6 Masks too Many

The scene opens in a small, shabby apartment. Clothes are scattered all over the floor, accompanied by old food packages and what is most definitely a small roach infestation. In the corner of the room, the walls are plastered with pictures of crime scenes connected by red thread. Standing in front of it is our leading lady, Jane Carter. 

She is practically buried in piles of documents, trash, and dirty clothes. Then again, it's not too hard to bury her—she's quite tiny at 5 foot 6. Her ebony skin tone doesn't help her stand out against the chaotic surroundings, either. She rifles through file after file, picture after picture, like a madwoman on the hunt for gold. 

Sitting on a nearby chair is a delivery boy she dragged in. He's been subjected to her relentless ranting for hours and is far too scared to leave. 

"So, ma'am... can I go now?" the boy asks timidly. 

"YOU KNOW WHO JOHN DOE IS, RIGHT?" Jane exclaims hectically. 

"J-John Doe? Like the John Doe? You mean the millionaire playboy and 'heart of the people'?" he stammers. 

"YOU MEAN KILLER OF THE PEOPLE?" she snaps, springing to her feet and staring him down. Since he's sitting, this doesn't take much effort. 

"K-k-killer?" he stutters, now visibly more terrified. 

"Yes, killer. I have been on his ass for 2 years now. Look here!" She rushes over to point at a picture of a murder scene taped to her wall. 

"Wednesday, 9:43 PM: Mr. John"—she says his name with childish sarcasm—"leaves a very expensive and important party early, claiming 'urgent home matters.' At 10:09 PM, a truck driver steps into an alley for a smoke break and gets stabbed to death. But here's the thing: the crime scene is too clean. It's believed the victim was killed with something shaped like a pencil. But there were no fingerprints, no torn clothes from the killer, and worst of all, not even a single piece of pencil lead. But his fingernails? They were cut." 

She speaks faster now, sounding increasingly unhinged. 

"So…" the boy tries to interject, but Jane barrels on. 

"AT 10:32 PM, MR. JOHN CRASHES HIS LUXURY CAR INTO A WALL, CLAIMING HE WAS INTOXICATED." She points to a picture of the wrecked car. "He was badly injured. But look here!" She gestures to another picture showing what looks like scratches on a hand. "Fingernail wounds. On his hand. After a car crash?" 

She grins smugly. "Seems strange to me. You know what I think? I think Mr. John left that party, killed the truck driver, and during the struggle, the victim scratched him—leaving DNA under his nails. So, what does John do? He cleans the scene, cuts the victim's nails to destroy the evidence, and then crashes his car to create fresh injuries to explain away the old ones." 

The boy slumps in his seat thinking to himself. "The others warned me, 'Don't go to Apartment 12.' But nooo, I just had to play the hero. Never again." 

She sighs, exhausted. "But no one on the force believes me. Hell, all he got was a slap on the wrist for so-called drunk driving." 

Turning to the delivery boy with a glimmer of hope in her eyes, she asks, "But you believe me, don't you?" 

The boy, worn out, replies, "Ma'am, can I just go home now?" 

"You're right. Sorry, kid, for wasting your time." She leads him to the door. 

"Wait, ma'am—my tip?" 

"Oh, right. You deserve it for putting up with me all this time." She drops something into his hand. 

"Ma'am, this is a coupon for where I work. I already get free food there." 

Not listening to him, she says, "Don't spend it all at once," then shuts the door in his face. 

The night draws to an end, and the next day rolls around. Jane walks into the police station, dressed in her patrol cop uniform, which is surprisingly clean and well put together for someone with such a messy living space. As she clocks in, Peter Dime, her longtime co-worker and friend, approaches her. 

"You're early as usual," he teases, motioning to the mostly empty station. 

"You know I'm part of the opening crew. What's your excuse for being here at this hour?" He speaks. 

"Well, my friend, you see, crime waits for no one, so justice always has to be ready," She counters. 

"Speaking of crime, how's your investigation on John going?" Peter asks in a tone bordering on mockery. 

"Well, I'll have you know it's going quite great. I almost have enough evidence to put him behind bars," Jane declares with her signature can-do attitude. 

"And where did you get said evidence?" Peter presses, his tone shifting to one of suspicion. 

Suddenly, Jane feels the weight of the question, and her air of confidence fades. "W-well, y-you see, I-I found it," she stammers. 

Peter cuts her off. "You stole it from the evidence room again, didn't you?" 

Jane avoids eye contact, looking everywhere but at him, searching for an excuse. "N-no, I didn't!" she protests weakly. 

Peter lets out a tired sigh. "Jane, why do you do this? You're only a patrol officer; you don't have access to that stuff. You nearly lost your job the last time you were caught." 

Jane jumps in defensively, "Hey, I'm making good use of it. It's not like anyone else is even on John's case. Everyone loves him—he can do no wrong. Well, I'm not blinded by the parties he throws or the money he gives." 

Peter raises an eyebrow. "Speaking of parties, that reminds me. We're having one today." 

"Oh really?" Jane asks, her tone brightening. "And who's it for?" 

Peter smirks, clearly enjoying himself. "Oh, just some rich dude by the name of Mr. John Doe. Ever heard of him?" 

Not one for jokes, rage fills Jane's small frame. "I'm going to kill you, then kill him," she growls. 

Peter begins walking out of the clock-in room. "Well, I'm off to get ready. Oh, and Jane, please try to actually be part of the party this time and not just stare at him from afar like a sniper," he says with a wave before disappearing down the hall. 

Jane, left alone, begins pacing around the office. Maybe this could be a good thing. She could ask him questions directly. Sure, he's definitely not going to be honest, but maybe—just maybe—she can get him to slip up and reveal something. But there is some risk to that. If he even gets slightly pissed, I could lose my job. I must do this skillfully. 

The time was 12:16, and the party was in full swing. The station wasn't overly decorated—just a few ribbons scattered here and there to make the occasion feel a bit festive. Everyone held cups, chatting and laughing as they waited for the guest of honor to arrive. 

Jane, however, sat alone in a corner, staring blankly into space. Her mind wandered, lost in her own thoughts, until a sharp voice snapped her out of her daydream. 

"Jane Carter, what are you doing?" 

Startled, Jane jumped to her feet. "Kat! Hi, girl!" she greeted awkwardly, her voice tinged with nervousness. 

"That's Katrin to you," the woman corrected, her tone firm and unimpressed. 

"Really, Katrin? Come on, Cat, don't do a fellow African sister like that!" Jane replied, attempting to lighten the mood and build some kind of connection. 

Katrin, however, remained unamused. Her piercing gaze pinned Jane in place. "What are you doing here?" 

"What do you mean?" Jane asked, confused. "I'm here for the party, like everyone else." 

Katrin cut her off with a pointed tone. "You never come to any of Mr. John's parties. You always watch from afar. And let's not forget—you've been on his case for God knows how long. What are you up to, Jane?" 

"What am I up to?" Jane forced a laugh, awkward and hollow. "I'm not up to anything. I'm just here for the party." She hastily took a sip of the drink in her hand, only to immediately spit it back into the cup. "Forgot I hate alcohol." 

Katrin didn't miss a beat. "You were in the investigation room, weren't you?" she said, her voice sharp with accusation. "Things are missing, and the cameras conveniently went dark during a certain time frame. There's only one person who knows how to trip the cameras, who would want to steal evidence, and who'd be dumb enough to try." 

Jane froze, hit by the barrage of accusations. Her eyes darted around, searching for an escape or an excuse, but found neither. 

"Well, you can't prove it was me, can you? So, innocent 'til proven guilty," Jane said, her words playful, but with an awkward edge. 

Katrin's tone softened, but the frustration beneath it was unmistakable. "Listen, Jane, I'm not going to report you to the higher-ups. But hear me—and hear me good—if you ruin this party for everyone and it all comes crashing down, I'm not covering for you. I've covered your back too many times, ignored too many things, even put my own job on the line for you. But I won't do it again. Don't mess this up." 

As Katrin's words hit, Jane felt the weight of her frustration settle over her like a heavy cloud. Her shoulders slumped as guilt began to wash over her. "Katrin... I'm... I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible. 

Katrin let out a long sigh, running a hand through her hair, clearly torn between exasperation and something softer. "I can't tell you why I've done all this for you, Jane. I just... I can't. Maybe because I was just like you when I first joined the force. All guns blazing, thinking I could take down every bad guy in the city. But the longer you stay in this job, the more you realize—it's not as simple as that. You learn that sometimes, trying to force a case, especially one that isn't yours, will only end up hurting people. And I can't let you be the one to make that mistake." 

Jane's stomach twisted with discomfort, the weight of Katrin's words hitting harder than she expected. The reality of what she was doing—and what it might cost—suddenly felt far too real. 

Katrin glanced at her watch, snapping Jane back to the present. "Well, Mr. John will be here any minute. You'd better get ready. And Jane..." Katrin paused, her gaze lingering. "Please, just try to be normal for once." 

With that, Katrin turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd of officers. 

Left alone once again, Jane sat down, staring into her cup. "Maybe she's right," she muttered quietly to herself. "Maybe I should just... be normal." 

It didn't take long after the confrontation for the man of the hour to make his grand entrance. The main doors swung open with theatrical flair as John Doe strutted—or rather, bounced—into the room. His presence commanded immediate attention, a gravitational force that pulled every gaze toward him. From the small but undeniably expensive gold chain resting against his chest, to the crisp black jeans paired with a button-up shirt left tantalizingly undone at the top, and finally to the sleek designer sunglasses perched on his face that only seemed to enhance his flawless dark skin, everything about him screamed effortless opulence. 

The room seemed to hold its breath. Heads turned, murmurs rippled through the crowd, and some officers even began making their way toward him like moths to a flame. "Hello, Cedarbrook Police Station," John announced, his voice a rich blend of confidence and charisma. "Your sweetheart is here." 

The commissioner was the first to greet him, practically rushing forward with a broad smile that verged on embarrassing. "Welcome, Mr. John! We're so thrilled to have you here. I must say, your sudden call to host a party at the station caught us off guard, but when you mentioned it was to celebrate a successful business deal, well, how could we refuse?" His tone dripped with deference, his body language bordering on groveling. 

John's smirk widened, oozing smugness. "Yeah, and I'm sure the money I sent your way didn't hurt either," he quipped, his voice laced with mockery so obvious it stung. The commissioner's smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but he quickly recovered, nodding along. 

"But that doesn't matter," John continued, removing his sunglasses with a theatrical flourish before tossing them casually into the crowd. A small commotion erupted as officers scrambled to catch the expensive accessory, the absurdity of it all playing out like a scene from a movie. "What matters is that I'm here, and the people love me." His voice rose as he addressed the room. "Don't you love me, people?!" 

The response was instant and thunderous. Cheers erupted, voices calling his name, applause ringing out in an almost feverish display of admiration. 

Amidst the chaos, Jane remained in her corner, quietly observing the spectacle. She clasped her drink, her knuckles tightening slightly as she murmured to herself, "Remember, Jane... just be normal. Just be normal." She inhaled deeply, steadying her nerves. 

Despite her internal monologue urging restraint, her detective instincts itched at the edges of her mind. Her sharp eyes picked apart his every movement, every word. Still, she couldn't help but mutter under her breath, "You know, if I wasn't convinced he's secretly a killer, I'd have to admit... he's ridiculously good-looking." 

Her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer before she shook her head and downed the rest of her drink. "Focus, Jane," she whispered. "You're here for the party. Not a case. Just be normal." 

The party roared on well into the night. The air was thick with the scent of booze and the buzz of intoxicated laughter. Most attendees were either drunk, teetering on the edge, or desperately orbiting John Doe like moths drawn to his flame, hoping to bask in even a shred of his attention. 

John sat at the center table, surrounded by admirers on all sides, a king holding court in his domain. But as his gaze lazily scanned the room, it stopped on someone—a glaring anomaly amidst the adoration. Someone who wasn't paying him any attention. 

His expression shifted subtly, the faintest flicker of annoyance crossing his features. This wouldn't do. Not at all. 

Rising from his seat, John began walking across the room, his every movement dripping with deliberate purpose. The once-lively party fell eerily silent, like the calm before a storm. Conversations halted, glasses paused mid-air, and an almost primal mix of fear and curiosity rippled through the crowd. People instinctively stepped aside, creating a clear path for him. 

Each step he took seemed meticulously planned, every movement deliberate and precise. He adjusted his collar with a smooth flick of his hand, then straightened his cuffs, as if choreographing even the smallest gestures. As he passed by, he offered brief, impersonal remarks to those in his path: "How's it going?" "Nice shirt." 

Each comment was generic, almost mechanical, delivered with a detached tone that felt more rehearsed than genuine, as though he were reading lines off a script. 

The easygoing, charismatic facade he typically wore was gone, replaced by a colder, more calculated demeanor. This was no longer the playful John Doe everyone thought they knew. This was someone wearing a different mask entirely—one precise, clinical, and unnervingly intentional. 

And everyone in the room could feel it. 

At the end of that path sat Jane, completely oblivious. Her head was buried in her phone, her focus so absolute that the weight of the room's collective stare didn't even register. 

Jane had decided the safest way to survive the night was to simply disengage. If she didn't interact with anyone, she couldn't mess things up—or so she thought. 

"Not one for parties?" John's voice cut through the tense silence, smooth and smug, yet laced with curiosity. 

"Yeah, parties aren't my thing," Jane replied, still not looking up from her phone. Her tone was casual, dismissive, and entirely unaware of the storm brewing above her. "And besides, John Doe might be hot, but he's not all that." 

Her words hit like a pin dropping in a cathedral. The room collectively held its breath, a mix of disbelief and terror washing over the onlookers. "Oh, she's so dead," Katrin mutters from the crowd, her tone laced with disbelief. 

"Well, I'm definitely going to miss that one," Peter adds with a dry chuckle, his voice barely masking the tension in the air. 

John, however, didn't miss a beat. His confidence didn't falter; if anything, it seemed to grow. "Oh, is that so? Well, I guess I have a lot to work on," he said, his voice rich with amusement. 

The unfamiliar tone finally broke through Jane's focus. She frowned, still staring at her screen. "What do you mean by that?" she asked, irritation creeping into her voice as she glanced up— 

And froze. 

Her eyes locked with John's, and her breath caught in her throat. That perfect, infuriatingly smug grin, paired with a playful wink, hit her like a freight train. The realization of who stood before her sent a tidal wave of emotions crashing through her—fear, confusion, disbelief, and something primal she couldn't even name. 

The entire room watched with bated breath as Jane sat, wide-eyed and paralyzed. 

"I think this one's broken," John quipped, turning back to the crowd with a mischievous grin. His comment was met with an awkward ripple of forced laughter, the kind people offer when they're unsure if not laughing might be worse. 

But Jane didn't hear any of it. The room began to spin, her pulse pounding in her ears as her body betrayed her. 

"Oh no, he's here," she thinks, panic rising in her chest. "Does he know I'm onto him? Is he going to get me fired? Or, even worse… kill me?" 

The last thing she saw before everything went dark was John's amused smirk as she slumped backward, unconscious. 

The room faded to black, but even in the silence, John's magnetic aura lingered like a heavy shadow.