SANCTUARY

SANCTUARY
CHAPTER 1

July 1, and I’m on call for the week for the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division’s Arson Unit, better known as SLED. It’s a Friday morning at 4:30 when the phone rings. “Yeah,” I say, “this is Johnson.”
“Will, this is Jolly. I’ve got a call for you. You awake?”
“Yup, Captain. What’s up?”
“Captain Kirkland, with the Dillon County Sheriff’s Department just called. He’s got three dead in a house fire. They need your help.”
“Are the bodies still there?”
“Yeah, they don’t want to move them until you can check it out.”
“Okay. Tell him I’ll be there in about an hour and a half, and I’ll meet him at the scene. And make sure he doesn’t let the firefighters tear up my fire scene.”
Captain Jolly gives me the address. I write it down and make a pot of coffee while I’m getting dressed. I suck down one cup and fix one to go. I head for the truck and check my gear really quick, even though I always have it ready. I wait until I get to Highway 17 before I hit the blue lights and wait until I get in traffic to get the siren going. I have to leave Georgetown County and pass through Horry and Marion counties to get to Latta, a small town in Dillon County. With it being early and not too much traffic, I should make it on time.
Fatal fires are gruesome, to say the least. Once you’ve been exposed to the distinctive smell of burnt human flesh, that’s something you will always remember. Sometimes, it seems like the odor absorbs into my skin. I shower and scrub several times before the stink goes away. It seems like I have to add extra detergent to get the smell out of my clothes. I even disinfect the inside of the truck when I get home.
Over the years, I’ve probably worked several hundred fire deaths. I worked two while still a firefighter at Clemson, and I’ll never forget my first full year with the Arson Unit.
It was 1987. I worked 33 fire deaths in the first three months of the year. All of them involved multiple deaths, and one had five family members. Early on, every time the phone rang in the middle of the night, I’d wake up in a cold sweat just knowing I’d have to look at another dead body. I ended the year with 67 fire death investigations.
I always pray and hope that the deceased were overcome by smoke inhalation long before the flames reached them. I’ve had a few small burns in my life. I’d hate to know what a continuous burn feels like.

As I turn onto Prichard Road, I see red and blue flashing lights. When arriving, I see there are several police cars, an ambulance, and one fire truck still at the scene. I walk over to where Kirkland is having a smoke and a cup of coffee. He sees me coming and pulls another cup out of his car and hands it to me.
“You might need this,” he says.
I take a sip of coffee. It’s already getting cool. “Good morning Captain Kirkland and thank you for the coffee. What do we have?”
“I’m sorry to get you up so early on a weekend Johnson, but I’ve got three crispy critters in there. The sheriff told me to call SLED and let y’all handle it. There’s an older couple with a down syndrome adult child. I think it might be an accident, but the family has prestige and money and I don’t want any repercussions.”
“Give me the details.”
While I’m finishing off the coffee, I learn that the couple were in their late sixties and the son was in his early twenties. They had him late in life. The oldest victim, Mr. Mason had been a college professor and was on the school board, in addition to being on county council for many years. His wife was a Special Ed teacher.
The fire was reported by a truck driver at 2:36 a.m. Kirkland has already gotten a statement from him and everything checked out. He was on his way to make a delivery when he saw the flames. Already the house was totally involved by then, with flames coming from both the roof and the rear right side. By the time the county fire department arrived, most of the roof on the rear had collapsed.
I go back to the truck and put on my fire boots and load the camera with a roll of 36 exposure color film. The sun is coming up, but it’s still dark inside the house, so I grab my big light and begin my investigation by photographing the scene, starting outside at the front and moving around in a clockwise manner. It’s a one story wood frame house with white vinyl siding. The electric meter is on the left side and the power company has cut the overhead wires to disconnect power. I photograph the cut line. As I move around, there’s a propane gas tank on the right side. I photograph it. I see that the fire department has shut off the gas value. It’s 48 percent full.
I climb the front porch and see the front door has been forced. “Hey, Kirkland!” I yell. “Who forced the door?”