I walked over and looked at the cartons. They were empty. I smelled a faint, sour odor in them. Then we went back upstairs. Judy got an album out of a cupboard. Sat and looked at a photograph of Sherman.
"What happened to him?" she asked.
It was a simple question. Deserved a simple answer.
"He was shot in the head," I lied. "Died instantly. "
Judy nodded. Like she wasn't surprised.
"When?" she asked.
"On Thursday night," Roscoe told her. "At midnight. Did he say where he was going on Thursday night?"
Judy shook her head.
"He never told me much," she said.
"Did he ever mention meeting an investigator?" Roscoe asked.
Judy shook her head again.
"What about Pluribus?" I asked her. "Did he ever use that word?"
She looked blank.
"Is that a disease?" she said. "Lungs or something?"
