I am Benedict XVII!

He plants his hands squarely on the brick outlining the Riverside Mall sign.  His feet kick to the sky as his hat taps the bricks between his hands completing his handspring over the row of hedges beyond the sign.  Feet firmly on the ground for a mere second, he sprints to the nearby flagpole placing his hands around the pole linking his fingers.  He flings himself outward and spins around the pole twice before placing his feet against the concrete base and launching himself airborne into the grass.  His white robe twirls within his somersaulting form sweeping out in all directions in a crouch on the sidewalk when it ends.  The sidewalk lays out before him in a straight line towards the cul-de-sac housing the local electronics giant and the national retail chain, but he leaps from side to side like a football player taking on the tire drill.

At the curb, he pauses briefly looking in both directions as if cars are waiting to catch him off guard in a closed off shopping center at 3am.  He sprints for the bushes next to the bike rack and slides between them like he is heading for second base.  His tall white hat peaks out from the hole he entered through for only a moment before slicing upwards through the stiff branches to the standing form of a man in full papal vestments with the exception of the bishop mitre meant to look like an un-bejewled papal pretiosa.  The rope at the waist of the robe is let out tuck the length of robe up so as not to tangle in his footsteps.  The rope pulls tight and the form flows less with fabric but just as easily with fluid motion.  At the corner between the electronics store and retail chain, the bricks form a textured ladder he uses easily to skip back and forth vertically until he is hanging by his fingertips by the edge of the roof.

He dangles freely sliding one hand after the other until he is on the small metal ledge behind the Megatronics sign.  His tall cap peaks out from the central downward V in the M of the sign.  He peeks cautiously out for signs of security.  No flashlights are visible and no sirens pierce the stillness.  From the pants pocket found below the white robe, the form pulls a small camera and sets it on the ledge aimed out across the distance towards the outline of downtown Indianapolis.  The distance is far enough to allow the city scape to be taken in with the camera lens without being hidden by the faux papal cap.  A smirk crosses his lips as he imagines the expected image about to be produced.  The timer feature is engaged to begin the 10 seconds of beeping.  He leans back to keep from blocking the city outline from the picture leaving his head leaning against the M.

One beep counts each second.

Two beeps... the wind picks up and rustles the leaves on the ground twenty feet away.

Three beeps... he peers down in the low glow of the sign to make sure his robe is laying flat.

Four beeps.
Five beeps.
Six beeps... the robe straight, he looks back to the camera lens.

Seven beeps... the wind dies down, but the leaves rustle still.
Eight beeps... the sound gets louder and the thought that someone else is there starts to sink in.  With two beeps left, he prepares to grab the camera and run after the flash goes off.

Nine beeps... he never hears the tenth beep or sees the flash from the camera.  He does not see the muzzle flash from the tree line either.

Ten beeps... the mitre tips askew from the new hole beneath the brim on his forehead.  He is slumping down the sign, but the slope of the M is slowing his decent.  The distant outline of the city is mostly blocked from the picture taken giving the resulting image a more gruesome outcome.  Death caught on digital.  The memory card adds one final file for the police to review along with birthday parties and a camping trip with his friends.  Jonathan Campbell ceases to be, but his camera remains precariously on the ledge.

It is two days before someone is walking below the sign and realizes the dried puddle is coming from the sign above.  The discovery closes a recently opened missing persons report, but opens another one for the federal file.  The string of murders rises to four.  All public locations and all with young men in religious costumes.  The bullet casing is found in a nearby storm drain, but the shooter is long gone.  He is off to rendezvous with his team to determine if they closed their assignment or if the search for the real man continues.  Jonathan Campbell is not the first wrong target, but he will not be the last.