“How did that go over with Barton?”
“Here’s the thing about Bernard. He never shows weakness. That’s his persona. To get upset about the tape would mean revealing he cares. He won’t do that. Indifference is the best revenge. Indifference to Sara, Brice, and those making fun of him tells them that they are not worthy of his time. That’s how he thinks. Now is he really okay with it? Doubtful. He’s too proud. But he’ll never admit it.”
I ask Jeff one last question, “Do you think he is capable of murder?”
“Aren’t we all?”
4
Hell.
Visions of that place of eternal damnation differ based on the person. Some see fire. Some see a funny looking devil with horns and a pitchfork. Some refuse to acknowledge the possibility at all.
I see the Fulton County morgue. Death and finality permeate the pores of every crevice and corner of the Dungeon, the name given long ago to the basement room that stores the dead. The air hangs with hopelessness. The coldness, the artificial light, the shadows, the smell—all contribute to the sense of nothingness, a place where color goes to die and life dare not show its face.
Barton stands awkwardly in the basement hall outside the Dungeon. Scott and I watch from a respectful distance. We’re all waiting on the coroner.
Dr. Cecil Magnus views punctuality with disdain and instead operates on his own unknowable clock. I don’t begrudge him this conceit. Born in the segregated South, Cecil became the first African-American coroner in the country a few years before I was born. Living through those times, he feels no need to toe anyone else’s line now.
Cecil arrives, and we all enter the Dungeon together. Barton gives a slight shiver in response to the cold.
“Which one?” Cecil barks.
“Sara Barton,” Scott responds.
Cecil grunts and heads to the bank of small silver doors that contain all of his dead bodies. Finding the one he’s looking for, he turns the latch and pulls out the long cold table. A gray bag with a zipper down the middle sits on the slab.
Cecil asks, “Next of kin?”
Scott points his head in Barton’s direction. Cecil waves Barton over. Scott and I arrange ourselves to get a good view of Barton’s face. Cecil continues with the ceremony.
“Name?”
“Bernard Barton.”
“Relationship with the deceased?”
“She was my wife.”
Satisfied with this answer, Cecil begins to unzip the bag. The sound of the zipper’s descent down the center of the body magnifies in the absence of any other noise. The zipper stops midway, and Cecil parts the bag at the top. After the coroner steps aside, Barton offers a quick glance before looking elsewhere.
“That’s her.”
“Sara Barton?”
“Yes.”
Cecil nods, zips up the bag, pushes the slab into its hole, and locks up. Scott and I escort Barton from the Dungeon and out of the building. The sunlight shines bright.
Scott says, “Mr. Barton, I know the timing is terrible, but we need to talk. This is a murder investigation. Time is of the essence.”
“No.”
“Don’t you want us to catch your wife’s killer?”
Barton heads to his car without another word and drives off.
“Chatty fellow,” Scott observes.
“I don’t think he likes you.”
***
Scott and I ride together to Lara Landrum’s house. I update him on the sex tape of Sara Barton and Brice Tanner. He relays how he got Barton to identify the body.
“We need to ID the victim, right? Barton’s the obvious choice, and I want another crack at him. Two birds with one stone. But I can’t call him, you know, because we have his phone. I know from my guy, though, that he is still shacking up with the mistress. I call over there, the mistress answers, and I ask to speak with Bernard. All I get back is ‘umm,’ some muffled voices, and ‘he’s not here.’ But I know he is. So, screw it, I’m going over there myself.”
Scott’s phone rings. He answers and talks for a few minutes. I received his call about the murder a little over twelve hours ago, and now I’m about to meet Lara Landrum. The case is moving fast. Scott hangs up and picks up the thread.
“Where was I? I go over to Haywood’s place myself and bring three uniformed guys with me just to throw some intimidation around. Ring the doorbell, and the mistress answers. Again, I ask, ‘May I speak with Bernard Barton?’ Again, she answers, ‘He’s not here.’ I say, ‘Ms. Haywood, I know he’s here, and I know he has been here since 4 a.m. this morning.’ She looks at me, looks at the uniformed guys behind me, and you can see the panic. ‘Can I come in?’ She nods yes, and we’re in. She goes back to the bedroom. Barton emerges, ready to battle. ‘We need you to ID the body,’ I announce. That gets him. He was ready to go all lawyerly on me, but he can’t refuse that request. I have him. He agrees to come. I offer to drive him to the morgue, but he drives himself. You know the rest.”
“We still don’t have much. He hasn’t really given anything away.”
“But he knows we know about his mistress, and he knows we know where he’s been keeping himself today. We get inside his head, then he starts making mistakes.”
We arrive at the house and see hordes of press and television trucks. Unreal. We had seven murders in the county last week, and no one cared. But Lara Landrum’s connection to the case has brought out the wolves.
We park in the street. A uniformed officer guards the driveway and waves us through. We hear the clicks of
