They followed him through a set of metal doors down a windowless corridor past the restrooms.
The corridor opened up into a dingy room of cubicles where sales, advertising, and a handful of copywriters claimed space. It looked as though the room had barely survived some kind of roof leak. Several ceiling tiles were missing, and the ones that remained were stained a dirty brown.
Chris jiggled the handle on a door in the corner and gave it a kick to open it.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said.
Technically it was a corner office, but the only appealing feature of the block-walled, windowless room was that it was far enough downwind from the restrooms that it didn’t smell like sewage from the problematic plumbing.
Chris sat behind a desk that was covered in papers, bobbleheads, and enough family photos it seemed as though he was worried about forgetting what his wife and kids looked like.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing at the two vinyl chairs across from him.
They sat and Kellen produced two photos. “Do you know Bianca Hornberger or Titus Strubinger?” he asked, handing over the pictures.
Chris held them up side-by-side and frowned. “Hornberger’s the corpse in the closet, right?”
“That’s correct,” Kellen said.
Riley wasn’t surprised. Chris had made local news his life. He could recite the names of every murder victim in the city for the last twenty years.
“This guy isn’t ringing a bell. Sure looks like the cheerful sort.”
Riley peeked at the photo. Strubinger was dressed in camo pants and a Don’t Tread on Me t-shirt decorated with a myriad of stains. He had a bushy beard, unruly hair, and a scowl. “He dead too?”
Kellen nodded. “Both victims appear to have been active on Channel 50’s website and social media accounts.”
“Active how?” Chris asked.
“They both were vocal on articles and posts with these usernames,” Kellen said, sliding another piece of paper across the desk. “Both express aggressive points of view.”
“‘You’re a horrible mother for allowing your child to attend public school. What did you think was going to happen? Of course he was going to choke on the subpar lunch in the cafeteria. I hope you choke and die on your next meal,’” Chris read out loud. “Yeah, that sounds about right for our comments.”
“That was Bianca Hornberger on an article about a student saving another student’s life with the Heimlich maneuver,” Kellen said.
Chris moved on to the next. “The United States of ’Merica wasn’t founded to cater to women. It was built for and by white men. It’s time we remember our heritage and remind the rest that they are here to serve.” He chuckled. “This guy sounds like he’s the type who lives in his mother’s basement.”
“Where were you on the night of August the second?” Kellen asked.
Chris’s eyebrows scaled his forehead. “Oh, shit. He really did live with his mom? I swear I didn’t know that because I murdered him. You just get a feel for the kind of people—and I use that term loosely—who feel like their opinions are required on everything that happens in the world.”
“Where were you on the night of August the second?” Kellen repeated.
Chris dropped the photos as if they were scorpions and dug out a planner.
“Looks like I was here in the editing room until about six. I headed out to my son’s soccer scrimmage. Grabbed some Popeyes in the drive-thru on my way back here to shoot some promos until ten. Then I went home, drank two beers, and fell asleep on the couch with my wife watchingOutlander.”
Kellen didn’t say anything. And sweat broke out on Chris’s forehead.
“How about during the day on August seventh?” Riley probed, getting in on the fun.
She sensed Kellen’s approval.
“I was here. I’m always here,” he said, gesturing around him at the general chaos. “I would have been in the studio from five a.m. to ten a.m. Then it was a normal workday until about six p.m.”
“Okay,” Kellen said.
“Okay ‘I believe you okay,’ or okay ‘I’m getting an arrest warrant’?” Chris asked.
