Dr. Armstrong (ATTWN)

One day I saw a body being made ready for its burial. It ignited something inside of me. I felt it deep in my soul. I wanted to touch that body, see what had made it tick. I cautiously approached it after the men had left to get a drink. I touched it, just barely, with my finger tip. I was cold. I unbuttoned its shirt, and looked at the stitching where the coroner had closed up the incision mark. It was then that I knew I wanted to be a doctor.

I studied for years after that incident, trying in school. I even found some medical documents and books. When I was 20 I left to get my degree.

I was a star pupil, learning things very fast, making exact incisions. I shortly became a very well known doctor.

My favorite part of being a doctor was the surgery. I loved cutting into people, looking inside of them. It soon became known to me that I had an overwhelming urge to kill someone. Sure, I did that already, from time to time, but I wanted to purposefully do it, to know that I was the one that had drained the life out of there body.

An old rhyme came back to me from my childhood. Ten little indians. I had loved that story. I decided to make my killings a copy of that. I soon devised a plan. I, being in the medical profession, searched through the archives, finding people at random. After having my ten victims, I set upon finding out about everything I can about them. Where they lived, close relations, their jobs.

Some were chosen at random.

I started with Vera Claythorne. She, I found, worked as a secretary. I invited her along, saying I had need of her secretarial skills. After much digging I found about the little boy that was in her charge when she drowned. I now could make her suffer mental torture as well.

After came Blore. He was an ex-inspector and he was believed to have set up one of his men. I know had mental torture for him. I told him I had a job I needed him to do.

Philip Lombard I bribed. Mr. and Mrs. Rogers were told they were coming to be my butler and maid. Emily Brent just needed to die. I had met her once. A horrid woman really.

Some I chose for personal reasons.

Anthony Marston had killed my niece and nephew in a car crash. I told him it was to be one grand party. Judge Wargrave convicted my sisters husband. She was never the same again. He was informed that he is being invited to one of his acquaintances house. General MaCarthur sent my good friend into battle to die. He was told his friends were being invited to talk among and meet up.

The last victim was myself. I was guilty of killing the old woman in surgery. I had been drunk, drinking and smoking with the other gentlemen just before. I did the surgery and accidentally cut into a major artery. I was angry at myself. I mean, I pride myself on being a perfectionist and I had done a sloppy cut!

All my victims were chosen and accounted for. I sent out messengers to deliver the invitation to Indian Island. I was to be known as Mr. Owen. After the deed was finished and done, I disposed of the messengers.

All 8 people arrived on Indian Island on August 8, exactly according to the plan. I am including myself in the numbers. Mr. and Mrs. Rogers were already there. Upon arriving, the guest were told that their host (Mr. Owens) was delayed. They were directed to their rooms.

As they were unpacking, I snuck downstairs and placed the record with a note in the kitchen where I knew Rogers was sure to see it. He played at the time appointed by the letter. When it finished, I feigned surprise with the rest of the guests. As the shock started to settle in, I snuck potassium cyanide into Anthony Marston’s drink. He died instantaneously.

When Mrs. Rogers had fainted, I had placed a bit of chloral hydrate into her mouth. She died peacefully in her sleep, at her husband’s side.

The first two lines of the rhyme were completed. One choked himself, one overslept himself. Next was to be the line where one stays in Devon. General MaCarthur died when I snuck up on him and hit him the head. He forever was to stay here.

By now, suspicion had begun to set in. I helped it along. I don’t believe anyone suspected myself. I, a doctor, dedicated to saving people, killing them off instead. It was unthinkable.

Rogers was killed in the early morning as he was chopping wood for the fire. One clean blow to the head, and then there were six.

Emily Brent was killed while knitting a yellow and black scarf, just like a bumblebee. How very fitting. She was to weak to fight me off. I used a drowsy bee, its stinger tipped with poison, to kill her. Five more to go.

Judge Wargrave was beginning to suspect me. I knew he had to go and soon. The distraction with the seaweed in Vera’s room served its purpose. The old judge was lagging behind. I clubbed him with Lombards gun and dragged him downstairs, then dressing him in robes and a wig. I shot him clean through the head, using a muffler to silence the gun. He was in chancery.

Now it was time for me to die. First though, I had to set up the rest of my plans. I placed a poison in Vera’s tea, which would cause her to go mad. I set up a system for the marble bear clock to fall just as Blore or Lombard walked in. I really wasn’t sure which would go first. Then two would be remaining. I knew Vera would think the other guilty and kill him. She would then hang herself. As for myself, I would throw myself off the cliffs.

If you are receiving this letter, it means my plans are completed, as I instructed Fred Narracott to give you this letter only if everyone on this blasted island were dead.

So, you see, I am the murder of Indian Island. May my story be told to frighten children and be revered among fellow criminals.

Sincerely,

Dr. Edward D. Armstrong