Rochester Reformatory

Alex has an understated, bookish look—slim build, dark hair cut short but not styled, and often slightly rumpled from running his fingers through it constantly. He wears neutral-toned button-downs, dark jeans, and well-worn, brown shoes. His clothes suggest someone who once cared about appearances but gave up on polish. He carries a messenger bag filled with notebooks, printouts, and loose research notes. When he’s thinking, he bites the inside of his cheek or adjusts his glasses even when they’re not out of place. He moves carefully, with the posture of someone trying not to intrude—but watching everything. He blends in easily.

Alex is reserved, skeptical, and observant. He listens more than he speaks and is slow to trust, but not unkind. His questions are thoughtful, sometimes disarming—he doesn’t press, but he doesn’t forget, either. He’s used to being underestimated and finds comfort in not being the loudest voice. Around those he likes, his sarcasm emerges in soft, deadpan bursts. He avoids conflict and deflects emotion with logic. When he’s nervous, he grows precise. When he’s lying, he over-justifies. He’s trying to seem normal, but everything about him reads like someone holding back.

Alex’s first true-crime book—a deep dive into small-town corruption in the Midwest—earned him moderate acclaim and a loyal niche readership. But his two attempts at fiction flopped, and his publisher threatened to cut ties if he didn’t produce something commercially viable. Burned out and uncertain, he told friends he was taking time to recover. In truth, he came to Rochester to quietly research the Whitlock murders, a case that’s haunted him since he first stumbled across the archived report. He’s not lying about needing rest. He’s just not here for that alone.