“Let’s talk about how things stand. First, Sara Barton was murdered. Second, you found the body, putting you at the scene of the crime around the time of the murder. Third, you were having sex with the murder victim whose body you found. Fourth, you lied about having sex with the murder victim. Fifth, if your sexual relationship with the murder victim were revealed, your marriage and career would be ruined. Sixth, no thanks to you, I learned that your wife is also in the vicinity of the Barton home at the time the murder is committed. I think you probably knew that, and you didn’t tell me, which is a lie by omission, another strike against you, which is the seventh or eighth point or whatever number I am on now. Next, I go as a friend to talk to Liesa, hoping to put the issue of her whereabouts quietly to bed. But no. Liesa refuses to answer even the simplest of questions and acts guilty as hell about something. Finally, you insist that Liesa didn’t know about your affair with Sara Barton before I talked to her, but she did already know. Why are you lying to me about that?”
I don’t ask this last question in a way that expects a response, but I pause a moment on the off chance he volunteers an answer. He remains quiet. I continue.
“I look at this entire litany, and I start thinking. Did Sam kill Sara? Did Liesa? Because from where I sit, you two have a lot of explaining to do. That’s the lay of the land, and you barging in here to play tough guy is not going to change any of that.”
I allow him time to digest my words. His discomfort is obvious, the bravado all gone. He will either talk or clam up. I want him to talk. I give him another push.
“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
“We’re friends,” he offers meekly.
“Come on! This is a murder investigation, and I can’t give you any more benefit of the doubt. Stop relying on our friendship to save you and start acting smart. If you and Liesa are innocent, you need to explain yourselves before your stupidity backs you into a murder indictment. If you’re guilty, don’t say another word and go hire the best lawyer you can afford once you leave this office. You’re going to need one. The choice is yours.”
To my surprise, he stands up and heads for the door. I try a final tactic.
“Do you know what Liesa asked me?”
“What?”
“She asked me if you killed Sara Barton. Why would she do that?”
Sam looks genuinely perplexed.
“I didn’t kill her.”
“Did Liesa?”
He leaves without answering. I pick up the phone to call Scott.
***
Scott obtains a search warrant from a judge shortly after getting off the phone with me. Less than three hours after Sam leaves my office, Scott and his team scour the Wilkins home. Another group of detectives picks apart Sam’s office. Scott’s methods are thorough, and the searches figure to take a few hours. Wrapping my head around the possibility that Sam or Liesa might be a murderer disorients the rest of my day. I remember the law school years of our youth. We were young, full of energy, ready to take on the world. From where I now sit, the world won.
***
Late afternoon, I hear back from Scott. He says, “We might have the gun in the Barton case.”
“You found the gun at Sam’s house?”
“No.”
Scott tells me the full story. Two days after the murder, a neighbor found a gun in a playground down the street from the Barton residence. The neighbor called the police to collect the weapon, but the officer who answered the call failed to see the potential connection between the gun and our crime. The gun was slated to go to storage when the sergeant processing the weapon put two and two together. Scott received the message about the gun while searching Sam’s house.
“Gun trace?”
“We ran the serial numbers and came up with nothing.”
“Prints?”
“Don’t know. They’re testing now. Ballistics after that. Maybe the murderer will fall into our lap.”
Here’s hoping. We have the prints of Barton, Sam, Brice, and Liesa all in the fingerprint database. All attorneys must get fingerprinted before obtaining a license to practice law. If any of their prints show on the gun, we’ll know it.
“How did the search go?”
“Nothing. We dusted some prints and will run them, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. The wife is a piece of work, a real Ice Queen. Read every word of the search warrant. Grabbed her purse and tried to get into her car to leave. I told her she couldn’t touch the car until we searched it. She asked how was she supposed to get around. I told her she could walk anywhere her legs could take her, but that I would drive her to the station if she had something to say.”
“How did that go over?”
“She started walking down the street without another word—proud as a peacock. But the search was a bust. I talked to my guys who searched Sam’s office. Same story. Nothing. Sam sulked in a corner and looked like he was going to cry. I know who wears the pants in that family. I’m surprised he had the nerve to fool around on her.”
“I’m sure Liesa shares your surprise.”
“We didn’t find any files related to the Barton divorce, which seems strange. They have to be somewhere.”
“You’re not supposed to read those anyway. Attorney-client privilege. It’s kind of a thing.”
“Don’t tell me stuff like that. I like to have deniability on whether I know something’s allowed or not.”
We talk some more about the potential murder weapon. A playground is a strange place to dump a gun. The woods or a sewer would be better for making a gun disappear. A fleeing
