Eric Roberts runs a talk radio show in Los Angeles. The show degrades popular culture -- to the extent that anything is left in it to be degraded. The ambitious, muscular, suave Roberts talks about "testicles" and other filthy subjects like "masturbation", which no normal human being knows about. The ratings are pretty good though.
After a particularly crass show, Roberts is congratulated by Jason Gedrick, a nebbish in the sound department, and recruits him as co-host for his new show -- "My Worst Crime" or something like that. The idea is that callers will confess anonymously on the air to rape, beatings, robbings, having a closet full of pantyhose, picking one's nose in public, and other heinous acts.
The best -- or the worst, depending on your point of view -- is realized. The show inflames the public and there are as many outraged protesters as there are confessants. Then a voice hesitantly admits on the air to having killed a woman, naming her and the date of the killing.
This causes Gedrick's hair to stand on end but Roberts dismisses it as a crank call. However, the police determine that a killing exactly like the one described took place, and they begin investigating the show, waiting for the miscreant to call back as he said he would.
The plot gets a little twisted after that and I don't think medical discretion will allow any further revelations. Well, hell, I can add that it ends in a shoot out. All such movies end in shoot outs, so that's not much of a reveal, is it? I must also add that the movie lacks a high-speed car chase that ends in an exploding fireball. I cried like a baby when I realized there would be no such sequence. I also wept a little when none of the dead bodies leaped back to life, but not much, because I really didn't expect the heavy to survive a fall of some dozen stories to the street below. This is known as "poetic justice" because in the film's first scene we see the bad person launch his victim on a similar trajectory.
It's a crime thriller at heart but it's built around a message. Radio talk shows can be faked, misleading, or used as conduits for lies about celebrities or politicians -- and who's to draw the line? And there are other moral considerations that must have occurred to the writers. (How about broadcasting live executions?) Of course not everything conveyed on talk shows is false. I recently learned that Angelina Jolie was really a man in drag. Who'd have thought it?