THE MURDER OF SARA BARTON
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THE MURDER OF SARA BARTON
Copyright © 2020 Lance McMillian
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without permission of the author.
Published by Bond Publishing
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any person living or deceased to a character in the novel are purely coincidental.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
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EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
THE MURDER OF SARA BARTON
LANCE MCMILLIAN
For Carla—My Favorite Lawyer and Judge
1
Sleep eludes me. Lying in bed allows the mind to roam free, but my untamed thoughts know only one destination. Amber and Cale—my dead wife and my dead son. And when I think of them, I think of him. Mr. Smith—the unknown man who murdered my family two years ago. The name is my own invention. When the case failed to close quickly, I needed to personalize my hatred. And Mr. Smith was born.
Because of my position in the District Attorney’s Office, the investigation into the murders of my wife and child spared no expense. The trail is now cold. The mystery of Mr. Smith’s identity leads to the mystery of his motive. Speculation eats at me. One thought terrifies me above all others—that Amber and Cale are dead because of me, because of who I am, what I do. That fear is why I cannot sleep. The weight is too much.
Escape is the only salvation. Ever since the killings, work is my refuge—nights, weekends, holidays. I never vacation. Chasing murderers shields me from the pain. Some people drink. Some choose drugs. Some hunt sex. I work. I figure to disappear into work for a few years, wake up one day, and find myself cured. But that is a lie. If you run long enough, you eventually come back to the place you started.
***
The phone rings. It is my friend, Detective Scott Moore. He wastes no time. “We have another one.”
“Where?”
“A residence in Virginia Highlands. High profile. You’re going to want to see it.”
He gives me the address. The time is 1:14 a.m.—another sleepless night that I devote to the dead. As the deputy district attorney for all homicides in Fulton County, visiting murder scenes falls well outside my job description. I’m a lawyer, not an investigator. But lately I voyage out at all hours to stare into the faces of the newly condemned and imagine what terrors seized them as they took their last breaths. I ponder Amber and Cale’s final, desperate thoughts. Despite my wish to flee from the past, the nature of my work keeps me on a short leash. Death abounds, and I take a strange comfort in its arms.
I believe in God, in Jesus. But I don’t talk to God anymore. I have nothing to say. Not that I blame Him for what happened. God didn’t kill my family. Mr. Smith did. He made a choice to pull that trigger. Free will is a weapon of mass destruction, and the collateral damage left in its wake falls like poisoned rain from the sky. So I still believe; I just don’t feel. Faith in my God survives in the head, but the heart is dry of emotion. I am empty.
***
I arrive at the scene. Virginia Highlands is an upscale section of Atlanta, close to downtown. The house is old with character, typical of the neighborhood, expensive, but not flashy. Scott meets me as I mount the front steps. I ask, “What do we have?”
“I’ll let you see for yourself.”
I follow him to the kitchen and see a female body dead on the floor. The body’s face stops me cold. I turn to Scott, who grins like a happy father watching his children open presents on Christmas morning.
“Is that—”
“Her twin sister.” Scott flashes a smile of triumph at my expression of surprise. I turn again to analyze the body. Staring back at me is the spitting image of Lara Landrum, one of the most famous actresses in the world. The lifeless figure is soaked in blood from an apparent gunshot wound to the chest. She died quick.
Scott supplies me with the remaining particulars.
“Vic’s name is Sara Barton, 36. Married to Bernard Barton, a lawyer. Know him?”
I shake my head.
“Well, we can’t find him. No children. No other family besides her famous sister as far as we can tell. Initial estimated time of death between 9 and 10 p.m. Neighbors did not hear gunshots or see anyone at the house but heard arguing in the street, time uncertain. No signs of a break-in. The victim’s divorce lawyer discovered the body and called 911 at 10:03 p.m.”
“Divorce lawyer?”
“Weird, huh?”
“What’s the lawyer’s name?”
“Sam Wilkins.”
“Really?”
“Know him?”
“Yeah. From law school.”
Non-lawyers cannot understand the sense of kinship forged among law students. No matter how far we drift away from one another in subsequent years, the closeness remains. I call it the bond of survival. Sam’s moment of truth came in Professor Ryan’s Civil Procedure class. When called on to discuss the famous case of Pennoyer v. Neff, Sam completely imploded, botching even the most basic questions. Ryan’s parting shot left a mark: “Mr. Wilkins, save your parents some money. Quit law school now. Don’t delay the inevitable.” Afterwards, a despondent Sam prepared to quit. I talked him back off the ledge. Now, he is a successful divorce lawyer, who apparently makes late night house calls to visit his clients. I don’t like it.
“Is he here?”
Scott nods, and we descend to the basement. There sits Sam, wearing the look of the damned. Scott dismisses the police officer standing watch. When Sam sees me, his whole demeanor changes from dread to relief.
“Thank God you are here, Chance.”
“Good to see you, Sam.” We shake hands. For a second he seems close to hugging me but stops at the handshake. Before Scott and I even say another word, Sam launches into defense mode.
“I know
