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

We have the surveillance footage. We know Barton left her apartment at 7:38 p.m. She’s lying, and we have direct video evidence proving that lie. I shake my head. Fabricating an alibi is clumsy and stupid. That’s the problem with arrogant people. Convinced of their own superiority, they never question their own judgment.

Scott now has the weapons to carve her up into little bits, but I don’t want her exposed just yet. I send him a text: “Don’t trap her. Wanna talk. Take break.” His buzzing phone alerts him to my message. He reads it and sets the phone aside.

Scott continues, “Did he spend the night?”

“You know he didn’t. He left for home about two-thirty in the morning.”

Barton arrived at his house at 2:43 a.m., his dead wife’s body still in the kitchen. Assume he killed her at 9:30 p.m.—that’s five missing hours. His cell phone conveniently cannot help us, and no hits show up from either his credit cards or the keycard to his office building. Add it all up, and we have zero. Barton’s movements during this critical time constitute a giant black hole.

Scott asks, “What did the two of you do from the time you arrived home until the time Bernard left?”

“What do you think?”

“I have no idea. That’s why I asked the question.”

“We had sex if that is what you want to know.”

“I see. Did it bother you later to realize that you were having sex with a woman’s husband at the same time she was being murdered?”

“No. I’m glad I can provide him with an alibi.”

“Interesting.”

Holding up his phone, Scott says, “I need to step out for a minute and check something in another case. Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

He exits before giving Monica any opportunity to object. When he joins me in the observation room, he crows, “We got her dead to rights. I’m going to bust her with the video.”

“Don’t.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Keep your eyes on the prize—Barton. We bust her now, then he knows what we know less than one minute after she leaves here. What’s he going to do? Start work on a new alibi, one that we cannot as easily disprove. Instead, let’s continue to play stupid and see how far the two of them run with this story. Maybe Barton will start saying that he was with her the whole night, too. I’d much rather catch him in a lie than her. Let’s give him the chance to lie to us.”

We watch her through the mirror. The composure remains intact—the weight of lying to the police in a murder investigation brushing off her like a feather.

Scott concedes, “I see the logic. How would you handle the rest of the interview?”

“Get her to sign an affidavit verifying under oath everything she has told you today. When the time comes, probably at trial, I’ll pop her with it. I can prepare the affidavit right now.”

“Hop to it.”

Within the next half hour, Monica signs the affidavit, cementing herself as a perjurer. The affidavit safely in his hands, Scott has a few more questions.

“You and Bernard go to Vegas a lot?”

He surprises her. She makes calculations in her head. The police already know the truth, might as well admit it.

“We love Vegas.”

“Who doesn’t? Bernard has run up a lot of gambling losses, huh?”

Fidgeting. Monica came here prepared and delivered her lines on cue. But this detour is off-script. The mental wheels work furiously to try and land on the answer Barton would want. But he’s not here. She’s on her own now.

“I wouldn’t know about that.”

“You never saw him gamble?”

“Some. Look, I’ve patiently answered your questions, but I need to go.”

“Yes, you’ve been very helpful, and I appreciate your willingness to aid the investigation. I know you’re a busy person, and I value your time. Just a few more minutes, I promise.”

Scott Moore—the most reasonable man on earth. You want to help, you’ve helped, and all I’m asking for is just a little more help. Can’t you give me that? For someone who wants to appear cooperative, the offer is a hard one to refuse.

“My sources tell me that Bernard owes nearly $750,000 to a bunch of casinos. Have you ever heard him talk about that?”

I love Scott’s wording. He has sources. That detail will give Barton and Monica something to chew over during dinner. The wide eyes from the witness confess her surprise. Whether the surprise originates from the size of the debt or the thoroughness of the investigation is unclear.

She answers, “No.”

“Did you know that Bernard has a $5 million life insurance policy on his wife?”

“News to me.”

Maybe she’s lying, maybe not. But the safest course for her in these uncertain waters is to play dumb. She’s not going to tell us anything else of use today. Scott senses it, too.

“Okay. Again, you’ve been very helpful, and I thank you for that. If you want to later clarify anything you’ve said today, please don’t hesitate to contact me, day or night. If you learn something about Bernard’s possible involvement in his wife’s death and want to talk, let me know.”

“Bernard was with me at the time of the murder.”

“Yeah sure.”

They look at each other knowingly for a few seconds before Monica gets up to leave. I’m guessing she regrets signing that affidavit right about now.

11

The arrest warrant for Bernard Barton sits on my desk, armed and ready to be presented to a judge. The only unchecked box is the ballistics report. Scott’s contact in the Georgia Bureau of Investigation promised to e-mail the report over directly—results still unknown. The warrant declares that Barton’s gun fired the bullet that killed Sara. If the GBI tells us something different, the papers will head to the shredder, and we’ll re-examine the case with fresh eyes.

Scott and Ella Kemp wait with me in my office. Every ding of Scott’s phone brings expectant looks yearning for news. The shake of Scott’s head deflates the balloon each time. A case this big and explosive is