“Mr. Lewis? I am Max Banks, the editor of the Clarion Review. I wonder if I might come in and have a few words with you and your wife about all this.”
Lewis opened the door wider and motioned for Banks to come in.
“My wife and I were just having a drink to settle our nerves. Will you join us?”
Banks accepted the beer Lewis offered, and sat down on a red and green plaid wing chair near the door.
Mr. Lewis joined his wife on a brown leather sofa under the undraped picture window.
Mrs. Lewis, a tall, angular woman with shockingly intense auburn hair, turned frequently to look outside, and then quickly averted her eyes again. She seemed to be hoping with each look the commotion would be gone.
“I’m glad you came by, Banks,” said Lewis.
“We need to get the word out about these young vandals coming into our nice, peaceful neighborhoods and wrecking folk’s property and playing these awful pranks. It’s getting out of hand when punks make use of a corpse like this. No one has any respect for the dead, anymore. Heck! No one has any respect for anything. Why, in my day...”
“That’s enough, Ram. This man did not come here to be harangued. He would like to get the facts, so he can put them in the paper. Isn’t that right, Mr. Banks?”
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