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

by Lance McMillian

  28

  The cabin is cold and uninviting, reflecting months of disuse. The idea to come up here sounded smart in Atlanta. Now the likely futility of the search seems foreordained. I don’t even know what I expect to discover—nothing usable as evidence for sure. Searching the place all alone destroys any hope of establishing a legitimate chain of custody. Probably should’ve thought of that before, I chide myself. But that’s not right. I know the score. I’m chasing something Sam didn’t want me to find. Nothing hidden up here is going to help my case.

  I start in the kitchen because it’s right next to the front door. The high places are populated by dead bugs and little else. The adjacent living area comes next, but the effort is cursory. Sam wouldn’t hide anything in such a high-traffic space. The used board games in the cabinet paint a nice tableau of a loving family enjoying one another’s company. The story warms the heart until you learn that dad was sexing up his client on the side. But that’s the thing about fairy tales—they were always dark until Disney got ahold of them.

  The master bedroom is the last room on the main level. Sam wouldn’t be brave enough to hide something sensitive in the same room as Liesa sleeps. No matter. Searching a house means being systematic in checking off one area at a time. Sifting through their clothes drawers strikes me as profoundly intimate and unseemly. I feel like a thief.

  I go through the children’s rooms upstairs without much enthusiasm. A walk-in attic holds some promise, but the pickings are sparse. I give the insulation panels a good hard look for any sign of disturbance, but come up with nothing. The false note in the otherwise perfect harmony of the house eludes me. I curse myself for the whole foolish enterprise and contemplate the drive home.

  Thoroughness compels me to check the back deck. The full moon provides a partial glimpse of what must be a beautiful view in the glory of full light. I glance to the right and see an outbuilding adjacent to the house. The decent-sized shed sets off the alarm bells in my head. Sometimes you just know. The answer I seek lies in there one way or another. If it’s not there, it ain’t anywhere. I just wasted an hour searching the cabin. The shed is the thing.

  ***

  The shed door is locked. I remember a set of keys on a hook in the kitchen and retrace my steps. One key fits. I pray the shed has electricity. I flip the only switch I can find, and the white light from the long, overhead fluorescent tubes flickers before catching. The surroundings before me lack the order of the main dwelling. The cabin is Liesa. The shed is Sam. I sit down on a small stool in the middle of things and scan the mess for the secret spot. I study the high places and see an unreachable shelf above the window from which Sam’s workbench looks out upon the valley below. That’s an odd place to put a shelf. A box on the shelf advertises itself as being a carton of motor oil. I’m dubious.

  I move the stool next to the workbench and use the former to climb upon the latter. The built-in bench is made of stern stuff and easily holds my weight. I stand on my toes and grab a box far too light to be full of motor oil. I come down the way I went, sit back again on the stool, and dive into the box to see if my unplanned trip to the mountains was all for naught.

  The file sits under a few layers of crumbled newspapers. I take it out and hold it with the same delicacy as if I were holding a newborn. I lay the newspapers down and put the file on top of them to protect it from the grime that covers the floor. File is actually a misnomer. Before me instead is a two-inch wide, expandable redwell file holder with the case name of Barton v. Barton plastered on the outside. Various smaller folders with different labels fill the redwell, representing the work product of the conscientious divorce lawyer—pleadings, discovery requests and responses, correspondence, orders, originals, financials, legal research, factual investigation. Since the divorce never made it to the courthouse, most of the folders are slim pickings. I locate a copy of the same investigative file Sam gave me some months back—nothing new there. I analyze everything in the redwell one page at a time, determined not to miss the needle in the haystack. And then I’m done. Nothing.

  I don’t panic. Sam placed the file in this unusual location for a specific reason. I stare hard at the redwell and the assorted contents of the file now scattered haphazardly on the crumbled newspapers. I inspect the motor oil carton again. Sam hid the redwell in the box under the crumpled newspapers, but other newspapers also lined the bottom of the box. I snatch them up and find a manila folder. Sam’s handwritten note—DO NOT OPEN/ATTORNEY-CLIENT PRIVILEGED—graces the front. “You sneaky bastard,” I mutter to myself. Why all the trouble?

  Ignoring Sam’s rather pointed instructions, I open the folder. Photographs. Lots of photographs. A deep breath fails to soothe my racing nerves. The first few photos show Brice Tanner entering the front door of Sara Barton’s residence. Why was Sam staking out the house of his own client? That question evaporates with stunning speed when I view the next photos of Brice and Sara engaged in a decathlon of sexual olympics in the Barton bedroom. The photos are dated in ink in Sam’s handwriting and cover multiple meetings between Brice and Sara. The last date noted is the day before the murder. Damn.

  The photos are close up—too close. Assuming Brice and Sara didn’t willingly allow Sam to stand there so he could take some great action shots, Sam must’ve placed a hidden camera in the room. What the hell? I should’ve stayed in Atlanta.

  Things get even weirder when the next series of photos show Sam and Sara in the act. One shot captures an angry Sam looking directly at the camera in a pose of sneering defiance. My heart sinks as I study my dead friend to assess his state of mind. He put a camera in Sara Barton’s bedroom, filmed the two of them having sex, and flashed a scowl of pure malice at the camera in flagrante delicto. He hated Sara. The bastard hated her.

  I scan the remaining photos, fearful that yet another man sleeping with the victim may pop up and sink my case even further. But no. I’m spared that at least. The last few photos feature a naked Sara walking about in the bedroom. The best shots capture her coming and going, leaving nothing to the imagination, illuminating the same glorious body of her sister, the same flawless breasts. I stare at the images longer than I should, thankful for the momentary distraction from my growing doubt in Sam.

  I stand up to stretch and get some fresh air. If Millwood gets his hands on those photographs, Barton walks. The story writes itself. Obsessed man kills his lover in a fit of jealous rage because she slept with another man. He finds a gun in her bedroom—a gun loaded by her husband—and shoots her with it, dumping the gun in a nearby park before pretending to find the body and calling the police. Motive. Means. Opportunity. The cherry on top is that the murderer then goes into the woods to kill himself out of a deep sense of guilt.

  Millwood can’t get these photos.

  The mountain air refreshes after the growing claustrophobia of the shed. I kick a few pieces of gravel rock into the woods for no particular reason. My duty as a prosecutor requires me to turn any exculpatory evidence in my possession over to the defense. I don’t ever intend to see a single dawn with these photos in my possession. I could burn them. No one would ever know. Probably. But destroying evidence is a serious crime and would cost me my law license if caught, maybe jail. That’s more gruel than I can stomach. The other choice is to put everything back where I found it. I return to the shed, grab a rag, and try my best to wipe my prints from the pictures before returning them to the manila folder. Back at the bottom of the box, the manila folder disappears under the layering of the crumbled newspapers and the redwell. I return the erstwhile motor oil box back to its place high on the shelf. All is as it was before.

  Except one thing.

  I keep the two images of a nude Sara Barton. The act is as stupid as it is juvenile, and the shame leans heavy on my conscience. But the photos remind me of Lara, and the force of her gravitational pull overwhelms my will. I stash the contraband out-of-sight under the driver’s seat.

  ***

  The drive home is a t
ennis match between Lara and Sam as they volley fiercely for my thoughts. Did Sam kill Sara? That I have to ask the question at this late date feels like a defeat. The Barton trial will begin soon. Until tonight, all the evidence pointed to the defendant. I wipe the mental decks clean and tackle the question afresh. Nothing I saw tonight actually exonerates Barton. The evidence against him still stands. The photos in the secret box only serve to raise doubts about Sam. He stalked the victim and committed many crimes in doing so. But did he kill her?

  I don’t see it. I don’t see him shooting her, walking down the street to ditch the gun, walking back, and then returning to the house to call the police to the scene. Sam Wilkins wasn’t that composed. Kill her, grab his hidden camera on the go, and run—maybe I could see that, but not the other. I nod my head in agreement with my analysis of the case. Sam didn’t kill her. Barton remains on the hook.

  Reaching this conclusion is not a linear process. At times, I imagine Lara naked. I see myself in her, on her, and under her. Back and forth, the competing lines of thoughts between Sam and Lara battle for my attention. I arrive home mentally and physically exhausted, confident that Sam was not a murderer and that I would soon hold Lara again in my arms.

  ***

  That night I wrap my legs around Lara’s body as we soak together in a decadent bath.

  The recent troubles between us go unmentioned—a much-appreciated détente as I try to focus my emotional energy toward the trial. The warm water and Lara’s balmy body soothe the rough edges off me, infiltrating my pores to massage down deep to my soul. The effect revitalizes. I needed a good cleansing. We’ll make love later—gentle-like, I envision. Now, though, sex is unnecessary. The moment is perfect as is.

  ***

  I wake up feeling full the next morning. When I turn over to reach for Lara, her pensive stare disarms my intended motion. The sense that she has been looking at me for a long time takes root. I offer a smile, but she’s not interested.

  She grumbles, “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

  “I’m going in.”

  “I’m worried you’re not taking the case seriously enough. Bernard must pay for what he did to my sister.”

  She says the strangest things at the strangest moments. My puzzlement gives way to hurt, and I do a poor job of hiding it.

  She groans, “Don’t be a baby. Perhaps we shouldn’t see each other until the trial is over. We can be together after that.”

  She sounds like a “Dear John” letter. Even worse, she pats my hand in a wretched show of sympathy—the bedside manner of Dr. Frankenstein. The tenderness of last night dissolved before I even had time to savor it. Mornings are hell on this relationship.

  “Sure,” I snap.

  I rise up, get ready, and go into work just as she wants—the fullness in me now drained to empty.

  29

  The trial begins in less than a week. I always like to have a final plea conference in a case because you never know. Maybe the defendant wants to deal. So Millwood comes to my office, formerly his office. We sit across from each other, separated by a calm sea of brown—my desk. Nothing sits on it. No pictures. No telephone. Not even my laptop, which I keep on a small table to the side. The cleanliness projects a sense of order and sells the message that I have things under control. I’m not so sure.

  Meeting Millwood tickles my nerves. So many times over the years we would huddle together in this same spot. I learned to be a lawyer in this room, devouring every crumb of wisdom as if it were manna from God Himself. Now our seats across the table are reversed. I sit in the big man’s chair.

  The recognition unsettles. I feel like an imposter, a boy wearing his father’s clothes that just don’t fit. I’m good at what I do. I know that. But I fear I’ll never be as good a trial lawyer as my teacher, despite my best efforts. And the thought of having to face him, in the biggest case of my life no less, awakens a tremor of insecurity that I didn’t even know was there. What if I don’t measure up?

  Maybe Barton will accept a plea and make all this unpleasantness go away. Millwood offers the first salvo.

  “Dismiss all the charges, and we’ll call it a day. We won’t even insist on an apology.”

  “Wow. That’s very generous. I run that up to Bobby, and he won’t let you leave the building without a signed agreement.”

  “Bobby always had a nose for a good deal.”

  We each offer a little laugh, not even sure what we’re laughing about. The joking aside, Millwood gives me a look that says, “Get on with it. This is your party.” I’ve seen that look before.

  “Twenty-five to life.” Millwood shakes his head.

  “No dice.”

  “It’s a good deal.”

  “Not for an innocent man.”

  “You have a counter?”

  “He is not going to agree to any time. He won’t do it.”

  “He’s that confident?”

  “He didn’t do it. You want him to confess to something he didn’t do?”

  Bemusement fills my face. I’m not even faking it. How many defense lawyers have sat in that chair and said those exact words to Millwood? The comparison lightens my anxiety about what I’m up against. Millwood now is just another defense lawyer with a guilty client. I can beat him.

  “We have the gun, Jack.”

  “I’m not denying it’s his gun, but more people have visited that house than attended the Hawks game last night. Anybody could’ve gotten their hands on that gun.”

  I figured that would be the way they would play it, but it is nice to get confirmation. I counted nineteen different people with potential access to the gun—Barton, Sam, Brice, and Monica most prominent among them.

  I ask, “Where was he during the time of the murder?”

  “You have Monica Haywood’s statement.”

  The wording is curious. He doesn’t contend that Barton was actually with Monica, only that she claimed it. I already produced to him the surveillance video from Monica’s condo that showed Barton leaving before the murder. I assume Millwood knows that Monica must be lying in light of the video.

  I say, “I don’t believe her.”

  “Obviously.”

  We run out of words. No plea deal will be reached. The trial of Bernard Barton for the murder of Sara Barton begins Monday.

  ***

  The home phone rings. Should I answer? Yes. She won’t stop calling if I don’t.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “One of my wine glasses is missing.”

  “Have you notified the police?”

  “Stop it. I’m serious.”

  “Just kidding. I meant to tell you that I broke it when I was staying at the house. I’ll buy you a new one.”

  A man should not lie to this mother. But for my relationship with Lara, the wine glass never would’ve been broken, which means I can honestly say that I broke the glass. I know how it sounds. Very lawyerlike. Nevertheless, I stand behind the statement. Mom is not satisfied.

  “You don’t drink wine. You never drink wine. And you never drink out of my wine glasses. You always use the plastic tumblers. Was somebody else here at the house with you?”

  Lord have mercy. The woman is a better detective than Scott. She has a nose for stories that don’t smell quite right, always has. I could lie about drinking wine on this one occasion, and it would be a lie that would be impossible for her to disprove. But a man shouldn’t lie to his mother. I try another tack. Truthful sarcasm.

  “You caught me, Mom. I brought a woman to the house. I said something that upset her, and she smashed your wine glass right against your fireplace. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”

  I have total recall of the scene, the aftermath of learning about Sam’s death. I think back to one of my English classes in college, where everything had a symbolic meaning that transcended the literal, and I see the broken glass as a metaphor for the relationship between Lara and me. The jagged edges promise pain if I don’t handle them exactly right. Even then I may
nick myself by accident. Sharp objects carry that inherent risk.

  Mom snaps, “You don’t have to be an ass and talk to me like that.”

  “I’m sorry, but you know I have the biggest trial of my life coming up, and you’re giving me the third degree about a wine glass.”

  “Fine. How is that going anyway? Have you talked to Lara Landrum lately? My friends keep asking me. Did you decide to handle her testimony like I told you?”

  Part of me wants to tell her that Lara Landrum broke her wine glass just to experience the wonder of her reaction. But no. I close my eyes and continue the conversation.

  ***

  Staring out my office window at the fading afternoon sun, a wave of loneliness sinks my mood. The sad reality is that I have nothing to do and no place to go. I’m ready for the trial. The work I could manufacture requires conferencing with Ella, and that’s a non-starter. The condo means the tempest of Lara. The thought of home fares no better. I live in a museum filled with ghosts, and I feel like a stranger to its history. I consider a hotel. Instead I just sit.

  A wandering mind has no peace, and mine is no different. Trying not to think about anything leads to a torrent of random, unsequenced thoughts more fitting in a dream. I think of Otis Redding—another Georgia boy from the country. My father did legal work for him long before I was born. The possibility of leaving my home in Georgia to sit on a dock of a bay 2,000 miles from here is tempting. Otis died in a plane crash three days after recording that song. He was 26. I try to recapture all the lyrics, but lose the thread somewhere before thinking about the next thing—the Battle of Antietam. Over twenty-two thousand Yankee and Rebel casualties of war in a single day. For what? The world is mad.

  The mind eventually settles on Erin Riggs—the first girl I ever kissed. Friday night. The football game. Underneath the bleachers. A cool fall night. Awkward. Clumsy. Amazing. She moved away the following spring, and I moped around town for a full two weeks. Never saw her again. I swivel toward my computer and search her out for a good thirty minutes, happy to have something to do. The hunt grows cold. She probably got married, changed her name. Would I even recognize her? Maybe she was on one of my juries along the way. Whatever she looks like now, the vision of her that night materializes before me as if she were in the room right now. Erin Riggs.