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

and points him to the door. Sam nods and shuffles out of the room to an uncertain future. I ask Scott, “What do you think?” After a moment’s reflection, he says, “I don’t think he is a murderer, but I’ve been wrong before.”

***

Bernard Barton does not cut an impressive figure. He is short, rotund, and devoid of a single hair on his head or face. As Scott and I enter the room, Barton booms, “I demand to know what’s going on here.” I take an immediate dislike to him. He’s surly, and I’ve never cared too much for surly folks.

Scott doesn’t allow Barton to hurry him. He has kept Barton in the dark up to this point because he wants to see the husband’s reaction to the news of his wife’s death. Scott makes the introductions and says, “Mr. Barton, I’m sorry to tell you that your wife is dead.”

This precise choice of words is intentional. “Murder” goes unmentioned. Scott wants to see whether Barton asks how his wife died.

Barton asks, “What happened?”

If he murdered his wife, he avoids Scott’s trap. No matter. All killers make mistakes, and murder never takes place in a controlled environment. The prying eyes of a snooping neighbor, the patrol car that passes at the wrong moment, trace DNA evidence—all are capable of sending even the cleverest murderer to death row.

Scott gives only a partial answer to Barton’s question: “She was murdered.” But Barton again fails to take the bait. He responds, “How?” Scott inspects him with a keen eye, no doubt curious as to Barton’s coolness and serenity. Even after Scott informs him that his wife was shot, Barton fails to display a readable emotion. The room settles into a tense quietness. Scott and Barton stare at one another with a mixture of indifference and disdain, daring the other to speak first. I feel invisible. Scott at last breaks the deadlock and goes straight to the question of the hour, “Mr. Barton, may I ask where you have been all night?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a lawyer. I know my rights. No more questions until my lawyer is present.”

Scott sounds a scornful chuckle—first Sam, now this. He gives Barton a determined look as if to say, “You and I will meet again.” Unfazed, Barton’s contemptuous stare conveys its own message, “I am better than you.” Seeking a way to break the stalemate, I interject and ask Barton an innocuous question.

“Where do you work?”

A confused Barton turns toward me. Whether he is surprised that I am there or merely that I spoke is unclear. But he does answer the question.

“Marsh & McCabe.”

I know the firm—quite corporate and well-to-do. My friend, Jeff Yarber, is a partner there. He attended law school with Sam and me. I will call him later today to get his read on things.

Barton announces, “I’m leaving now.” The statement is a declaration and not a request for permission, presenting a clear challenge to Scott’s authority. Legally, Scott could probably detain Barton longer, but little reason—apart from spite—exists in doing so. I also have an idea percolating that will only work if Barton is released. Scott looks at me out of the corner of his eye for advice, and I slightly shake my head.

Scott responds, “Okay. But before you go, can you look around the house to see if anything is missing?” Barton hesitates. The mental wheels turn hard in his head. He doesn’t want to cooperate but knows that the request is a reasonable one. Barton nods grimly, and another officer prepares to escort Barton through the house. As they leave the room, Scott warns, “Don’t touch anything.” Barton looks back in silence before skulking out behind the officer, already regretting his agreement to help. With the husband gone, Scott looks at me and comments, “Lawyers.”

“I have an idea.”

“Kill all the lawyers?”

I ignore the provocation and continue, “Have someone follow him when he leaves. It might be interesting to know where he goes at this time of night.”

Scott agrees and offers me a compliment of sorts, “Good thinking. That’s why I keep you around.” He makes the necessary arrangements with another detective before Barton comes back with the results of his search. Nothing appears to be missing, which lessens the chance that we’re looking at a robbery. With his assignment complete, Barton requests to pack a suitcase of clothes to take with him. Scott nips that plan in the bud.

“No. Nothing can be moved. I’m not through with the crime scene.”

An exasperated Barton asks, “Can I at least get my cell phone? I left it at home and have been without it all day.”

“No.”

Barton waits a moment but realizes that the battle is lost. He leaves without another word. An unmarked car follows Barton down the road from a discreet distance.

Little else remains to be done at this point. As I get ready to leave, Scott observes, “You know, he never asked who murdered his wife. Don’t you think that is strange?”

“Left his cell phone here all day yesterday, too.”

The police can track the movements of a suspect through the travels of his cell phone, but only if the suspect keeps the phone on his person.

Scott says, “Yep. He seemed to want to make sure that we knew that little tidbit.”

It’s 4:11 a.m. on the dash when I start the engine for the drive home. I haven’t mourned Amber and Cale since receiving Scott’s call. Three hours from now, I will be hard at work in my office.

This is my life.

3

It’s 7:30 a.m., and I am in my office, a desktop full of files in front of me. District Attorney Bobby Lewis—my boss—breezes in without knocking. Not someone to arrive at the courthouse early, he must know about the Sara Barton case. Bobby is a politician and, like all politicians, he loves the sound of his own voice on the evening news, especially during an election year.

Bobby deploys a plastic smile and declares, “Chance Meridian—my favorite prosecutor in the office.” False flattery