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

Ella screams at her, “What’s the matter with you?”

I approach the murderer, look her dead in the eyes, and say, “Remember what I promised you? I promised you that I would bring your sister’s killer to justice, and I did.”

She tries to stand, but the handcuffs that keep her attached to the chair pull her back down as quickly as she rises. She kicks the table in anger, her legs flailing in every direction—up, down, east, and west. The racket she makes is terrible. Her momentum finally gets the best of her. The chair loses its balance and tips over, leaving her squirming on her side on the floor. Gravity always wins in the end.

Old Murph pops his head in, “Is everything all right?”

I point to the body on the floor, touch Ella on the arm, and lead us both out of the room. No more looking back this time. She is somebody else’s problem now.

“You hear me. You killed them. You live with that—” I don’t hear her anymore. I don’t hear anything.

I walk back to my office brooding over her parting shot. I loathe to give her credit, but she finally spewed an insult that delivered. I fear that she speaks the truth about my dead wife and son.

51

Alone again in my office, I pick at my lunch without enthusiasm. A tired-looking Scott pushes through the closed door and crashes into a chair. The weekend was hell on both of us as we worked like rented mules to unravel our own case. Scott pursued the fingerprint evidence of Sara Barton’s ancient DUI arrest that eliminated the last remaining remnant of conceivable doubt.

He says, “We searched Lara Landrum’s residence.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ll spare you the details, but you need to see one thing.”

He hands me a USB drive with my name handwritten on it.

“Some video files on there. I watched a little bit before turning it off. No one else knows about it. No one.” His voice has a special emphasis as he says these last two words.

“What is it?”

“Why don’t you watch it and see for yourself?”

I continue to look at the little item in my hand, as if it were some mystifying object from the far-off future. I don’t like the direction of the conversation.

Scott continues, “I need you to promise me something. Like I said, I only watched part of it. I’ll let you watch the whole thing. I need you to use good judgment here. If there is evidence relevant to the Lara Landrum murder case on there somewhere, I need it back. If not, as far as I’m concerned, that USB drive does not exist. Understand?”

I nod—starting to comprehend.

As he leaves, he says, “I’m cataloguing evidence the rest of the afternoon. If I need to catalogue what’s in your hand, let me know. Otherwise …”

He does not finish the thought.

I lock my office door, put the USB into my computer, and hit play. The empty bedroom of a Midtown Atlanta condo fills the screen. Soon Lara Landrum and a man enter the shot and begin having sex. I put the man under the microscope to decipher his state of mind. But he is unreadable. I study the woman for signs of deception and deceit, some clue as to the massive fraud she is orchestrating. Nothing. The storage drive contains two similar scenes, the man making love to a woman who is already dead. The last video file runs out and turns to black, leaving nothing but accusation in its wake.

Ever the lawyer, I note that Georgia Code Section 16-11-62 makes filming someone with hidden video cameras a felony. Prosecution is unlikely. The perpetrator has bigger problems on her hands, and the victim does not wish to pursue charges. The recording fails to shed any light on the identity of Lara Landrum’s murderer and may safely be destroyed.

I drop the USB drive on the floor and smash it with my shoe, using my heel to crush the grinds into a vanishing dust. I bag the remains and throw them in a trashcan down the hall, far from me, pushing the contents down deep, just to be safe. Do other copies exist? The murderer’s earlier threats about exposing me take on a new light. Maybe I am not as prepared to accept the consequences of my actions as I let on. But maybe I won’t have a choice.

The sin we think is done in secret never is.

***

Ella muses, “She has a way with men, doesn’t she?” The question is rhetorical. Ella’s tone does not carry judgment. She simply states a fact.

I wonder, “How could I have been so wrong about so much?”

“You’re not the first man to be led astray chasing some tail.”

I guess so. We sit together in my office. The afternoon winds down. Exhausted by the end of another murder trial, we say little. Ella is here as a friend, worried about my mental state, watching out for me even now, despite everything. The fading light slips past the slits in the blinds, creating a hazy halo in the room. The dust particles dance in the sun’s rays.

Ella wants to know, “How did you figure it out?”

“Compare and contrast. The woman in the autopsy photos had a tiny scar on her left breast. The woman in the video with Brice did not. I’ve seen the video and the autopsy photos 100 times each, and the front page of the autopsy report notes the scar. The proof was right in front of my nose the whole time.”

“Plus you had independent corroboration that today’s witness had no such scar on her breast.”

The tone is neutral, with the faintest hint of bemusement around the mouth. But yes, my intimate knowledge of the living twin’s perfect breasts helped to crack the case. The mountain theft of Sam’s furtive photos of a naked Sara Barton clinched it. Sam’s crime, combined with my crime, solved the crime. The murderer’s slip of the tongue