“I don’t think so. She never said she did.”
A knock sounds on the door, and a uniformed officer informs us that Mr. Barton has arrived home. I check the clock. The time reads 2:43 a.m. Where has the husband been? Scott instructs the officer to keep Mr. Barton waiting and to refrain from telling him the news of his wife’s death. Sam’s time in the box is reaching its end.
Scott bluntly asks, “Did you kill her?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“The husband?”
“I don’t know.”
Scott accepts Sam’s lack of knowledge and points him to the door. Sam nods and shuffles out of the room to an uncertain future. I ask Scott, “What do you think?” After a moment’s reflection, he says, “I don’t think he is a murderer, but I’ve been wrong before.”
***
Bernard Barton does not cut an impressive figure. He is short, rotund, and devoid of a single hair on his head or face. As Scott and I enter the room, Barton booms, “I demand to know what’s going on here.” I take an immediate dislike to him. He’s surly, and I’ve never cared too much for surly folks.
Scott doesn’t allow Barton to hurry him. He has kept Barton in the dark up to this point because he wants to see the husband’s reaction to the news of his wife’s death. Scott makes the introductions and says, “Mr. Barton, I’m sorry to tell you that your wife is dead.”
This precise choice of words is intentional. “Murder” goes unmentioned. Scott wants to see whether Barton asks how his wife died.
Barton asks, “What happened?”
If he murdered his wife, he avoids Scott’s trap. No matter. All killers make mistakes, and murder never takes place in a controlled environment. The prying eyes of a snooping neighbor, the patrol car that passes at the wrong moment, trace DNA evidence—all are capable of sending even the cleverest murderer to death row.
Scott gives only a partial answer to Barton’s question: “She was murdered.” But Barton again fails to take the bait. He responds, “How?” Scott inspects him with a keen eye, no doubt curious as to Barton’s coolness and serenity. Even after Scott informs him that his wife was shot, Barton fails to display a readable emotion. The room settles into a tense quietness. Scott and Barton stare at one another with a mixture of indifference and disdain, daring the other to speak first. I feel invisible. Scott at last breaks the deadlock and goes straight to the question of the hour, “Mr. Barton, may I ask where you have been all night?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’m a lawyer. I know my rights. No more questions until my lawyer is present.”
Scott sounds a scornful chuckle—first Sam, now this. He gives Barton a determined look as if to say, “You and I will meet again.” Unfazed, Barton’s contemptuous stare conveys its own message, “I am better than you.” Seeking a way to break the stalemate, I interject and ask Barton an innocuous question.
“Where do you work?”
A confused Barton turns toward me. Whether he is surprised that I am there or merely that I spoke is unclear. But he does answer the question.
“Marsh & McCabe.”
I know the firm—quite corporate and well-to-do. My friend, Jeff Yarber, is a partner there. He attended law school with Sam and me. I will call him later today to get his read on things.
Barton announces, “I’m leaving now.” The statement is a declaration and not a request for permission, presenting a clear challenge to Scott’s authority. Legally, Scott could probably detain Barton longer, but little reason—apart from spite—exists in doing so. I also have an idea percolating that will only work if Barton is released. Scott looks at me out of the corner of his eye for advice, and I slightly shake my head.
Scott responds, “Okay. But before you go, can you look around the house to see if anything is missing?” Barton hesitates. The mental wheels turn hard in his head. He doesn’t want to cooperate but knows that the request is a reasonable one. Barton nods grimly, and another officer prepares to escort Barton through the house. As they leave the room, Scott warns, “Don’t touch anything.” Barton looks back in silence before skulking out behind the officer, already regretting his agreement to help. With the husband gone, Scott looks at me and comments, “Lawyers.”
“I have an idea.”
“Kill all the lawyers?”
I ignore the provocation and continue, “Have someone follow him when he leaves. It might be interesting to know where he goes at this time of night.”
Scott agrees and offers me a compliment of sorts, “Good thinking. That’s why I keep you around.” He makes the necessary arrangements with another detective before Barton comes back with the results of his search. Nothing appears to be missing, which lessens the chance that we’re looking at a robbery. With his assignment complete, Barton requests to pack a suitcase of clothes to take with him. Scott nips that plan in the bud.
“No. Nothing can be moved. I’m not through with the crime scene.”
An exasperated Barton asks, “Can I at least get my cell phone? I left it at home and have been without it all day.”
“No.”
Barton waits a moment but realizes that the battle is lost. He leaves without another word. An unmarked car follows Barton down the road from a discreet distance.
Little else remains to be done at this point. As I get ready to leave, Scott observes, “You know, he never asked who murdered his wife. Don’t you think that is strange?”
“Left his cell phone here all day yesterday, too.”
The police can track the movements of a suspect through the travels of his cell phone, but only if the suspect keeps the phone on his person.
Scott says, “Yep. He seemed to want to make sure that we knew that little tidbit.”
It’s 4:11 a.m. on the dash when I start the engine for the drive home. I haven’t mourned Amber and Cale since receiving Scott’s call. Three hours from now, I will be hard at work in my office.
This is my life.
3
It’s 7:30 a.m., and I am in my office, a desktop full of files in front of me. District Attorney Bobby Lewis—my boss—breezes in without knocking. Not someone to arrive at the courthouse early, he must know about the Sara Barton case. Bobby is a politician and, like all politicians, he loves the sound of his own voice on the evening news, especially during an election year.
Bobby deploys a plastic smile and declares, “Chance Meridian—my favorite prosecutor in the office.” False flattery is a favorite leadership tactic of his. He gets to the point.
“Lara Landrum’s sister. That’s big. First thing off the bat, the election. The murder of a prominent white Atlantan has a way of getting people interested in the goings on at the courthouse. They start paying attention, and we have to make sure that they like what they see. Do we have any suspects? Please tell me a white person killed her.”
I admire his candor. As a black Democrat, Bobby’s electoral position should be safe. But the subterranean issue of race always sits close to the surface in Atlanta. Bobby wants a white defendant because a white defendant is a no-lose proposition. The black community will applaud his vigorous pursuit of a white suspect for an attention-getting crime. The white community will be relieved that the murder is not the work of violent gangs terrorizing the city. Everyone wins.
Bobby realizes I won’t have much to tell him at this point, but I give him what I’ve got.
“Unless something has changed in the last three hours, no suspects yet. The husband is a jerk, was out late, and refused to talk to us, but that may just be his personality. No signs of forced entry are apparent, and the husband says nothing is missing from the house. Based on that, I don’t see a robbery or home invasion.”
“You think we can eliminate the possibility of gang involvement?”
“That’s my best bet.”
Bobby leaves me to my work. He and the police chief will no doubt soon have a joint press conference. Cameras are l
ike heroin to them.
***
Scott gives me an update later in the morning. I hear him smile over the phone. He says, “That idea to follow the husband hit pay dirt.”
“How so?”
“Well, we now know where his girlfriend lives. My guy follows him to Southern Towers. Barton goes in, but my guy has no idea which condo. He goes to the security guard’s desk, and what do you know, the security guard is my guy’s former partner, retired with the pension, just working on the side. He asks him about Barton, and the guard says Barton is there all the time visiting Monica Haywood, who is a lawyer with Barton’s firm. He also says Barton is an arrogant ass.”
“That does sound like someone we know.”
“No kidding. My guy asks if Barton was with his little girlfriend last night. The guard didn’t come on duty until midnight, so he doesn’t know. But he says he can provide my guy all the surveillance footage for the past twenty-four hours, which he does. My guy takes the video back to the station, watches, and voila, discovers that Barton left Southern Towers alone at 7:38 p.m. and did not return until my guy followed him back.”
“Did the girlfriend leave at any time?”
“My guy thought of that, but he didn’t know what she looked like so he couldn’t check yet.”
“Tell him to pull up the Marsh & McCabe website. She’ll have a profile page with her picture.”
I digest the new information. Barton has a girlfriend, he wasn’t with her at the time the murder was committed, and the first thing he does after learning about the murder of his wife is to go back to the girlfriend’s place. These revelations hardly make him a murderer, but they do him no favors. Like a hunter closing in on his prey, I feel a tingle of excitement at the commencement of the chase.
Scott’s last item of business leads me to cancel my afternoon plans. Lara Landrum is between films and staying at her Atlanta house. She wants to meet with police. Scott asks if I want to be there.
I take him up on the offer.
***
Jeff Yarber, Sam, and I used to be thick as thieves in law school. Now Jeff makes seven figures a year as a Marsh & McCabe partner. I call him, hoping to learn more about Bernard Barton. The news of Sara’s murder is already a hot topic around his office. He gives me the low down.
“Bernard is an acquired taste. He rubs a lot of people the wrong way. Arrogant. Difficult. Aggressive in court. Yet brilliant. Can be charming when he’s in the mood. Wins his cases. Clients love him. His opponents hate him. The staff is terrified of him. His partners tolerate him.”
I inquire about the Barton marriage.
“Bad. Real bad. Cheating on all sides. Bernard has always been a shark. He has hit on every pretty new associate to join the firm in the last twenty years. A few of them have succumbed to his advances. We’ve had to settle some harassment claims. He’s been warned repeatedly to no avail. Like I said, the clients love him, and that means everything in this business. What are you going to do?”
This mindset is why I hate big corporate law firms. Money rules. I keep these thoughts to myself. Instead I ask, “How serious are Barton and Monica Haywood?”
“You know about that already? You guys work fast. Honestly, I don’t know much. I’ve heard the rumors. All of us are pretty numb to it by now. It’s consensual. They’re two adults. I doubt it will end up being a long-term relationship.”
I know the Barton type. Every workplace has its own version. I move on to Sara, “You mentioned cheating by his wife?”
“Yeah, she’s having an affair with an associate in the firm named Brice Tanner. Or was, I guess.”
I process the information. Jeff doesn’t know about Sam and Sara Barton, which is just as well. But that’s two lovers and counting for my murder victim. I wonder, “How do you know they were having an affair?”
“There’s a video.”
“Really? A video?”
“Yeah, it’s crazy. I’ll send it to you. We had a firm party at the High Museum a few months ago. Sara came with Bernard, but they didn’t spend much time together. Instead, Sara glued herself to Brice, and the two of them started dirty dancing in front of everybody. They then went off by themselves to have sex, but the security cameras caught them in the act. A security guy made a copy, raised hell about it with one of my partners, and threatened to call the police. The partner gave the security guy a couple of hundred bucks in exchange for the video. The partner shared the video with one or two people, and it spread like a virus from there.”
“How did that go over with Barton?”
“Here’s the thing about Bernard. He never shows weakness. That’s his persona. To get upset about the tape would mean revealing he cares. He won’t do that. Indifference is the best revenge. Indifference to Sara, Brice, and those making fun of him tells them that they are not worthy of his time. That’s how he thinks. Now is he really okay with it? Doubtful. He’s too proud. But he’ll never admit it.”
I ask Jeff one last question, “Do you think he is capable of murder?”
“Aren’t we all?”
4
Hell.
Visions of that place of eternal damnation differ based on the person. Some see fire. Some see a funny looking devil with horns and a pitchfork. Some refuse to acknowledge the possibility at all.
I see the Fulton County morgue. Death and finality permeate the pores of every crevice and corner of the Dungeon, the name given long ago to the basement room that stores the dead. The air hangs with hopelessness. The coldness, the artificial light, the shadows, the smell—all contribute to the sense of nothingness, a place where color goes to die and life dare not show its face.
Barton stands awkwardly in the basement hall outside the Dungeon. Scott and I watch from a respectful distance. We’re all waiting on the coroner.
Dr. Cecil Magnus views punctuality with disdain and instead operates on his own unknowable clock. I don’t begrudge him this conceit. Born in the segregated South, Cecil became the first African-American coroner in the country a few years before I was born. Living through those times, he feels no need to toe anyone else’s line now.
Cecil arrives, and we all enter the Dungeon together. Barton gives a slight shiver in response to the cold.
“Which one?” Cecil barks.
“Sara Barton,” Scott responds.
Cecil grunts and heads to the bank of small silver doors that contain all of his dead bodies. Finding the one he’s looking for, he turns the latch and pulls out the long cold table. A gray bag with a zipper down the middle sits on the slab.
Cecil asks, “Next of kin?”
Scott points his head in Barton’s direction. Cecil waves Barton over. Scott and I arrange ourselves to get a good view of Barton’s face. Cecil continues with the ceremony.
“Name?”
“Bernard Barton.”
“Relationship with the deceased?”
“She was my wife.”
Satisfied with this answer, Cecil begins to unzip the bag. The sound of the zipper’s descent down the center of the body magnifies in the absence of any other noise. The zipper stops midway, and Cecil parts the bag at the top. After the coroner steps aside, Barton offers a quick glance before looking elsewhere.
“That’s her.”
“Sara Barton?”
“Yes.”
Cecil nods, zips up the bag, pushes the slab into its hole, and locks up. Scott and I escort Barton from the Dungeon and out of the building. The sunlight shines bright.
Scott says, “Mr. Barton, I know the timing is terrible, but we need to talk. This is a murder investigation. Time is of the essence.”
“No.”
“Don’t you want us to catch your wife’s killer?”
Barton heads to his car without another word and drives off.
“Chatty fellow,” Scott observes.
“I don’t think he likes you.”
***
Scott and I ride together to Lara Landrum’s house. I update him on the sex ta
pe of Sara Barton and Brice Tanner. He relays how he got Barton to identify the body.
“We need to ID the victim, right? Barton’s the obvious choice, and I want another crack at him. Two birds with one stone. But I can’t call him, you know, because we have his phone. I know from my guy, though, that he is still shacking up with the mistress. I call over there, the mistress answers, and I ask to speak with Bernard. All I get back is ‘umm,’ some muffled voices, and ‘he’s not here.’ But I know he is. So, screw it, I’m going over there myself.”
Scott’s phone rings. He answers and talks for a few minutes. I received his call about the murder a little over twelve hours ago, and now I’m about to meet Lara Landrum. The case is moving fast. Scott hangs up and picks up the thread.
“Where was I? I go over to Haywood’s place myself and bring three uniformed guys with me just to throw some intimidation around. Ring the doorbell, and the mistress answers. Again, I ask, ‘May I speak with Bernard Barton?’ Again, she answers, ‘He’s not here.’ I say, ‘Ms. Haywood, I know he’s here, and I know he has been here since 4 a.m. this morning.’ She looks at me, looks at the uniformed guys behind me, and you can see the panic. ‘Can I come in?’ She nods yes, and we’re in. She goes back to the bedroom. Barton emerges, ready to battle. ‘We need you to ID the body,’ I announce. That gets him. He was ready to go all lawyerly on me, but he can’t refuse that request. I have him. He agrees to come. I offer to drive him to the morgue, but he drives himself. You know the rest.”
“We still don’t have much. He hasn’t really given anything away.”
“But he knows we know about his mistress, and he knows we know where he’s been keeping himself today. We get inside his head, then he starts making mistakes.”
We arrive at the house and see hordes of press and television trucks. Unreal. We had seven murders in the county last week, and no one cared. But Lara Landrum’s connection to the case has brought out the wolves.
We park in the street. A uniformed officer guards the driveway and waves us through. We hear the clicks of the cameras behind us, capturing our every step. Scott rings the doorbell, and Lara herself cracks open the door to usher us in. She is all alone—no handlers, publicists, friends, hangers-on. Even under these horrible circumstances, her beauty breaks through. Most famous people look pedestrian in person. Lara Landrum is the real deal.
The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Page 2
