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

sits under a few layers of crumbled newspapers. I take it out and hold it with the same delicacy as if I were holding a newborn. I lay the newspapers down and put the file on top of them to protect it from the grime that covers the floor. File is actually a misnomer. Before me instead is a two-inch wide, expandable redwell file holder with the case name of Barton v. Barton plastered on the outside. Various smaller folders with different labels fill the redwell, representing the work product of the conscientious divorce lawyer—pleadings, discovery requests and responses, correspondence, orders, originals, financials, legal research, factual investigation. Since the divorce never made it to the courthouse, most of the folders are slim pickings. I locate a copy of the same investigative file Sam gave me some months back—nothing new there. I analyze everything in the redwell one page at a time, determined not to miss the needle in the haystack. And then I’m done. Nothing.

I don’t panic. Sam placed the file in this unusual location for a specific reason. I stare hard at the redwell and the assorted contents of the file now scattered haphazardly on the crumbled newspapers. I inspect the motor oil carton again. Sam hid the redwell in the box under the crumpled newspapers, but other newspapers also lined the bottom of the box. I snatch them up and find a manila folder. Sam’s handwritten note—DO NOT OPEN/ATTORNEY-CLIENT PRIVILEGED—graces the front. “You sneaky bastard,” I mutter to myself. Why all the trouble?

Ignoring Sam’s rather pointed instructions, I open the folder. Photographs. Lots of photographs. A deep breath fails to soothe my racing nerves. The first few photos show Brice Tanner entering the front door of Sara Barton’s residence. Why was Sam staking out the house of his own client? That question evaporates with stunning speed when I view the next photos of Brice and Sara engaged in a decathlon of sexual olympics in the Barton bedroom. The photos are dated in ink in Sam’s handwriting and cover multiple meetings between Brice and Sara. The last date noted is the day before the murder. Damn.

The photos are close up—too close. Assuming Brice and Sara didn’t willingly allow Sam to stand there so he could take some great action shots, Sam must’ve placed a hidden camera in the room. What the hell? I should’ve stayed in Atlanta.

Things get even weirder when the next series of photos show Sam and Sara in the act. One shot captures an angry Sam looking directly at the camera in a pose of sneering defiance. My heart sinks as I study my dead friend to assess his state of mind. He put a camera in Sara Barton’s bedroom, filmed the two of them having sex, and flashed a scowl of pure malice at the camera in flagrante delicto. He hated Sara. The bastard hated her.

I scan the remaining photos, fearful that yet another man sleeping with the victim may pop up and sink my case even further. But no. I’m spared that at least. The last few photos feature a naked Sara walking about in the bedroom. The best shots capture her coming and going, leaving nothing to the imagination, illuminating the same glorious body of her sister, the same flawless breasts. I stare at the images longer than I should, thankful for the momentary distraction from my growing doubt in Sam.

I stand up to stretch and get some fresh air. If Millwood gets his hands on those photographs, Barton walks. The story writes itself. Obsessed man kills his lover in a fit of jealous rage because she slept with another man. He finds a gun in her bedroom—a gun loaded by her husband—and shoots her with it, dumping the gun in a nearby park before pretending to find the body and calling the police. Motive. Means. Opportunity. The cherry on top is that the murderer then goes into the woods to kill himself out of a deep sense of guilt.

Millwood can’t get these photos.

The mountain air refreshes after the growing claustrophobia of the shed. I kick a few pieces of gravel rock into the woods for no particular reason. My duty as a prosecutor requires me to turn any exculpatory evidence in my possession over to the defense. I don’t ever intend to see a single dawn with these photos in my possession. I could burn them. No one would ever know. Probably. But destroying evidence is a serious crime and would cost me my law license if caught, maybe jail. That’s more gruel than I can stomach. The other choice is to put everything back where I found it. I return to the shed, grab a rag, and try my best to wipe my prints from the pictures before returning them to the manila folder. Back at the bottom of the box, the manila folder disappears under the layering of the crumbled newspapers and the redwell. I return the erstwhile motor oil box back to its place high on the shelf. All is as it was before.

Except one thing.

I keep the two images of a nude Sara Barton. The act is as stupid as it is juvenile, and the shame leans heavy on my conscience. But the photos remind me of Lara, and the force of her gravitational pull overwhelms my will. I stash the contraband out-of-sight under the driver’s seat.

***

The drive home is a tennis match between Lara and Sam as they volley fiercely for my thoughts. Did Sam kill Sara? That I have to ask the question at this late date feels like a defeat. The Barton trial will begin soon. Until tonight, all the evidence pointed to the defendant. I wipe the mental decks clean and tackle the question afresh. Nothing I saw tonight actually exonerates Barton. The evidence against him still stands. The photos in the secret box only serve to raise doubts about Sam. He stalked the victim and committed many crimes in doing so. But