Page 52 of The Last Close Call

Bryan glanced around the garage, where the only vehicle was an ancient riding mower and the rest of the space had been converted into a workshop. Along the back wall was a wooden shelf filled with toolboxes. On the wall above the shelf hung a fire helmet and a plaque.

“Thanks for making the time for us,” Jack said, turning to the freshly sanded swing in the middle of the table. Some of the slats looked old while others appeared new.

“You building or repairing?” Bryan asked.

“Building.” He wiped off his dusty arms. “My wife’s family’s got a farm in Brenham, and the wood’s salvaged from their old barn. She’s been after me for years to make her a swing for the porch.”

Jack nodded. “Sounds nice.”

“Ah, not really. It’s hot as hell in the summer and you get eaten alive by mosquitoes.” He tossed the bandanna on the table and turned to face them. “So, what can I do for you? You said something about a cold case?”

“We had some questions about the Anderson case,” Jack said. “Gale and Philip. They died in a house fire.”

The man nodded. “That was about five years ago.”

Five years and a half, but Bryan didn’t correct him.

“What can you tell us about it?” Jack asked. “I understand you were on the scene that night?”

He nodded again. “They were out in Whitewing Grove, if I remember right. You been out there?”

Jack shook his head.

“One of those stamped-out subdivisions built in the eighties. Five floor plans.” He stepped over to a dusty minifridge and opened the door. “Water?” He looked at Bryan.

“No, thanks.”

He looked at Jack.

“I’m good.”

He took out a bottle of water and twisted off the top. He took a long sip and rested the bottle on the table.

“This was back in the summer, I remember. Middle of the night. A fire tore through the house, and they never woke up. Died in their bed.”

“Smoke detector?” Jack asked.

“Dead battery.” He took another swig.

“We took a look at the report,” Jack said. “It says the point of origin was the water heater?”

“Yeah.”

“The report says the fire was ruled an accident.” Jack paused. “Do you agree with that assessment?”

“I wrote the damn thing.”

Jack darted a look at Bryan. There was definitely something in his tone.

“But you initially investigated it as a possible arson,” Jack stated.

“That’s right.” He shook his head. “To me, the whole thing smelled funny.”

“Accelerants?” Jack asked.

“No, I mean the scene, the circumstances. The two of them never woke up. Died of smoke inhalation.”

Bryan glanced at Jack, then looked at the retired fire chief. “Any suspects?”

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