Alex Whitaker

Freelance Copywriter

CITY: Atlanta
EMAIL: alexwhitakercopy@gmail.com​

"In Sanitation Veritas"

Eyeballs floating in backed-up toilets were not the kind of calls I was used to getting back then.

It was not the first time I’d seen a body either. I’d been to plenty of crime scenes in my thirty-six years on the force, but this was certainly the strangest case I’d ever been party to. I remember the call like it was yesterday, August 16th, 1986. Mostly I remember the calmness in the waitress’ voice. “It’s blue. It’s blue.” She kept saying that over and over again. Once I got the address out of her, I radioed Sheriff Poole and we met over there.

The Red Herring was a restaurant that had been in the area for a few years and attracted both locals and weekend anglers wanting to escape the business of city life. It was off the beaten path, about a mile or so off exit 82 and backed up to Black Bear River, a lesser-known tributary of the Oconee River. It was well before that area commercialized, so it was all dirt roads then. I remember pulling into the gravel drive and meeting Sheriff Poole at the front door.

It had been a hot summer with lots of showers that year, so the air was particularly muggy. Soon as I stepped out of the cruiser, I was swatting mosquitos on my already sweaty neck.  Sheriff was on the front porch leaning against the wall with a consternating look and a cigarette pursed between his lips, smoke dancing in front of his face as the porch light next to him flickered. Shouting could be heard inside the building.

“You ready, Greene?”

I nodded.

Sheriff stamped out the butt and opened the door ahead of me, the smell of tobacco diminishing as I crossed the threshold and turned to that feces and rot. Unmistakable rot.   

“See anything else round here, Melvin? Streets? Sewers? Other buildings? Is that Main Street just over yonder?”

“Reckon not, Roger. All I see is pine trees.”

“Shit fire, Melvin. ‘Course that’s all you see. Trees, trees, and more trees. And what’s beneath all of them trees? Nothin’ but miles and miles of red Georgia clay.”

“Except for your septic tank. Right, Roger?”

“That’s right, Melvin. Ain’t got no sewer to connect to.”

Melvin looked past Roger as we walked in, and Roger turned around. Roger was the owner during those days. He was a decorated Vietnam veteran who gave as much as he got, both good and bad. He was not well-respected in town, and not the sort you would want set against you. Rumors passed around through the years of all he had done in the war. True or not, I always wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt even though I felt nervous around him. Being called out to his restaurant late at night for an eyeball in a toilet certainly did not help.

Melvin, on the other hand, wasn’t much to look at. He was just another young, greasy kid with barely any sense. Hearing Roger lay into him put a smirk on Sheriff’s face, which was no easy feat.

“Hey there, Sheriff Poole…Deputy Greene,” called out Melvin.

“Howdy, Melvin,” replied Sheriff. “Okay then,” he said, shaking Roger’s hand firmly. “Let’s see it.”

Following Roger and Sheriff into the bathroom, I noticed the tile floor had already been cleaned, but fecal water lined the rim of the toilet bowl. And as sure as the waitress had described it, floating on top was a blue eyeball staring up at us.

“Okay then,” Sheriff sighed. “Let’s open her up and take a look.”

The three of us walked outside with shovels.

“Sheriff, you done come up here almost monthly looking around my property. Guess you had the scent before we even knew about it. You don’t think I had somethin’ to do with this, do you?”

“Oh, no,” Sheriff laughed, slapping Roger on the back. “Hell, Roger. You know I can’t pass up your fried catfish. Can’t get enough of it.”

That struck me as odd. I hadn’t remembered him ever mentioning that before. But then again, it was not unlike Sheriff Poole to handle things off the record.

After a bit of digging, we reached the pipe opening. We shined our flashlights as Roger pulled off the cap. Floating on top was a wadded-up uniform. The logo on the breast pocket read Old South Septic Co. We unfolded the uniform and found a one-eyed head.

“Oh God no,” shouted Roger. “Rick!”

Roger collapsed to his knees.

“I used him on account of he’s my cousin, but we ain’t seen him in over two years. Didn’t even come to Mama’s Easter dinner few months back.”

He dug his fingers in the dirt and spit up his dinner.

“Guess this’d be why. Poor bastard just doin’ his job here…  and it ain’t enough for some other fella to kill the man. He goes and cuts him to bits and throws him in a shit tank in the ground to rot. His car’s not been home once either, so we all kind of figured he just run off with that new girlfriend of his. Just up and left town. Eloped and gone. Just don’t make no sense.

Then something else floated to the surface…Sheriff Poole’s old ID badge. Sheriff’s face turned white.

“You,” stammered Roger. “You bast-”.

Sheriff Poole drew his revolver, but I drew mine first.