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

  THE MURDER OF SARA BARTON

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  THE MURDER OF SARA BARTON

  Copyright © 2020 Lance McMillian

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without permission of the author.

  Published by Bond Publishing

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any person living or deceased to a character in the novel are purely coincidental.

  eBook Formatting and Cover Design by FormattingExperts.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

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  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  THE MURDER OF SARA BARTON

  LANCE MCMILLIAN

  For Carla—My Favorite Lawyer and Judge

  1

  Sleep eludes me. Lying in bed allows the mind to roam free, but my untamed thoughts know only one destination. Amber and Cale—my dead wife and my dead son. And when I think of them, I think of him. Mr. Smith—the unknown man who murdered my family two years ago. The name is my own invention. When the case failed to close quickly, I needed to personalize my hatred. And Mr. Smith was born.

  Because of my position in the District Attorney’s Office, the investigation into the murders of my wife and child spared no expense. The trail is now cold. The mystery of Mr. Smith’s identity leads to the mystery of his motive. Speculation eats at me. One thought terrifies me above all others—that Amber and Cale are dead because of me, because of who I am, what I do. That fear is why I cannot sleep. The weight is too much.

  Escape is the only salvation. Ever since the killings, work is my refuge—nights, weekends, holidays. I never vacation. Chasing murderers shields me from the pain. Some people drink. Some choose drugs. Some hunt sex. I work. I figure to disappear into work for a few years, wake up one day, and find myself cured. But that is a lie. If you run long enough, you eventually come back to the place you started.

  ***

  The phone rings. It is my friend, Detective Scott Moore. He wastes no time. “We have another one.”

  “Where?”

  “A residence in Virginia Highlands. High profile. You’re going to want to see it.”

  He gives me the address. The time is 1:14 a.m.—another sleepless night that I devote to the dead. As the deputy district attorney for all homicides in Fulton County, visiting murder scenes falls well outside my job description. I’m a lawyer, not an investigator. But lately I voyage out at all hours to stare into the faces of the newly condemned and imagine what terrors seized them as they took their last breaths. I ponder Amber and Cale’s final, desperate thoughts. Despite my wish to flee from the past, the nature of my work keeps me on a short leash. Death abounds, and I take a strange comfort in its arms.

  I believe in God, in Jesus. But I don’t talk to God anymore. I have nothing to say. Not that I blame Him for what happened. God didn’t kill my family. Mr. Smith did. He made a choice to pull that trigger. Free will is a weapon of mass destruction, and the collateral damage left in its wake falls like poisoned rain from the sky. So I still believe; I just don’t feel. Faith in my God survives in the head, but the heart is dry of emotion. I am empty.

  ***

  I arrive at the scene. Virginia Highlands is an upscale section of Atlanta, close to downtown. The house is old with character, typical of the neighborhood, expensive, but not flashy. Scott meets me as I mount the front steps. I ask, “What do we have?”

  “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

  I follow him to the kitchen and see a female body dead on the floor. The body’s face stops me cold. I turn to Scott, who grins like a happy father watching his children open presents on Christmas morning.

  “Is that—”

  “Her twin sister.” Scott flashes a smile of triumph at my expression of surprise. I turn again to analyze the body. Staring back at me is the spitting image of Lara Landrum, one of the most famous actresses in the world. The lifeless figure is soaked in blood from an apparent gunshot wound to the chest. She died quick.

  Scott supplies me with the remaining particulars.

  “Vic’s name is Sara Barton, 36. Married to Bernard Barton, a lawyer. Know him?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well, we can’t find him. No children. No other family besides her famous sister as far as we can tell. Initial estimated time of death between 9 and 10 p.m. Neighbors did not hear gunshots or see anyone at the house but heard arguing in the street, time uncertain. No signs of a break-in. The victim’s divorce lawyer discovered the body and called 911 at 10:03 p.m.”

  “Divorce lawyer?”

  “Weird, huh?”

  “What’s the lawyer’s name?”

  “Sam Wilkins.”

  “Really?”

  “Know him?”

  “Yeah. From law school.”

  Non-lawyers cannot understand the sense of kinship forged among law students. No matter how far we drift away from one another in subsequent years, the closeness remains. I call it the bond of survival. Sam’s moment of truth came in Professor Ryan’s Civil Procedure class. When called on to discuss the famous case of Pennoyer v. Neff, Sam completely imploded, botching even the most basic questions. Ryan’s parting shot left a mark: “Mr. Wilkins, save your parents some money. Quit law school now. Don’t delay the inevitable.” Afterwards, a despondent Sam prepared to quit. I talked him back off the ledge. Now, he is a successful divorce lawyer, who apparently makes late night house calls to visit his clients. I don’t like it.

  “Is he here?”

  Scott nods, and we descend to the basement. There sits Sam, wearing the look of the damned. Scott dismisses the police officer standing watch. When Sam sees me, his whole demeanor changes from dread to relief.

  “Thank God you are here, Chance.”

  “Good to see you, Sam.” We shake hands. For a second he seems close to hugging me but stops at the handshake. Before Scott and I even say another word, Sam launches into defense mode.

  “I know it looks bad. What lawyer visits a client’s house this late? But Sara wanted to file her divorce papers tomorrow morning, and she had to sign the verification to the complaint before we could file. She didn’t like meeting at the office, so she told me to come over at ten. I wouldn’t normally do that for a client, but there is a lot of money to be made on this case. Or there was. Now she’s dead. I can’t believe it.”

  Scott and I look at each other then turn back to Sam. He leaks nervousness. I tell myself that if I were innocent and in his spot, then maybe I would be filled with anxiety, too. But
something about him still smells off. Sam gives me a peculiar look, and alarm bells clamor. A memory stored in an unused warehouse of my brain stirs from the distant past. Something significant just happened, but I have no idea what. Sam launches into another monologue.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have come over here. I should’ve insisted that she drop by my office. I didn’t want to come. I told her. I asked about her husband. She said he had to work and would not be back until after midnight, if at all. She was persistent like that, and I came over against my better judgment. The client is always right and all that. I rang the doorbell. No answer. I knocked. No answer. I tried the door. It was unlocked. I walked in, said hello, anybody here. Everything’s quiet. I went to the kitchen and there she was. Lying on the floor. It was awful. I cannot believe this is happening to me.” He pauses before adding, “I didn’t kill her.”

  Scott gives Sam a disbelieving look, and Sam wilts in the glare. Giving up on Scott, he turns toward me on the verge of tears.

  “You gotta believe me. I didn’t kill her.”

  Sam is embarrassing himself at this point. A lawyer should never ramble. Scott and I have yet to ask him a single question, and still he cannot shut up. Our silent treatment is by design. Most witnesses become uncomfortable with the quiet and rush to fill the void. Talking takes the place of the silence that judges them.

  Sam complains, “Are you guys going to say anything? I’m in the hot seat here.”

  Scott and I continue our quiet vigil. Sam pivots to Scott and then back my way, his anxious eyes begging me to speak. Watching him, the mysterious thought trapped deep in my subconscious emerges in full force. The implications click in an instant—the ghost of Becky Johnson rises again.

  I drift back to the first year of law school at the University of Georgia. One Friday night, our circle of friends went to hear a new band play at the Georgia Theatre. Sam begged out at the last minute. We assumed that he ditched us to be with his girlfriend Natalie until we observed her partying on the front row. The next day, Sam explained to me that he had decided to study at home instead of going to the show. As he spoke, his face revealed an odd assortment of conflicting messages—uncertainty, nervousness, guilt, fear. The taint of deceit was unmistakable. I cross-examined him with bloody determination to force his confession—the only thing Sam had studied the night before was Becky Johnson, a third-year law student.

  I turn to Scott.

  “Can you leave us alone for a few minutes?”

  Other detectives would balk. Not Scott. He knows that I will later tell him every word that will pass between Sam and me in his absence. Sam’s sense of relief as Scott leaves the room is physically palpable. I study my old friend with mute detachment and allow the quietness of the room to do its work. Sam’s discomfort grows. He speaks first.

  “What? Why won’t you say anything?”

  I wait a few moments before replying, “I’m trying to figure out what to do with you.” Memories of law school again beckon from the past. Our group of friends preferred poker to studying. Sam was the resident ATM, losing money to us with the regularity of a steady paycheck. Strategically, he knew the correct plays, but his facial expressions and body language betrayed him when it mattered most. Even then I wondered how Sam would ever handle delicate negotiations. Tonight’s conversation confirms that some things never change. Sam still flinches when the stakes get too high.

  Sam again breaks the quiet and asks in utmost seriousness, “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Did you kill her?”

  “No!”

  “Then you don’t need a lawyer.”

  Sam looks unconvinced. He studies his folded thumbs and teeters on the edge of regressing into a barely-responsive cocoon. I recognize the signs. The soft touch won’t work with him anymore. I need to give him a push.

  “Sam, I want to help you, but I cannot help someone who refuses to help himself. You can’t lie to the police without repercussions. You’re part of a murder investigation. There’s a dead body in the kitchen. The good news is that Scott and I are close friends. I can fix what has happened in this room up to this point. You can start over fresh. Clean slate. But the truth needs to start coming out of your mouth. Now.”

  Without even looking at me, he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Becky Johnson.”

  The name confuses him for a moment. Then our eyes register mutual understanding, and he accepts my accusation without challenge. But I still need to hear the truth from his own lips.

  I emphasize, “I swear to God that if you lie to me now, I will prosecute you for obstruction of justice myself.”

  Sam straightens up and nods. Fear gives way to resignation. He asks, “Does Liesa have to know?” Liesa started law school a year behind Sam and me. I attended their wedding. I make no promises but allow that I’ll do what I can. He emits a heavy sigh. “Please try. You don’t understand. I can’t lose her.” Two seconds later, he realizes the tragic awkwardness of his words. I know exactly what it means to lose a wife. But I barely take notice. I’m immersed in the case. Sam offers a plaintive “sorry.” I retrieve Scott to restart the interrogation.

  2

  “Scott, Sam has something he wants to get off his chest.”

  Sam confesses that he and Sara Barton had been romantically involved for the last six weeks. The affair started shortly after she sought him out for divorce advice. The two had never met before.

  The story ends. Sam sits there satisfied with himself for coming clean, but he has only touched upon the facts at a high level of generality. The particulars matter. Scott dives in. How many sexual encounters? Thirteen. Where would the two meet? Sam’s office. Sara’s home. A few times at a hotel. Who else knew about the affair? No one. Really? Yes, Sam insists.

  Scott next tells Sam to describe in detail the first time he and the victim had sex. Confused, Sam asks, “What do you mean?”

  “It’s like this. One day you’re the attorney, and she’s only a client. Let’s call that Point A. Then, lo and behold, the next day the two of you are naked together under the sheets. Let’s call that Point B. My question is simple. How did you go from Point A to Point B? Who made the first move? When did you know that the two of you would have sex? Where did the sex take place? What sexual positions did you use that first time?”

  I stifle a laugh. That last question reflects Scott’s visceral dislike of the witness. Sam looks bewildered and embarrassed. He turns to me for help and asks, “Why on earth does this stuff matter?”

  I explain, “It tells us something about the deceased.” The answer is true enough. Suppose Sam and Sara Barton first had sex in a restaurant bathroom. That would be useful information—the victim liked risk and probably had a propensity for recklessness. Facts like that matter for understanding all the contours of the case. Each murder presents its own puzzle, and every piece of the puzzle provides an added degree of clarity.

  Sam begins to give an answer. “Mrs. Barton invited me over to her house—”

  Scott interrupts, “Mrs. Barton? I think you knew her better than that, didn’t you?” Sam pauses and then continues.

  “She invited me over to talk about the divorce. Her husband was gone on a business trip. When I got here, she was wearing lingerie. I knew that being here was a bad idea. I told her, ‘I need to leave.’ She told me to grow up and have a drink. I sat on the couch, she brought a drink over and sat right next to me. Then she put her hand on my leg. I told her that I was her lawyer and that I was married and that I couldn’t do this. She said, ‘Don’t be a baby.’ One thing led to another. We had sex on the couch. And I left.”

  Scott’s face contorts with confusion. Experience tells me that deep skepticism and sarcasm will follow.

  “Let me see if I understand this correctly,” Scott starts. “This beautiful and sexy woman—Mrs. Barton—lulls you over with the pretense of discussing a legal matter. Yet unbeknownst to you, she really has seduction on her mind. When you arriv
e, she is practically naked and throws herself at you, overcoming your heroic resistance in the process.” Scott shakes his head for dramatic effect. He continues.

  “Stuff like that never happens to me, which is a shame. But here’s my question: why you? I mean, no offense, but I think we can all agree that she was a little out of your league, right? Why you?” Scott stops and gives all indications that he expects an answer. Sam gives him one.

  “I don’t know. Maybe she was depressed and lonely, and I was someone she trusted.”

  Scott pounces, “You mean you abused your position as her attorney to take advantage of a client in her emotionally-vulnerable state? Now that I can believe.”

  “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t seek this out. I don’t know why me. I was there. She was there. It just happened. I wish it hadn’t.”

  Silence.

  I study Sam closely. I think I believe him. Likely he is exaggerating his level of resistance, but the rest of it rings true. Scott’s question, though, still lingers. Why Sam? Figuring out the answer would give us a glimpse into the woman lying dead upstairs. My initial instinct sees this as a case that will not solve itself overnight. If true, the first thing we must examine is the victim herself.

  Who was Sara Barton?

  One thing requires clearing up. I ask, “Why did you really come over tonight?”

  “She told me yesterday I could be with her this evening. But I did need her to sign the complaint. Here it is.”

  He hands the unsigned divorce complaint over, and I read the name of the case: “Sara Landrum Barton vs. Bernard Allen Barton.”

  Weariness and helplessness line Sam’s face. The hour is late. The gravity of his troubles is not lost on any of us. His client is dead. His marriage and career teeter on a cliff of his own making. He is a person of interest in a murder investigation—the adulterous lover of the murdered woman and the person who discovered her body. That’s a heavy load for any man—innocent or guilty—to carry.

  Scott follows up, “Had your lover told the husband about the divorce?”