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Authors: M. William Phelps
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husband that she had suffered a severe blow and gash to the back of her head. One that was likely the impetus leading to her death—and the guy did not even wonder how it might have gotten there. He didn’t even ask if they had a theory. It was as if what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
“That was the point during the conversation,” Neff recalled, “where, for me, the trigger hit the hammer.”
The other aspect of this scenario that Neff and Martin were perhaps overlooking to a large extent was that Roseboro had been a funeral director and worked in a funeral home. The guy had been around dead bodies all his life, had drained blood from corpses and replaced it with embalming fluid. He had taken mangled children and repaired them enough for an open casket. He had caked makeup on the dead and combed their natty hair, clipped their nails and sewn their mouths shut. The man was likely desensitized todeath. To him, perhaps, death was a thing. A part of the job. He was turning to that well of emotion for this situation. Using it to get through it all. Was this Roseboro’s poker face? Had it helped him cope and deal with Jan’s demise—that same somber look he had assumed like a mask for the hundreds of families throughout the years who had come in and out of the doors to the funeral home?
Larry Martin and Keith Neff were concerned on many levels as they drove away from the Roseboro residence. So Martin called ADA Kelly Sekula as Neff drove. It was now somewhere in the neighborhood of 3:30 A.M.
“Kelly, is there any way that we can hold this residence until we can get a search warrant?” Martin was certain the answer was inside the house. But every minute that passed was another chance that whatever evidence was in the house would be found and discarded or cleaned up.
It was a situation akin to an infant death, ADA Sekula explained, using the analogy to make an important legal point. Sadly, the Lancaster County District Attorney’s (LCDA’s) Office sees more infant deaths these days than ever, and yet they are some of the most difficult crimes to investigate and prosecute. An infant dies. The parents claim crib death. Cops have a feeling it’s more than that. But there are no outward signs of a crime. The investigating officer, nine out of ten times, is forced to release what he or she strongly believes is a crime scene with evidence—and there’s nothing the police can do about it.
ADA Sekula hung up with Martin, called DA Craig Stedman, asked him about a search warrant.
Sometime later, she called Martin back: “No, Larry. Cannot do it.”
Martin hung up his cell and stared out the window.
Tomorrow was another day. Perhaps something would turn up? Maybe somebody saw something? Possibly the autopsy would divulge a clue or two, maybe enough to secure a warrant?
Either way, Martin considered, he wasn’t giving up on Jan Roseboro.
12
Jan Roseboro’s father, Samuel Binkley, was a well-known Denver resident and banker throughout Lancaster County. Binkley owned Denver National Bank, later bought out by Fulton Bank, where Jan had been branch manager before becoming a full-time stay-at-home mom in 1995. It was Sam Binkley’s house on West Main Street that Jan and Michael Roseboro put a $600,000 addition into recently, and had relocated from their home on the other side of town after Christmas, 2007.
“Mr. Binkley was a very nice guy,” said a former neighbor. “Jan and Mike spent about a year remodeling that house.”
For a time, they were living in both houses, going back and forth between the two. Jan had grown up in the West Main Street house with her sister and brother. Jan’s father, a gentle man, was that It’s a Wonderful Life–type banker you went to in a small town, hat in hands, eyes on the floor, when times were tough and everyone else turned you down. Binkley was a smart businessman, knowing that if you treated people the way you wanted to be treated, they would be loyal customers
“That was the point during the conversation,” Neff recalled, “where, for me, the trigger hit the hammer.”
The other aspect of this scenario that Neff and Martin were perhaps overlooking to a large extent was that Roseboro had been a funeral director and worked in a funeral home. The guy had been around dead bodies all his life, had drained blood from corpses and replaced it with embalming fluid. He had taken mangled children and repaired them enough for an open casket. He had caked makeup on the dead and combed their natty hair, clipped their nails and sewn their mouths shut. The man was likely desensitized todeath. To him, perhaps, death was a thing. A part of the job. He was turning to that well of emotion for this situation. Using it to get through it all. Was this Roseboro’s poker face? Had it helped him cope and deal with Jan’s demise—that same somber look he had assumed like a mask for the hundreds of families throughout the years who had come in and out of the doors to the funeral home?
Larry Martin and Keith Neff were concerned on many levels as they drove away from the Roseboro residence. So Martin called ADA Kelly Sekula as Neff drove. It was now somewhere in the neighborhood of 3:30 A.M.
“Kelly, is there any way that we can hold this residence until we can get a search warrant?” Martin was certain the answer was inside the house. But every minute that passed was another chance that whatever evidence was in the house would be found and discarded or cleaned up.
It was a situation akin to an infant death, ADA Sekula explained, using the analogy to make an important legal point. Sadly, the Lancaster County District Attorney’s (LCDA’s) Office sees more infant deaths these days than ever, and yet they are some of the most difficult crimes to investigate and prosecute. An infant dies. The parents claim crib death. Cops have a feeling it’s more than that. But there are no outward signs of a crime. The investigating officer, nine out of ten times, is forced to release what he or she strongly believes is a crime scene with evidence—and there’s nothing the police can do about it.
ADA Sekula hung up with Martin, called DA Craig Stedman, asked him about a search warrant.
Sometime later, she called Martin back: “No, Larry. Cannot do it.”
Martin hung up his cell and stared out the window.
Tomorrow was another day. Perhaps something would turn up? Maybe somebody saw something? Possibly the autopsy would divulge a clue or two, maybe enough to secure a warrant?
Either way, Martin considered, he wasn’t giving up on Jan Roseboro.
12
Jan Roseboro’s father, Samuel Binkley, was a well-known Denver resident and banker throughout Lancaster County. Binkley owned Denver National Bank, later bought out by Fulton Bank, where Jan had been branch manager before becoming a full-time stay-at-home mom in 1995. It was Sam Binkley’s house on West Main Street that Jan and Michael Roseboro put a $600,000 addition into recently, and had relocated from their home on the other side of town after Christmas, 2007.
“Mr. Binkley was a very nice guy,” said a former neighbor. “Jan and Mike spent about a year remodeling that house.”
For a time, they were living in both houses, going back and forth between the two. Jan had grown up in the West Main Street house with her sister and brother. Jan’s father, a gentle man, was that It’s a Wonderful Life–type banker you went to in a small town, hat in hands, eyes on the floor, when times were tough and everyone else turned you down. Binkley was a smart businessman, knowing that if you treated people the way you wanted to be treated, they would be loyal customers
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