpster to hide me, and no cameras to catch me. It’s perfect.

I check my watch and count the seconds down until he appears in front of me.

I’m only going to have one shot, and a very small window of availability, but I can do this. I’m a good shot, and from this close range, it’s a piece of cake. The alley even has another entrance behind me, so I’ll be able to run away before anyone notices my presence. The area is so quiet at this time of day, that I’ll probably already be a few blocks away before anyone will notice him.

He should be walking past in about five seconds if I timed things correctly. I rest my arm on the top of the dumpster for some balance, careful not to actually touch it, and then take aim with the gun to wait out the last torturous seconds.

Then I see him. I’m a bit taken aback, because there’s a woman beside him who wasn’t there before. He obviously doesn’t know this woman, based on his body language, and she’s obviously just in the wrong place at the wrong time, because she’s standing at the exact angle that makes him unreachable to me.

I breathe firmly and have a moment of excitement when I notice that I’ve caught a lucky break. This woman walks at a much faster pace than Gerard Way does. Just before he’s blocked by the wall, his head is briefly unobscured by the woman’s and I shoot before giving it a second thought. I don’t have enough time to make sure my aim is spot on, given the woman’s presence having screwed me up, so as soon as the bullet leaves the barrel I know I’ve missed.

I don’t think, I just run. I don’t have enough time to dwell on the fact that I missed again, because he’s not going to stay disheveled for long, so I run down the alley, stowing my pistol away as I do, and then leap out the other side.

As soon as I’m on the new street I slow down my pace, because running will draw more attention to me than walking.

I take a few deep breaths, and look around at the fast-paced world around me. It sinks in after a couple of seconds what happened. I can’t believe I missed again! How could I have missed? This is wrong. This is impossible. I cannot wrap my head around it. One anomaly is something, but two?

I don’t miss. I don’t miss ever. This is like being struck by lightning twice in the same twenty-four hours. I can’t believe I missed twice in that time. I don’t miss. I never miss. How is this possible?

Maybe it’s a mental block I got when I missed him the first time. It could be the yips. I must’ve just been so worked up about the first miss that I subconsciously sabotaged the second one as well. It’s definitely a total accident, a freak of nature. That has to be it. It’s just a mental booboo. I can’t believe it though, it’s mortifying. It’s embarrassing, even.

I’ve never missed a target once, not even my first hit, and the same target has escaped me twice! Maybe it’s the target himself. Maybe I’m missing because some part of my unconscious brain doesn’t want him dead. I shake that idea off quickly, because that’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. I’ve killed thirty-six people who I didn’t particularly want dead, so one more isn’t going to all of a sudden change me.

I don’t know what to do now, though. I can’t just try again. Two failed assassination attempts is not a coincidence. The cops will now know that someone wants him dead. They’re going to start to put protection on him, and he probably won’t be able to deny it this time. I won’t be able to try again tomorrow, or even the next day, it’s too dangerous. I’ve messed up my own self, and I don’t know what to do now.

He’s escaped me more than once, so it looks like I’m going to have to wait now, which is sure to be tedious. The money won’t be worth it, but my reputation is on the line here, so he needs to fucking die. This could completely ruin my reputation, which I have worked so hard to build up, and that’s what frightens me the most.

I’m The Enigma, I don’t miss! What if people hear about me missing twice? I have no clue what to do now. I know one thing for sure is that Gerard Way can no longer have a public death. It’s going to have to be a secluded attack, or it won’t happen at all. My expertise isn’t really secluded, but it’s easier. It may piss my client off that people won’t see him suffer, but the guy will still die.

It can’t be within the week though, because he’s going to have protection. It’s simply going to be too risky. I need to make sure that when he dies, I am kept as far away from it as possible. Despite the fact that I know I deserve it, I do want to escape prison. I want to avoid being caught. I’ll surely be put on death row; some people might even classify me as a serial killer. The jury won’t stand in my favor, that’s for sure. I’m not, I don’t find any pleasure in it, it’s not for my own sake. It’s not even something I enjoy, like some other assassins. For me, it’s just a job.

I have to change my strategy for this one. I’m going to have to get close, otherwise I won’t be able to get to him. It’ll have to be way closer than my comfort level, close enough that he’ll trust me alone. I need to be far enough away from him, though, that the police won’t connect me to him.

I’m going to have to go undercover.