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

“I talked to Yarber.”

That Sam would reach out to Jeff Yarber, Barton’s partner at Marsh & McCabe, makes sense. Yarber is a friend to both of us and has been doling out levelheaded advice since grade school. I wish Sam had sought his counsel sooner.

Sam continues, “I needed a disinterested opinion. You know sometimes you get so close to something that you can’t see the forest for the trees? That was me. After our argument and the police search, I was on tilt. Liesa was livid. I was livid. It was dark, man. Then Yarber’s face just popped into my mind. Out of the blue. And I’m like, ‘I need to call him.’ And I did.”

“And what did Yarber tell you?”

“He said, ‘Sam, you’ve known the guy a long time. He’s not going to back down. He isn’t some opposing counsel in a two-bit divorce case who you can bluff with a bunch of huffing and puffing. He prosecutes murderers and sends really bad people to death row. Don’t fight him.’”

“Good advice.”

“Yeah, well, you’re still a jerk.”

Sam can blame me until the day he dies. He’s the one who lied to the police, he’s the one who slept with a client, he’s the one who cheated on his wife. His wounds are self-inflicted.

We stand to leave. Our business transacted, lack of interest in small talk is mutual. We loiter together outside on the sidewalk, estranged friends who just negotiated an uneasy truce. The lights from inside give me a good view of his face. Good old Sam. His inability to lie convincingly—whether about Becky Johnson or in poker—seizes on me.

“Did you kill her, Sam?”

He winces in mental pain, a helpless expression of disbelief that I keep pushing. Yarber told him I would. I told him the same. I won’t back down. I see Sara Barton’s lifeless body on her kitchen floor. I see Amber and Cale, too. Hurt feelings are unfortunate, but my first loyalties are to the dead.

Sam pauses before replying, but the hesitation means nothing. His words are irrelevant—the face is the thing. I see the answer before he says a word.

“Man, no.”

He’s telling the truth. He just is. We stare at each other, unsure of what to make of the person in front of us. Law school seems so long ago. I ask the next question.

“Did Liesa?”

He shakes his head slowly and slumps away toward his car. I stand there, watching him until he drives off. I look up at the obscured stars, their brightness failing to bring clarity to a city masked by its own artificial light. Sam is a bad liar because his eyes betray him at that critical moment of deceit. Now is no different. He thinks Liesa may have killed Sara Barton.

Confused, dumbfounded, sad—I take Sam’s file home with me and halfheartedly work through it during the night, thinking of Liesa the whole time.

***

The doorbell shakes me out of my lethargic review of the Barton file. I peer through the window shade and spy Scott’s car in the driveway. It’s 2 a.m. We do this dance all the time.

He says, “I had the lab guys working overtime. No prints on the gun.”

“Wiped?”

“Looks that way.”

“Maybe it wasn’t the murder weapon.”

“I think it is. There were fingerprints on the remaining bullets in the gun.”

Ah yes, the bullets in the gun. Even smart criminals forget about the bullets in the gun. The shell casing itself—the remainder of the cartridge that ripped through Sara Barton’s chest—does us no good as fingerprint evidence. The heat generated from the firing of a gun obliterates any prints that exist on the bullet prior to discharge. The unfired bullets, though, that’s something else entirely. Prints on those can be pristine.

“And do we know who those fingerprints belong to?”

“Yep.”

“Who?”

Revelatory moments like now normally make me happy to be a trial lawyer. The process of putting together a murder puzzle ignites the logical side of my brain. Transforming that two-dimensional puzzle into a three-dimensional story taps the creative half. But tonight I face the real prospect of prosecuting a friend. The truth scares me.

Scott continues to hold his cards close to the vest, hoping to extract a little more urgency from me. My atypical lack of enthusiasm throws him off a bit.

He asks, “What’s your guess?”

“Liesa?”

“Liesa Wilkins? No. Why her?”

“Then who?”

“Bernard Barton, attorney-at-law.”

Relief floods my body. I actually smile. I can prosecute Barton with full vigor. Liesa not so much. I need an enemy, and Barton fits the bill.

“Did you arrest him?”

“I think you would’ve heard about that. I want to talk to you about it first.”

We talk and both agree that the gun has to be the murder weapon. Has to. The timetable on getting confirmation from ballistics is five days. Monica Haywood and Brice Tanner are scheduled to be interrogated by Scott at police headquarters in the interim. An arrest could disrupt those plans, especially the interview of Monica. We need to pin her down while she remains willing to cooperate. Waiting to arrest is the choice.

I bring him up to speed about my night with Sam and my suspicion of Liesa.

He mocks, “His eyes? You saw it in his eyes? Because you played poker with him fifteen years ago? You’re killing me here.”

“You don’t understand. A lot of history exists between us. I can read him.”

“You’re right. I don’t understand. But I do understand fingerprint evidence. Barton is our guy. He loaded that gun. His gun.”

Maybe I am wrong about Liesa, after all.

Sam’s file on the desk takes on a new, hurried meaning in light of Barton’s fingerprint match. In the excitement of the evening, I never get around to telling Scott about my pre-dawn meeting with Lara Landrum.

***

The next morning, Bobby asks, “Where are we on Sara Barton?”

I dole out the latest.

“Is the husband our guy?”

“Stands to reason.”

“Let’s arrest him now. We have enough.”

“Maybe. But we’re better off being patient. Just because it’s his gun doesn’t mean he fired it, and we still haven’t confirmed it