The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1)

by Lance McMillian

  “Do you really believe that about me?”

  “It would explain a lot.”

  “The answer to your question is no.”

  I leave her there in my chair—bewildered and anguished at the man who refuses to love her. I head home, thinking of another woman and placing all my hopes of salvation on her.

  ***

  Monday morning follows an aimless weekend without Lara. I didn’t work, didn’t shave, didn’t leave the house, didn’t dwell on the awkwardness with Ella. Freed from the hurry of the trial, the separation from Lara hit me with maximum velocity. I missed her and lacked purpose in the vacuum created by her absence. The only relevant moments of Saturday and Sunday were our brief conversations on the phone. I remember little else. Back at my desk, work doesn’t hold the same interest as before, and I’m at a loss on how to go about my day. Lara returns to town tonight.

  “Bobby wants to meet us.”

  Ella’s words break me out of my mental haze. Her presence in my office comes as a surprise. I get up slowly and fight the heaviness of my legs. The story is the same after every trial. My body needs time to re-adjust. As the years advance, the recovery period lengthens. The thought of another tiresome meeting with Bobby increases the weight of the walk. Ella leads me through the relevant door.

  “Surprise!”

  I flinch against the yell that greets me as I enter the room. I look around, gather my bearings, and register various constituencies of the District Attorney’s Office. Everyone smiles at me, the apparent guest of honor. Today is not my birthday, not even in the remote vicinity. The meaning behind this gathering mystifies. Ella beams. I see a cake. I smile awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

  Bobby emerges from somewhere, carrying a large smile with him, and motions for everyone to gather around. He addresses me:

  “We all know you’re the hardest working person in the office. You set an example for all of us to follow. You make me look good every day, and I personally appreciate it. We have tough jobs here. We see the very worst of humanity, and the public expects us to make sure that those who are most dangerous do not walk free. It is important work, and you know more than anyone the high cost crime exacts on its victims. Even after enduring a personal tragedy no one should ever have to endure, you didn’t give up the fight. You rededicated yourself to the pursuit of justice, and we all draw inspiration from what you do and the professionalism with which you do it. We want to say thank you and to congratulate you on another win at trial. May Corey Miller never see the light of freedom again.”

  Applause.

  The staff finishes clapping, and pats on the backs go around. The attention appropriately humbles me, but the slow shame stings. Public disclosure that I’m sleeping with a witness in the office’s biggest case would make everyone in this room look bad. Guilt by association.

  Bobby adds, “There is more. Ella, your turn.”

  Ella moves next to him and starts:

  “As Bobby said, we all see how hard you work. We also know that you’ve been working non-stop without a break for a couple of years now. We think you need a vacation. We all pitched in and reserved you a cabin in the North Carolina Highlands starting Wednesday through Sunday. You can go off by yourself and recharge, but you cannot take any work! You are a great mentor and a friend. You inspire us, and we love you.”

  She hugs me, wiping away tears from her eyes as she does so. The guilt I feel stabs the heart repeatedly. Everyone applauds again—the praise heaping burning coals on my head.

  Bobby emphasizes, “And you have to take the time off! No work! That’s an order! We need you rested and focused for the Barton trial.”

  More applause.

  People in the office have long encouraged me to take a vacation. I’ve always resisted. But things are different now. I put my guilty conscience to the side. I think of Lara and agree to go to the mountains.

  ***

  Before I leave, Scott and I meet to discuss Barton. As part of the investigation, Scott periodically sends officers to stake out the Barton place. Turns out that Monica Haywood has moved in. Apparently, the two lovebirds are engaged.

  I exclaim, “What?”

  “She is living there. Her condo is empty and for sale. Everything has been moved out.”

  “Is he insane? Does he want to get convicted?”

  “He doesn’t care about appearances, does he?”

  “Millwood can’t know. No way he would allow that. The jury will convict Barton for epic bad taste if nothing else.”

  Barton’s arrogance continues to puzzle me. He can’t be so stupid. Maybe his sense of superiority is so ingrained that he can’t control himself. I don’t know. But I do know juries, and arrogance never plays well. Once the jury decides it doesn’t like a defendant, the odds of that defendant escaping conviction near zero. Barton is dancing with fire. Millwood would tell him the same.

  Scott says, “They finally got you to take a vacation, huh? Good. I had an idea about that.”

  “What?”

  “You should take Ella.”

  “I thought you were going to tell me to take you.”

  “You’re not my type.”

  I shrug, hoping to deflect further Ella talk. Scott continues to assess me, making clear he wants some kind of answer.

  I offer, “I want to be alone. Think about things. It will do me some good. Ella understands.”

  “She’s not going to wait forever. You’re making a mistake.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  20

  Lara radiates beauty on the drive to the mountains. A fear gripped me that California would change her back into a famous movie star, too good for someone so pedestrian as me. That kind of worry eats at a person, exposing the fine line between love and torture. On Monday night, I paced around the condo waiting for her with panicked nervousness, watching the slow clock tick. When she came through the door, relief flooded me. She was mine again. Two days later, we make our way to the mountains.

  The cabin is perfect—secluded from prying eyes, views that go on for miles, welcoming solid wood. I walk the circumference of the wraparound porch a full three times to bask in the glory. The setting is like paradise, our own little Eden tucked away in the North Carolina hills.

  Lara takes the opportunity afforded by the privacy to walk around the cabin stark naked, as if doing so is the most natural thing in the world. I stare stupefied. The planned grocery run will keep.

  Entwined together in bed, the random shadows cast by the bright but fading sun draw patterns across our skin. Lara snuggles closer to me, using both my body and the last remnants of the day’s allotment of sunshine to keep herself warm. The mystery of light has always fascinated me. I was born a creature of the day, rising farm early, eager to experience the new horizons that burst anew with each sunrise. Somewhere along the way I became a creature of the night. Amber and Cale’s murders accelerated the trend, but I blame the city. No one goes outside during the day in the city.

  We finally make it to town to stock up on supplies. Lara sports a wig, glasses, and a Braves cap to hide her identity. The transformation works. I don’t even recognize her. The charade excites me. It’s as if I’m perpetuating a massive heist on an unsuspecting world—the possessor of secret knowledge that belongs to me alone.

  Back at the cabin Lara wears the wig even when it’s time for bed. “Pretend I’m someone else,” she says. “Pretend you’re someone else.” The thought is a strange one for me. I’ve never been anyone other than myself. “You can be anyone you want to be,” she adds to encourage me. “Who do you want to be?” I consider the question and land on an answer.

  I want to be a man who is free from consequences.

  Following Lara’s lead, I embrace the role and submit to the power of imagination, both mine and hers. From far inside of myself, I see two strangers in the night play out their parts with reckless intensity, the woman firmly in control, slowly kidnapping the man and transporting him to places he has ne
ver before been.

  ***

  Friday afternoon arrives. I sit on the back porch by myself, reading a book, enthralled with breathing the mountain air in a carefree environment. Living in the city surrounded by death has worn me down. I should’ve escaped much sooner.

  A voice calls me into the cabin. Lara, the wig long gone, stands in the archway of the bedroom wearing a look of desire and nothing else. “Come here,” she says, summoning me with her right index finger. I put the book down and do as I am told.

  I dance with Lara on the bed in a series of unscripted movements. The motions are unhurried. Laughter and joy accompany our explorations. I savor each long kiss, thankful to no longer be alone. I lower myself on top on her and begin a gentle rhythm.

  The mood in the room changes slightly without warning. My mind picks up on the subtle shift but is slow in sending any messages to the rest of my body. I continue my movement while the woman underneath me focuses on something else.

  Lara asks, “Can I help you?”

  She is not talking to me, and this detour is not one of her role-plays. Someone else is in the room. The hairs on my neck stand up in full fear mode. I flash on possible weapons and strike out. I stop, turn, and see her. My first thought surprises me. She’s beautiful. The metamorphosis from business dress to casual wear highlights her delightful face and the joyful perkiness of her personality.

  She storms out of the room.

  “Ella, wait!”

  I throw on a pair of boxers and give chase. I make the front door as Ella nears her car.

  “Wait!”

  The gravel driveway cuts into my bare feet as I step across toward her.

  “Ella, please!”

  She turns to face me.

  “What?”

  That she speaks is a relief until I realize I have nothing to say. I just wanted her to stop, for everything to stop, for the world to go back to the way it was a few moments ago.

  “What?” Her voice rises.

  “I don’t know.”

  She does her damnedest to avoid tears—burying her hurt to keep it below the surface. She resorts to anger instead. The contempt is chilling. She might as well be staring at Corey Miller.

  “Look at yourself!”

  I don’t do it and keep my attention on her. The expression on my face reveals a painful authenticity—no filter, no calculated look, no mask. The message is a mystery to me, but it’s real whatever it is. I have no control over anything out here. I’m naked.

  “Look at yourself!”

  This time I listen and take a self-inventory—no clothes except plaid underwear, goose bumps erupting on my cold flesh, and beat-up feet dying a slow death from a thousand cuts. The picture would be comedic in other contexts. But no one is smiling in this scene. Even worse, what I glimpse on the inside is far uglier than external appearances. I see a man exposed. Ella sees him, too.

  She gets in her car, starts it up, and drives away. The tires kick up dust from the gravel, covering me in the grimy residue. I stand there in a sea of helplessness, too stunned to anticipate the myriad different ways the future could break from this point forward.

  I drag myself back to the cabin.

  21

  We drive home from the mountains two days later. With every mile closer to the city, the weight on my chest bears down a little more. Ella’s short visit cast a pall over the rest of the weekend. I never got around to finishing that book.

  The maintenance of my secret now rests in the hands of a person slapped in the face by my betrayal. The uncertainty of what will happen Monday morning hovers over me like an unannounced jury verdict. I don’t wait well. Bobby will run me out of the office on a rail if he learns the truth, and I fear that Lara will not hang around if I cannot deliver the justice I promised for her sister.

  Looking over at her as she sleeps against the passenger window, I dive deep into the depths of my feelings toward this woman. Her presence next to me is no accident. Lara spent the week with me in that cabin instead of Ella for a reason. I chose Lara and may even love her. Sometimes things are that simple.

  ***

  “What do you think she is going to do?”

  Lara’s words jolt me out of a faraway trance. I didn’t realize she was awake. The last five minutes driving on dangerous mountain roads are an unrecollected blur. I wince in distress at my slippery grasp on events. Holding the steering wheel tighter, I answer the question.

  “I don’t know.”

  “A woman scorned.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “That’s what you think.” Her words carry an authoritative tone that conveys the message that she knows of which she speaks. I wonder what man would ever be fool enough to reject Lara Landrum. I don’t dare ask. She continues, “Will the D.A. take you off the case?”

  “Yes.”

  “You better talk to her then.”

  I nod. Feeling vulnerable, I run my hand down her thigh for reassurance. A hint of a flinch follows, but she allows the hand to stay. I keep it there until the next curve of the road demands otherwise. I feel like a man living on borrowed time.

  ***

  I knock on Ella’s condo door shortly after returning to the city.

  “It’s you.”

  Her voice conveys no anger, just sadness. I follow her into the living room. We sit on opposite couches—the prosecution and the defense. The apartment’s furnishings are sleek, stylish, sexy even. The whole vibe is one of promise and possibility. The contrast with my own furniture stuck to the past strikes me as somehow symbolic.

  We measure each other. I pray she’ll break the silence, but she’s not budging. I taught her well. Make the other party state his position first. I say the only thing I can.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  Good question. I’m sorry I hurt Ella, but not for what I did. I’m mainly sorry she found me out.

  “Everything.”

  “Not good enough. You don’t get to come in here and offer a sorry-ass sorry and put everything back together again. You have a lot to answer for.”

  “I’m sorry for the man that I am then. I’m sorry that I’m weak and stupid. I’m sorry I hurt you. I never wanted that. I’m sorry my wife and son are dead. I’m sorry Lara is a witness in our murder case. I’m sorry the world is such a terrible place—me included. Sorriness follows me like a black cloud. I can’t get away from it.”

  The force of my self-indictment knocks her back a bit. Her mood returns to sadness. We mourn in silence, avoid looking at the other, and sink under the feeling of what’s unsaid. When our eyes again meet, a single tear runs down her left cheek.

  “Why her?”

  The answer probably has so many layers that I would never get to the bottom of it if I spent the rest of my life digging for the truth. Lara’s own vulnerability played a part for sure—tragedy seeking out tragedy and all that. But I could’ve been happy with Ella. It didn’t have to be Lara.

  “I don’t know.”

  She accepts that for a time, then observes, “She’s very beautiful.”

  “So are you.”

  “She’s white.”

  “Ella.”

  “Maybe you’re a racist without even knowing it. How many white people have you put on death row?”

  Her words are terribly unfair, but I keep my thoughts to myself. I deserve whatever censure she decides to dole out.

  She again asks, “Then why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  More tears. Part of me longs to cry with her, but I can’t. I didn’t cry when Amber and Cale died, and I don’t cry now.

  “Here’s the thing,” Ella continues. “I waited for you. I gave you space. I gave you time. I knew you had to heal but believed that we would be together in the end. I felt it. I thought you felt it, too, that we had this silent understanding between us. Now I think everything was all in my imagination, that I was just some dumb lovestruck schoolgirl holding on to promises t
hat were never made. I wasted two years of my life. Am I just a fool?”

  “No. I had feelings for you. I still do. Maybe too strong feelings. I had feelings for you even before Amber died. Maybe guilt over that paralyzed me. I don’t know. You’re asking me to explain actions I cannot explain.”

  The part about Amber gets her attention—and mine. Not for the first time, pinpricks of conscience needle me, as if I willed Amber dead to begin a love affair with another woman. The feeling is hard to shake.

  As if reading my thoughts, Ella reassures me, “You never did anything close to inappropriate. You were a good and faithful husband. You’re the most strait-laced, by-the-book person I know, which is why …” She doesn’t need to finish. The hurt is not only personal. I also failed her professionally as someone she looked up to.

  I transition to the workplace side of the equation.

  “I need to know what you’re going to do tomorrow when you go into the office.”

  “I don’t know.”

  The unknown hangs in the air. The beat of my heart reverberates inside my head. I’m here tonight because I want the case. Ella asks, “What should I do?”

  “Tell Bobby.”

  “Your career in the D.A.’s office will be over. Bobby will have to get rid of you and hope the case doesn’t get blown to hell.”

  She searches for wisdom out the window, wrestling internally with herself.

  “I’ll keep your secret.” Agreeing to the falsehood, she becomes smaller and weaker, poisoned by my deceit. She is now my accomplice and not happy about it. I should resign, spare her this pain. But I won’t. I can’t. I made a promise to Lara.

  “There are some conditions. You have to break it off with her. You can’t keep sleeping with a witness. You know that. Also, she’s my witness at trial. I’ll take the responsibility for prepping her and I’ll handle her questioning. You’re too close to the situation. You need some distance from her.”

  “Those are reasonable terms.”

  “I have your word?”

  “Yes.”

  Ella starts to walk me out. She says, “There’s something else I need to tell you.”