Spatter in South Beach
July 17, 3:22am:
I don’t like to travel. I’m a loner. It’s one of the things that makes me one of the best in this field. I don’t mix business with pleasure, and I don’t mix defecation with my personal life.
What keeps me going is faith that one day everyone will poop directly into the toilet with no splatter or spray. Sometimes I dream of a world of toilets free from skid marks. Some say it’s an unrealistic dream.
I’m a pioneer in the field and respected by my peers. So I’m not surprised to see remote area codes pop up when my phone rings at night.
Area code 305 — it’s Miami. My mind takes a few seconds to wake up and process the possibilities. It’s taco week in South Beach. There was a PitBull concert at the palladium. The opportunities for bathroom misfires in South Beach are endless.
I step out of the room to take the call. My wife has given up her life for my profession as well. With phone calls coming in at all hours, she’s lucky to get any sleep at all. And when I’m home, I have to lean on her for support. It’s hard for me to forget about the things I’ve seen. It’s not an easy life.
“We need you at the airport.”
“Where?” My voice is groggy.
“The Miami airport. Take the next flight.” The phone hangs up abruptly. This sounds serious.
“I might be gone for a while.” My wife rolls over and covers her head with the pillow. She’s used to this.
My flight gets in at 6:48am. The sizzling Miami sun radiates over the eastern horizon. With the seat belt light still on, the flight attendant grabs my arm and hastily escorts me off the plane.
“There’s been a serious explosion in concourse B. The scene’s been closed off for several hours.” She looks uneasy.
The airport director is waiting by the food court when I step off the plane. He looks like he hasn't slept in days. The hustle and bustle of Taco week is in full effect.
“Did anybody come through look like they were traveling directly from the PitBull concert?” I inquire, testing my gut instincts.
“There was a group of Mexicans on Flight 702. They looked drunk. I think several of them used the bathroom.” He looks confident in his recollection. “They ordered some burritos from Chipotle, but I can’t be sure what business they had in Miami.”
The Director continued. “Edwardo was mopping during the third shift. He didn’t know what hit him when he opened the handicap stall. He said there was a giant blast of diarrhea sprayed across the back of the toilet seat and going up the wall. There were several brown fingerprints on the door.”
Edwardo looks like he’s seen a ghost. The shell shocked janitor shivers uncontrollably in the corner. “Si” he nods lifelessly.
I feel a twinge of empathy for him. Most people can’t handle what he’s seen. Edwardo looks physically sick.
I meticulously sift through Edwardo's trash bucket, searching for any sign of something that could break the case open. A taco wrapper. That could be from anywhere. Actually, it couldn’t. I recognize that wrapper anywhere — Senior Froggies.
Senior Froggies was to blame for the Miami Salmonella outbreak of 1997. I was there. It’s a time I don’t like to talk about.
“Edwardo. What’s that brown smudge on your sleeve.” The remaining color in his face turns ghostly pale. He quickly hides his shoulder against the wall and leans on the urinal casually.
“Que Pasa?” the look on his face shifted to bewilderment. It‘s a look I’ve seen too many times for one career.
“Edwardo, show the Director your right sleeve.” I nudge him gently. “It’s time to turn in your janitor uniform.”
He makes a halfhearted attempt to protest, but defeat creeps across his face. He glances at the spatter behind the toilet, then down at his Miami Airport embroidered jumpsuit. The dejection in his posture is unmistakable.
“You can handle it from here.” I signal to the director. “There’s a flight leaving in 10 minutes, and a special lady I want to see.”
I make a move to shut the bathroom door. The Airport Director extends his hand. “I don’t shake hands with clients.” He seems to understand. The look in his eyes tells me everything I needed to know.
“I gotta go. They’re holding the plane for me.”
“Wait!” He calls out before the bathroom door swings shut. “Next time you’re in Miami, Senior Froggies is on me.”
“Senior Froggies it is.” I say soberly. “Senior Froggies it is.”
The scent of the handicap stall lingers on my trench coat and I squeeze into the window seat. The widow to my left covers her nose and looks nauseous. Forgiver her lord, because she knows not what she does. If only I had time to tell her what I‘ve been through.
But it’s short flight, and there’s someone at home who’s used to this smell. She’s waiting for me.
Dave Alexander is Chief Investigator and Lead Detective at www.ShitterSleuth.com.
