The Murder of Sara Barton (Atlanta Murder Squad Book 1) Lance McMillian (ereader with android .txt) 📖

to avoid. He sweats it out instead.

“I have some more questions to ask.”

The authoritative tone creates the impression that Brice is not free to go. Scott carefully avoids those precise words, and no law exists against creating an impression. Brice is not in custody and can leave when he chooses. But Brice does not know his rights—a predictable badge of ignorance for a corporate lawyer from one of Atlanta’s mega firms. No one has to talk to the police. Three years of legal education, and Brice knows less about his rights than your common criminal. Scott resumes his questioning.

“Where were you on the night of the murder?”

“At home. Working.”

“Where’s home?”

“I live in an apartment next to Piedmont Park.”

I estimate that Brice lives roughly a mile from the Barton residence. Cutting through the park on foot could cover most of that distance with minimal detection.

“Can anyone vouch for you?”

“No.”

“Ever been to the Barton residence?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Ever walk over there from your place?”

Another pause. “Yes.”

“How would you describe your feelings for Sara?”

“I loved her.”

“Did she love you?”

“Of course.”

Doubtful. Sara Barton was over a decade older than Brice, married to another man, and having frequent sexual intercourse with her divorce lawyer. I’m not getting the picture of a woman madly in love with the person on the other side of the glass.

“When was the last time you ever saw Sara Barton alive?”

“The day before she died.”

“Where?”

“At her house.”

“Did you walk over there?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I usually walked in case I needed to make a quick getaway.”

He sounds like a criminal and realizes it. Scott uses the moment to write something down on his notepad. He assesses what he wrote, pondering, and then writes more. Probably a grocery list. Brice is scared out of his wits. I’m struck as to how young he looks. The ten or so years that separate us in age seem like a lifetime.

“I really need to go.”

“Yeah, your meeting. Just a few more questions.”

Scott again consults the deep mysteries of his notepad. The sweat starts to soak through the front of Brice’s shirt. His armpits must be flowing rivers by now.

“What did you talk about the last time you saw her?”

“Our future. She was getting a divorce. We were going to be together.”

“Did you sleep with her that night?”

“Yes.”

Scott makes a disapproving smile. Brice shows shame.

“Was she sleeping around with anyone else?”

The shame evaporates. The wounded animal before me bares his teeth. The rage startles. He does not seem so young now.

Unfazed, Scott continues, “Besides her husband, I mean.”

Through clenched teeth, Brice responds, “No. She wasn’t like that.”

“How do you know?”

“I know. We loved each other.”

“Do you know Sam Wilkins?”

The question defeats him. The anger dissipates. Hapless Brice makes a less than triumphant return. Looking at the wall, Brice says, “No.”

“That does not sound convincing.”

“The answer is no.”

I don’t believe him, but the questioning is over. Brice studies his watch for the third time, contemplates it, and begins to push his chair away from the table.

“I have to go.”

Maybe he knows his rights after all.

10

Scott and I are plumb shocked that Monica Haywood agreed to an interview. Yet there she sits in the same seat that Brice occupied yesterday. Scott enters the room, carrying the familiar notepad and folder.

“Miss Haywood, my name is Detective Scott Moore. We met briefly at your apartment the day after Sara Barton’s murder. I was looking for Bernard Barton. You said he wasn’t with you, but he was. Remember?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“Bernard’s wife had just been murdered. He was grieving. He wanted privacy.”

“Are you going to lie to me today?”

“No.”

She shows poise. Her conservative business suit gives her the veneer of seriousness. The composed picture before me is hard to square with her relationship with a low-grade philanderer like Barton.

“Let’s get the distasteful stuff out of the way first, okay? Did you murder Sara Barton?”

“No.”

“Do you know who did?”

“I have a theory.”

“You have a theory? I love theories. Let’s hear it.”

The guess is her theory does not implicate Barton, but I’m open to being pleasantly surprised.

“Brice Tanner. He was obsessed with her. Something must’ve happened, then bang bang. She’s dead.”

Juxtaposed with the composure and sophisticated dress, her nonchalance at the death of another human being cools the warm air. Scott responds, “Brice? You think? I buy him as dopey lover type, but I don’t see him as a murderer. I don’t know.”

“He was arrested for stalking his girlfriend in college.”

The change in the shoulders would be imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t know him well, but I discern Scott’s tense reaction to this previously unknown information. Scott likes springing surprises in his interrogations. He doesn’t like surprises being sprung on him.

“His record doesn’t show anything like that.”

“It was expunged.”

“Then how do you know?”

“He is still required to report the arrest to the state bar examiners in his application to practice law.”

She’s right, and I have a high level of confidence that she speaks the truth about Brice’s stalking arrest. The puzzle of her readiness to talk to Scott clarifies. Monica is here to divert our noses away from her boyfriend to Brice. But the prints on the bullets still point to Barton.

“I’m curious. How do you know what is in Brice’s bar application?”

“I prefer not to answer that.”

I pull up the members of the Board of Bar Examiners on my phone. One familiar name jumps out—Bernard Barton. Mystery solved. The interrogation goes forward.

“You’re Bernard Barton’s girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“Two of you going to get married now?”

“I hope so.”

She and Barton are a pair. Both share a contempt for the basic expectations of polite society. I remember the spectacle at the funeral, where Barton and Monica paraded their affair mere feet from the coffin of Sara Barton—Lara Landrum’s scowl choking on the gratuitous vulgarity.

“Where were you on the night of the murder?”

“I got home from work around six-thirty and stayed there for the rest of the night.”

“Can anyone vouch for that?”

“Bernard was with me the whole time.”

Bang bang. She just shot herself, and she doesn’t even know it.