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Chester Burton Brown

Smashwords Edition copyright 2012 Hemming Media, Publisher; all rights reserved.

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If anyone has the right to tell this story, it’s me. It concerns, after all, things that happened to me—or a thing very much like me—and so I argue that no one is in a better position to explain it all from my point of view. Or, at least, from a reasonable facsimile thereof.

Parts of the story I don’t know at all, but in this respect my diaries have been very helpful. Further gaps I’ve filled in with assistance from media reports and police files. And where such research has left me wanting, I’ve gone out on a limb and extrapolated actions and dialogues which I believe to be largely consistent with what I’ve come to understand about myself.

Names have been changed to protect the innocent. And to protect me, too. When all is said and done, you might agree that I deserve that much.

Or you might not.

If you’re Penardu, you’re already three quarters convinced that I’m reprehensible. And why shouldn’t you? You’ve grown up seeing our dirty mugs on the news, rotating sedately in the corner while images of our victims or their ruined possessions flash by: police are on the lookout for an Ilbisoon male, fair complexion, average height, scars and tattoos, gutter accent, the lack of hope poignant in his dull, vacant eyes...

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