Case report: 'Andrew Pritchard', by Elder Dinglepup Dilberry, transcribed from the journals of the alien known as Pyrochemist.

Warnings: mild gore.

(Image credits: Eddie Jones.)

Sergeant Pipbottom burst into the room, waving a bloodstained sheet of papers in his grobing paw.

“I’ve got it!” he ejaculated. “The murderer!”

Elder Dinglepup looked at him seriously over the tops of his delicately framed spectacles. “As always, Pipbottom, you arouse deep feelings within me. A private well of doubt, Pipbottom, and it is bubbling like a brook in summer. It is overflowing.”

Pipbottom fidgeted, flustered. “Sir?”

“Your intelligence and enthusiasm are diversely matched.”

“Thank you, sir!"

Dinglepup grumbled and grobed around. “You have... the murderer?”

Pipbottom thrust the sheet of papers upon him, and saluted eagerly. Elder Dinglepup shook them out and squinted. After ten seconds he straightened his spectacles and drew the papers close to his face, eyes wide.

“This is…!”

Pipbottom jingled with excitement, like a prized bloodhound with ears pricking at the promise of a hunt. “Can I put a team together? Oh sir!”

“Sit.” Elder Dinglepup ordered, and Pipbottom planted his seat primly on a nearby chair, obeying as readily as the hound he resembled. In everything but body, he was wagging his tail.

Contained within the sheaf of papers was also a lumpy envelope, and it was this that appeared to be bleeding. Dinglepup fondled the squishy lump with suspicion, whereupon the paper tore. A red lump of flesh fell and flopped about on the table like a landed fishling. Dinglepup dropped the envelope on top with a faint disgust.

“A tongue, Pipbottom. The question is - whose?”

“Sir?”

“Who delivered us - this?”

“The envelope was posted to the police station just this morning sir! Penned in the murderers own hand, sir - signed, sealed, and delivered! I’d feel better knowing who ’twas delivered by - and as to who paid postage, that remains dark - but at least of the author there can be no mistake.”

“Verily. This is our murderer.” Dinglepup dragged a hand down his face, pulling at his bulldoggish jowls and unsettling the delicate teeter of his spectacles.

“Nevertheless, we stand with hands cuffed, dearest Pipbottom. We are gamed, run-round, and ignominiously hogtied in soft hemp bonds. We cannot make a move. This murderer-” he whipped off his glasses for dramatic effect, “-is untouchable.”

“But how, sir?”

“This.” He slammed a fingertip against the attached blurry photograph of the grouchy middle-aged murderer. “Brown hair. Thin, paper-like skin. Frail posture. Tell me, Pipbottom, do you recognise this manner of alien? Nay, shut thy yawning piehole. This alien species is as unfamiliar to you as it is to me, I already know it.”

He prodded the pixels forcefully. “This should not be possible. All visiting interstellar strangers to the Station are vetted carefully, strained through questionnaires like soup noodles through five fine sieves for the slightest hint of non-usefulness. New species are few. There are merely nine known sentient spacefaring dociles that are counted as friendly among our ports.”

“So?” Pipbottom sneered.

“An unfamiliar alien, Pipbottom, means an unfamiliar spacefaring alien civilisation.”

A chill wind blew through the window, smelling of bran and marsh-salts.

“A... non-docile civilisation, sir?” Pipbottom hesitated forth.

“Verily possible, Pipbottom.”

“This only example of which,” Pipbottom said, “is verily our murderer! Therefore, our course is clear, isn’t it sir? We stand firm in the limelight with our hands crossed behind our backs… and in so doing, slip certain undesirables a vial of blood-honey in a furtive palm. Right sir?”

“You’re an idiot, Pipbottom.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you’re not stupid.” Dinglepup stared out the window at the passing stars on the other side of the citywide dome. “We put this down. We put it down - quietly.”

“Yes, sir!”

He kept his gaze turned away, literally and metaphorically, as his junior officer went to put out a hit on their alien culprit. There were people who got things done. Quiet people. He heard the door squeak shut, ashamed of itself, and he eyed the table misgivingly.

The sheet of papers had a note stuck hopefully to the front, written in a thin, frail hand.

‘For Peer Review’ it posited.

Dinglepup put his spectacles back on and picked it up. He read as follows.

For Peer Review -

"I murdered somebody for the first time today.

My name is Andrew Pritchard, I’m a - that is, I was - a schoolteacher. Science. Degree in chemistry. Not what I wanted to be, but it’s where I ended up. I neither enjoyed it nor excelled at it. My true interest lies with photography, but galleries want photographers even less than they want artists, and they don’t pay artists shit.

Where did this start… I got offered a deal. That guy at the train station, selling tickets… I still wonder where he came from. But he gave me a deal. Three years ago I walked through a door, and three years ago I ended up here.

But it all started before that, on a planet called Earth. Then, I was a schoolteacher, a chemist, and hobby photographer - but now I’m a murderer. And to you, the alien reading this, I guess I’m an alien too. Huh.

You’ll find my journal attached, detailing my experiments, my discoveries, everything from the train station to just now in the graveyard - but I wanted to write this note first, before you judge me. I wasn’t a bad person. Or, I was. It was just - they never gave me the choice to be either good or bad. Never. Back on Earth I was forced to be good. And on this Station, I never had a choice but to do bad stuff. It was the world, not me. This world is cold, and cruel, and it stinks. You know, there’s a type of evil that only happens to average people strained too far? Not pure kindness, and not pure malice. Just me, an average guy, doing things I convinced myself I had to do. So just - please. Just try not to think of me as either good or bad. Just think of me as Andrew. I’m just Andrew.

Anyway - I wanted you to read this. Maybe you can tie together the threads, maybe you can see the picture I was standing too close to see. Maybe you’ll understand what happened. I wish I did. Anything you can add, any insight you’ve got - it’d be appreciated. Maybe the rest of you know something I don’t."

- Andrew Pritchard.

---biologic.neocites.org 11/27/2022---

New chapters to follow.