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

already hit me. Please hurry.” The final sounds on the call tell the story without words—more thunderous banging on the door, yelling, a woman crying. The line goes dead.

The call is chilling but evidentiary gold. I ask why Barton wasn’t arrested. The story is familiar. By the time the officer arrived, things had settled down. Both Barton and Sara were calm, and Sara did not want to press charges. No outward signs of physical abuse were present, which makes sense since Sara’s bruises were on her back. The officer departed, filled out his incident report, and left Barton and Sara alone to resume their dysfunctional lives.

Scott announces, “Bernard Barton speaks to my policeman’s gut.”

“The current does seem to be pushing that way.”

“One more thing before I go. Here’s the traffic cam data from the closest camera to the scene, about a mile away.”

Scott hands me a list of the 500-plus cars that crossed that intersection last night between 8:30 and 10:30 p.m. and says, “Third page, in the middle.” A Chrysler minivan owned by Sam Wilkins passed through the traffic light at 9:51 p.m.—away from the direction of the Barton residence. No minivan was parked on the street when I arrived at the murder scene. Scott adds, “Sam Wilkins drove a Volkswagen Passat to the victim’s house.” I nod. The minivan must belong to Sam’s wife, Liesa.

Scott says, “I’m late. Has to be the wife, right? It’s a busy road, probably nothing. You know her. Want to take the first crack at following up on this?”

“Sure.”

***

The phone is ringing off the hook when I walk into my house. Only one person calls me on my home number—my mother. I remember the camera crews on the street outside Lara Landrum’s house. Mom always calls when she sees me on television in the vain hope that the publicity will push me into politics.

My father’s death accelerated this desire to see my career advance. A long time ago, Daddy was lieutenant governor. He shocked everybody when he passed up a near-certain opportunity to run for the top spot. He once explained himself to me by quoting Shakespeare: “To thine own self be true.” Mom was not so philosophical. Having sacrificed for years as a political wife, she felt cheated when her husband walked away a step short of the Governor’s Mansion. Now she lives her life vicariously through her two sons. My brother is a preacher, meaning Mom sees me as the one to be the governor that my father never was.

Except that I do not want that position or any other political office. The courtroom is my home. Mom knows my stance and rejects it. At the end of our call, she notes, “You will be really well-known after this case. It could open up a lot of doors.” Her words fall flat.

To thine own self be true.

5

Amber.

I cannot sleep. Lying in bed, my wife invades me. She establishes a foothold and refuses to retreat. I try to resist. I analyze the Sara Barton case. I think of Bernard Barton, Lara Landrum, Sam Wilkins, everyone. The effort fails. Amber chases me down like a runaway locomotive. Faced with her determination, I allow myself to look at her.

Love at first sight is a myth. You cannot love someone you do not even know. Claiming otherwise is an act of projection. We see someone and create in that person’s smile and face an ideal we wish to exist—a fictional cut-out that places on the living the burden of expectations not of their own making. No matter. I loved Amber the moment our paths crossed as college sophomores. The intensity of that love was both the silliest and most serious thing in the world.

Knowing her transformed me, particularly my relationship with God. I was a believer, of course. Everyone is washed in the blood where I’m from. Yet my faith was cultural, not spiritual. Not so with Amber. She lived out her walk, daily seeking God’s will because He was the most important thing in her life. She taught me to turn my fear over to Jesus. My selfishness waned, and I strived to be a man after God’s own heart. Amber made it clear that sex before marriage was out of the question. My friends thought her crazy. But I waited, we married, and then I didn’t have to wait anymore.

Now I question whether my faith was fraudulent all along. I ask Amber but receive no answer. She is gone.

***

The woman in my life these days is Ella Kemp, an assistant district attorney. Our relationship is unspoken, but the affection we have for one another is a living, breathing thing. The problem is me. Two years have passed since Amber’s murder, and I’m still not ready. The life I want—the life I had—is gone from me forever. What’s the point of starting over?

But Ella is special—smart, attractive, determined, compassionate, fun-loving. We’ve clicked since the day she joined the homicide team in the D.A.’s office. I taught her the ropes and soon we were trying cases together as trial partners. Romance was never on the table when I was married, yet my affection for Ella felt adulterous in the aftermath of Amber’s murder. The lingering guilt infects my relationship with Ella to this day.

There’s something else, too. Amber’s hold on me remains an anchor to my sanity, an enduring link to my former life. I still want to be the man she wanted me to be—abstinence and all. Starting a relationship with Ella figures to upset that balance, and rejecting that part of Amber’s example paralyzes me into inaction. At least for now, being alone is the safest cure.

***

The funeral is a media event. Scott and I arrive early, ignoring the cries from the hornet’s nest of reporters amassed just outside the church property. Safely inside the sanctuary, we sit down to watch and observe. In a case like this, where the murderer might be someone close to the deceased,