I've been keeping this a secret for years now. It's rot inside my soul, but I couldn't

care less if it spreads and eats me alive. I kept it inside me, nurtured it, and let it fester like a nasty cut.

So now you're probably asking, then why are you suddenly revealing this to us now?

To be frank, I'm not entirely sure. Maybe it's my hero complex. That was the original reason

why I trained to be an officer. I'm thinking, maybe I could still warn you, alarm the public, but to be honest I just probably want to convince myself that I still draw breath for a reason.

My name is Lance Becker, not that it matters. I just think it's polite to

know a stranger's name before a stranger's story. I used to work in a police station

ten years ago. Now I own a bookstore near my apartment.

I told the chief that I was leaving because I wanted to pursue my artistic calling to write.

I want to inject color in lifeless white canvases with every stroke and every scratch of a pen.

That's the BS I told them, but I'm pretty sure they didn't buy it.

If they did, they wouldn't still be watching me 24-7.

No matter how much dirt you smear into those bombers and windows, I know a discreet government

car when I see one.

You see, I left the force for a reason I'm not allowed to discuss.

A reason I couldn't discuss.

But I've moved past the sleeveless nights and haunted visions. I'm ready to tell you what happened to Paps Wall.

It was June 26th, 2008.

I was in charge of the night shift.

Together with me at the station was my good friend, Brahm and the new girl, Joanne.

Brahm and I went way back in high school.

We considered ourselves particularly ordinary.

...