Page 64 of Chameleon Killer

Mallory would never stop chasing him.

Which meant someone had to make sure she wasn't chasing him alone.

I was definitely going to be that someone.

Chapter

Ten

MALLORY

The newsroom always felt different after midnight. During the day, it survived on momentum—ringing phones, shouted questions, assignment editors barking for updates, and producers sprinting past with coffee they never had time to finish. Every story competed with the next one before the first was even on the air.

Evenings belonged to the broadcast. Scripts tightened. Interviews rolled in. Video editors assembled last-minute clips while reporters filed updates and the control room counted down to airtime. There was still urgency, but it had direction.

After that, if there wasn't breaking news, the building exhaled.

The bright overhead lights gave way to pools of lamplight and computer screens. The constant chatter dissolved into the muted hum of HVAC, the occasional ring of a diverted phone, the soft chatter of police scanners, and the mechanical sigh of the fax machine that somehow still refused to die.

There were always people somewhere in the building. Master control downstairs never slept. Neither did the overnight assignment desk. A handful of editors and producers lingered long after the broadcasts ended, waiting for tomorrow to become today.

I usually stayed with them.

Calls to sources started before sunrise, which meant the real work often happened long before anyone else arrived. Besides, I'd always liked the newsroom after dark. Once the deadlines were gone, you had time to stop demanding answers and start asking better questions.

Flint was across the room, arguing with someone in Records for what had to be the sixth time.

“...I'm not asking for the photographs,” he said, his tone almost viciously patient in the way only Flint could be while he slowly strangled someone with logic. “I'm asking whether the supplemental toxicology exists.”

A pause.

“I understand that's your policy.”

Another pause.

“No, I don't agree that those are the same thing.”

I smiled despite myself. Somewhere, a county employee was having the worst conversation of their week. And that unfortunate soul just hadn’t recognized they’d already lost the argument.

I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my eyes.

The whiteboard had become a monument to dead ends.

Cook County would confirm Colin's autopsy existed. They wouldn't release it.

The hospital acknowledged additional records.

HIPAA.

Guy's records were tied up in three separate systems, each insisting another department owned them.

Flint had managed to extract exactly one useful detail in six hours.

Additional toxicology had been ordered after Guy's surgery.

No one would tell us why.

I tapped the marker against my notebook.