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on one side of the lobby, Roseboro on the other, directly across from him, just a few feet between the two men.
    Frees noticed that Roseboro “kept dabbing,” as he later put it, at his face—and that something was “oozing,” Frees added, from an area around Roseboro’s chin and upper lip. Roseboro had recently grown a salt-and-pepper goatee. Still, “I took notice that he was wiping his upper lip,” Frees said later. “Just … there was oozing coming out of his upper lip. He was wiping that with his finger. You could actually see it was oozing blood.”
    Watching Roseboro dab at his lip, that blood obvious in the fluorescent light of the ECTPD lobby, Frees wondered, Did you cut yourself shaving?
    He decided, however, not to say anything.
    Neff came out of the squad room and into the lobby. He asked Roseboro to follow him. All he wanted, Neff explained in not so many words, was a timeline from Roseboro of the day and night. He needed to know if Jan had been drinking. If, perhaps, she had been complaining of any pain the previous day, or later on that night. Was there anything out of the ordinary or odd that had struck Roseboro regarding his wife? Tests on Jan’s blood would take time. Who knew if Jan wasn’t some sort of a closeted alcoholic. Or maybe a drug addict.
    Secrets … everybody’s got ‘em. When you die, they emerge gradually, like the grass over your grave.
    All of this was fairly routine for the ECTPD. They needed to find out what had happened, and MichaelRoseboro might have that answer. No one was going to be shining a light in Roseboro’s face and pointedly asking him tough questions. There was no crime, as far as the ECTPD could tell by this point.
    The conversation would be fairly informal, unless something came up. In fact, Keith Neff was dressed in civilian clothes. He was not wearing any police equipment, didn’t have his weapon, or even his badge.
    “Thanks for coming in,” Neff said as they got settled inside the small room. “I greatly appreciate this. I want to be clear here. You can leave at any time. If you need a break, at any time, just let me know, Mr. Roseboro. Okay?”
    “Sure,” Roseboro said.
    Neff and Roseboro sat down, the cinder block walls, devoid of pictures, paintings, or any other distracting items, painted a nicotine yellow around them. Larry Martin sat, too, but he allowed Neff to do most of the talking. There was a walnut-brown Formica table with a few chairs. A three-by-five window (one-way mirror) on the north end of the room. And that was about it. The tone was going to be entirely conversational. Neff even felt bad, having to ask the guy questions so soon after what appeared to be a tragedy that would continue to grow in emotional magnitude before it got better for anyone close to Jan Roseboro.
    At times, Martin got up and left the room, then returned.
    Neff took out a laptop computer, opened it up on the table between them. He explained to Roseboro that he was going to type out a question and then wait for his answer and type that out before moving on.
    Roseboro said he understood. “No problem.”
    After he gave Neff his full name and a few other personal details, Neff asked what time Roseboro got up the previous day, July 21, 2008, almost two mornings ago now.
    That was an easy question for Jan’s husband: “Five-thirty.”
    Roseboro’s work schedule routine had started at the same time for years. Although he owned and operated the family business, Roseboro was a creature of habit.
    “Was Jan with you when you woke up?”
    “She did not feel well last night,” Roseboro said. He seemed focused and detached, as if he were talking about somebody else’s life. Roseboro spoke in a rather low monotone, soft and borderline effeminate. Neff could not judge the guy’s emotional reaction one way or another. Maybe Roseboro’s passive demeanor was the way he reacted to any social or personal situation? “She slept until about ten forty-five,” Roseboro