Page 581 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

Avery chose his words. “The report says that Phillips got too close to the band saw.”

Walter nodded, a trace of impatience on his face.

“That’s probably true, but why hasn’t anything been said about the crack in the blade?”

Walter stroked his chin. “Did you talk to Buck? What about David and Ralph?”

“They all say ol’ man Phillips was drunk. They said that if he hadn’t been standing so close, the log wouldn’t have hit him when it split off.”

“I’m inclined to agree. It sounds like carelessness on Buford’s part.”

“Yeah, maybe … but if the blade hadn’t been dull to begin with, the log wouldn’t have split off. I checked that blade. There were cracks in it almost as wide as my hand.” Avery shook his head. “Those guys know OSHA’s requirements. I’ve cautioned them a hundred times. If this were the first time, it would be one thing. But, this was the third accident in a month. The first was the chipper incident, then the edger, and now the band saw. The only common denominator I can come up with is dull saw blades.”

Walter walked around his desk and leaned against the edge. “There could have been a knot in that log.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Look, I know how hard the last couple of months have been on you, losing Susan and all, then having to look after a teenager, but you’ve got to get a grip on yourself. I know the Bartons and so do you. They’ve always done a good job filing those saws. Let’s not overreact.”

Avery nodded. “Maybe you’re right.” He closed his eyes, and an image of Buford flashed before him. He saw again the shock and fear reflected in the man’s eyes as the paramedics closed the ambulance doors. It was the last time Avery saw him alive.

“Look, if it makes you feel better, I’ll talk to the Bartons myself. How about that?”

“I’d appreciate it.”

Walter clapped his hands. “Good, then it’s all settled. Unless I find out anything different from the Bartons, old man Phillips was drunk and got too close to the saw. That’s our report.”

“Yeah, at least for now anyway. I just hope OSHA will be satisfied with that.”

In a couple of days, OSHA would be swarming like flies, checking everything from guards on the saws, voltage on the equipment, to making sure that “Joe Blow” was wearing a hard hat and steel-toed shoes.

Avery voiced their greatest fear. “If things are not just right, they’ll close the mill.” He shook his head. “Maybe I’m not cut out for this job.”

He looked up and saw Walter studying him with concern. He had to fight the urge to run his fingers across the shadow stubble on his jaw. He knew he looked as tired and worn as he felt. He was giving everything he could to his work, trying to kill the pain, but nothing seemed to work. It was like the chipper was taking him out one piece at a time until he was as flimsy as a piece of balsa wood.

“Do you remember?” Walter motioned to the framed picture, displayed prominently behind his desk.

“How could I forget?” The print titledThe Goal Line Standdepicted a legendary football play made by Alabama Crimson Tide. The print was by Daniel A. Moore, and it was the first of his many popular football paintings. Avery knew it was Walter’s pride and joy.

Walter studied the picture, a tone of reverence in his voice. “Sugar Bowl, Superdome, New Orleans, 1978. National Championship riding on the line. Penn State was ranked number one. Lots of people didn’t think Bama stood a chance. But there we were, fourth quarter, minutes to go … inside the Alabama one yard line, and it all came down to the goal line stand.”

The painting captured the fierce battle taking place on the goal line. Alabama linebacker Barry Krauss held back Mike Guman, Penn State’s tailback. Krauss’ body stance was a combination of anger and determination. He was a rock, holding back the wave, pitting his strength against his opponent like it was the last battle on earth.

“Alabama was ahead, and Penn State got the ball and was going for a touchdown. It was fourth down with seconds left in the game. Penn State made it to the goal line, but that’s as far as they got. Alabama held them back to win the 1978 National Championship.” Walter’s voice grew more intense. “Two football teams and a stadium packed with over seventy thousand fans, and it all came down to a battle between two men. Do you think victory that day went to the strongest or the best? No!” He paused. “It went to the man who wanted it the most.”

Walter turned to face Avery, his piercing blue eyes had the power to bore holes. “That’s what we have to do. It’s fourth down, seconds left. We’ve got to hold that line.”

Avery’s conversationwith Walter did little to diminish his concerns. He had to get to the bottom of what really happened to Buford Phillips. He unfolded the directions Barb had given him.

Turn right when you get to the top of the mountain, go about three miles past the church, and the Phillips are in a white house off the road on the left.

Avery wasn’t sure what he hoped to gain by visiting Buford Phillips’ widow. No, that wasn’t true. He knew what he was after—reassurance. Maybe this visit would give him the reassurance he needed to put those pleading eyes, Buford’s eyes, out of his mind.

He rechecked the address when he saw the freshly painted white house with a swing on the front porch nestled at the foot of a hill. Huge shade trees surrounded the house. Over to the left fruit trees were planted in neat rows. Grape vines crawled up the fence, separating the house from the vineyard. Not your typical drunk’s house.

A huge dog chained to a tree barked at him as he got out of the car. Was he at the wrong house? Avery cautiously knocked on the door.

“Can I help you?” An elderly woman stood at the door. Her short, steel-colored hair stuck straight out like she’d stuck her finger in a light socket. Clear, mournful eyes stared back at Avery from her puffy face, and he realized with a jolt that she wasn’t as old as he first thought, no more than ten years older than he.

“Ma’am, I’m Avery, the operations manager of the?—”

“I know who you are. What do you want? My Buford’s gone.”

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