[Abandoned attic. A cold evening. CLARENCE ARMSTRONG (55) follows as DCI OBERMEISTER (55) enters, panting. FLOYD ARMSTRONG hangs dead.]
Sir, I don’t / think.
I-I-I’m sorry… / He’s dead sir.
(Picks up paper)
As you wish.
I was born to Eleanor and Clarence Armstrong… Always to follow father into his firm… They bestowed me a fine education… Neither mammy, nor father knew of what has become my dolor… I can now square with God.
Shall I / continue sir?
At Sedbergh, I was absorbed by dualism… By fourteen, I learnt how we suffer the inner conflict of good versus evil… As I ripened, I surrendered to my sinful self… Roscoe Tann and I practiced the captive shooting of pheasants… I intended to banish this lust for ruin… However, when mother caught Corporal Bell and I in trade… I murdered them… There have been others… Blue men… Finally, I strangled Maude Brown… Punishing her gloomy tales exquisitely… That dour girl was my last…