The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) by Lance McMillian (primary phonics txt) 📗

faith but because I feared missing out on the lives of my wife and son yet to be lived. My jealousy recoiled at the thought of another man taking my place—touching Amber’s body, putting Cale to bed at night, calling him “Son.” Those experiences belonged to me and me alone. In these anxious moments, the flip side of the mortality equation never entered my contemplation. I never dreamed that I would be the one having to live without them. But here I am.

My faith teaches that there will be an eternal reunion in Heaven for all who are saved. I will be with Amber and Cale again. Because of that promise, death’s hold over me has lost its grip. I’ll keep living my life, but I won’t fear the end. Sometimes, often late at night, I hear the echo of faint voices inside of me sowing doubt about God, Jesus, and everything in between. But I still believe. I have no choice.

***

The service ends, and the mourners slow-foot their way outside. Reporters emit a distasteful buzz in the distance. Scott and I camp out to the side and maintain our watch. Lara appears next to us and launches into Barton.

“Did you see his whore here?”

The question is rhetorical. No one failed to notice Barton and Monica together. Tears bubble in her eyes.

“I know she didn’t decide to come on her own. He wanted her here. He wanted to prance her around in front of everybody. He is poking his finger in the eye of my sister’s memory. It’s disgusting.”

From afar, Barton eyes the three of us talking. I point out his interest to Lara and Scott. Lara responds, “He’s scared.” She walks off to stand by herself next to her sister’s hearse. Lara’s parents are both deceased, and Sara was her only sibling. I look at her now and see someone terribly alone. Maybe I’m projecting my own troubles onto to her, but I don’t think so. Lara Landrum is an unhappy woman.

6

The autopsy report sits on my desk when I return to the office. The front page reads:

SUMMARY OF CONCLUSIONS

Body is presented to the County Morgue in a black body bag. The body is that of an adult Caucasian female, 65 inches tall, weighing 123 lbs., and appearing the stated age of 36 years. Livor mortis is present posteriorly and rigor mortis is present to a slight degree in all joints. The hair is blonde. The eyes are partially open; the irises are blue and the corneas are transparent. The nose, ears and external auditory canals are unremarkable. The mouth is partially open and the teeth are natural. Wisdom teeth are not present. A tiny hypertrophic scar is present on the northwest quadrant of the left breast. Evidence of a gunshot injury is found present in the left upper chest, 12 ½ inches below the top of the head, 2 inches to the right of the left breast nipple. There is no gunshot residue on the chest, no charring of the wound, and no gunshot residue in the depths of the wound track. The overall direction of the wound is front to back and downward with a slight right to left deviation. Estimated time of death is between 9 and 10 p.m.

The information confirms what we know. I flip through the autopsy photos with an eye toward their use at trial. I’ve seen worse, but they’ll do the job of inflaming the jury’s passions. I throw the whole report into my briefcase for bedtime reading.

***

Millwood calls later that evening to confirm his representation of Barton. He makes the usual pleasantries, his way of probing around to see how I’m doing these days.

He asks, “Still burning the midnight oil, huh?”

“You’re the one who called me.”

“Yeah, but I’m getting paid $500 an hour to work late.”

“Well, you know how it goes. So many murderers, so little time.”

“Ha. My offer still stands. You can come and work with me. I’ll make you a full partner and you can start making money for all that work you put in. A change might do you some good, too. Give you a fresh start.”

I decline. Any chance I would ever do criminal defense died with Amber. I’m a prosecutor for life. I refuse to defend men who kill.

Millwood responds, “Have it your way. Back to business. On behalf of my client, I’m giving formal notice to you and the police that he is not to be questioned in any way, shape, or form without my being present. Mr. Barton is invoking all of his constitutional rights, including his right to remain silent and his right for counsel to be present during police questioning. In other words, keep Moore away from my client.”

“You used to love Scott.”

“I still love him. He is just too good at his job.”

I refrain from the usual spiel about the benefits of cooperating with the State in an open investigation. Millwood taught me that script verbatim. Barton’s dug in and he’s gonna stay dug in until we slap an arrest warrant on him.

Instead, I say, “It’s always the husband. You once told me that. Barton should confess now, and we can make a deal.”

“Ha. Not biting. You know where we stand.”

***

The next day I make an unannounced house call to see Liesa Wilkins. Her kids should be at school, and I hope to catch her alone. She opens the door. I haven’t seen her since Amber’s funeral, and her haggard look suggests the onset of hard times. After a quick hug, she informs me that Sam is not home. When I explain that I came to see her, the fragment of a concerned shadow crosses her face. She invites me in, and I tell her my business.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. An issue has come up, and because we are friends, I wanted to talk to you about something off the record.”

True enough. Liesa and I are old friends. She started law school the year after