The Waverly Manor Incident

Not looking up from her computer screen, Shelia asked, “You’re all aware of why I have gathered you here?”

Three of the four people seated in front, the person seated next to her and the one standing beside her, all nodded. The fourth, Mrs. Watson, did not. She instead looked blankly ahead. An octogenarian widower from 12B, Mrs. Watson did not know where she was or why she was here. However, she knew it would come to her in time, so she settled back and held her tongue.

“Yes, yes. Can we hurry this along? I have a–” Mr. Johnson of 17A began, when his wife jabbed him in the ribs.

“Hush, Donald!” she insisted.

“You hush!” he hushed back. “It’s your fault that we’re here!”

“How is it my fault?”

“Please,” Shelia pulled her eyes away from the screen and rose to her full height, “If we can just all settle down.”

Sheila Thompson was the Operations Manager of Waverly Manors Private Gardens, a very exclusive community housing complex. It was a position that came with considerable responsibility and authority, both of which she assumed with fierce pride.

“Why are the police here?” Mrs. Watson shot out of her chair, pointing at Rafael.

“Rafael is part of our security team, Mrs. Watson,” Shelia explained patiently. “He is not the police. We have all agreed to keep law enforcement out of this to save the reputation of Waverly Manor from being sullied. Remember?”

“No.” She sat back down.

Britney Jansen, the blinged out trust fund baby of 3F, frowned at the mention of the word ‘police.’

“We don’t need no popo snooping around, do we Beyoncé?” she asked the teacup Pekinese poking its head out from her purse.

“Actually, maybe we do!” Johnson answered for Beyoncé. “There are serious consequences to be had and I don’t see where Shelia has the authority to be both judge and jury!”

“Hush, Donald!” Mrs. Johnson repeated.

Shelia smiled at Mr. Johnson as she walked out from behind her desk and strolled casually before the seated tenants.

“All of you have been given two previous warnings and made aware of the serious consequences of a third offense, so I really don’t think we need to belabor that point or question my authority in this matter, now do we?” She turned to eye Mr. Johnson.

He slunk down in his seat.

“Mister Saunders? If you will.”

Chet Saunders, a mild-mannered man in his late fifties, had been sitting quietly, head lowered. At the mention of his name, he shot up.

“Yes. Okay. As you know I am your grocer from the Waverly Watershed Market on the ground floor, just across from the laundry, the freshest produce in town, open six days a–”

“Mister Saunders, there is no need to advertise your business. Everyone is well aware of your hours and location,” Sheila interrupted.

“Besides, no one cares about your crappy store and outrageous prices. Get on with it!” Mr. Johnson cried.

“Okay. So, the incident happened during the night last week Thursday. I discovered the evidence upon opening my grocery. I was shocked and nauseated.”

“Did you recognize the... uh, perp’s signature?” Shelia questioned.

“No! Unfortunately, it had rained that night. A horrible mess! Who wants to see that when they come to buy a nice potato or onion?” Saunders shook his head.

“Oh, come on, Saunders!” Mr. Johnson rose. “If there’s no evidence, then there’s no crime! This hearing is a joke!”

“Sit down, Mr. Johnson!” Sheila insisted.

He sat.

“As you know, we have 24/7 security cameras and Rafael on night patrol. Rafael, tell them what you found.”

“Thank you, Miss Sheila,” Rafael was in full security guard's uniform. “I have found footage of the event on the security camera.”

Mr. Johnson shifted slightly in his chair; Sheila noted.

“May we please see the footage from the camera?” Sheila smiled, relishing the imminent noose tightening around someone’s neck.

“No,” Rafael shrugged. “What I have found is that it is missing.”

Sheila’s smile crumbled. “What?”

“Someone has stolen it.”

Laughter exploded from Mr. Johnson.

“You told me you had footage!” Sheila wailed.

“Si! I do. From the night before,” Rafael said proudly. “And from a different camera. A secret camera no one knows about.”

“Why am I here?” Mrs. Watson asked, as if suddenly waking up from a nap.

Sheila ignored her. “Why should I want to see footage from the night before from a different camera?”

“It is from behind the store. It is very encapsulating.” Rafael’s command of English was not 100%.

“I’m sorry. What?” Sheila asked.

“Beyoncé needs to pee,” Britney announced.

“Now that you mention it, I’m thirsty,” Mrs. Johnson exclaimed.

“I have many fine beverages available at my market,” Saunders replied, “I can run over and–”

“No. One. Leaves. This. Room!” Sheila shouted.

The room fell silent.

“You should watch the video,” Rafael said, unshaken. “She is pretty good.”

Sheila folded down into her chair; this was going nowhere like she had planned. “Fine. Run the footage.”

Rafael slipped a thumb drive into the player, and the large HD screen lit up. The time and date stamp on the footage revealed it was from last Wednesday at 3:13 AM. Although the TV was of the highest quality, the close circuit video camera wasn’t. It had been subject to years of improper maintenance. The lens was covered in dust and stained with some dried fluid. The B&W picture was grainy, and the lighting was poor.

“This the area behind your store front, Mr. Saunders, no?” Rafael wanted to confirm.

“No. I mean yes. I think so.” He squinted at the image.

“I think so too,” Rafael agreed. “It is the dog run.”

They all leaned forward to watch the dark image. Nothing happened for several minutes.

“This is like watching paint dry!” Mr. Johnson complained.

“Hush. Who’s that?” his wife asked, pointing as a dark form entered the frame.

“I’m not sure...” Mr. Johnson said, straining to make out a face.

The person entering the frame was dressed in dark clothing, including a pulled up hoodie. They appeared to be scouring the ground for something. At some point, they found what they were looking for. They bent down and carefully gathered it up. Then they slunk off, never revealing their face. The footage ended.

“Very encapsulating, no?” Rafael said proudly.

“No. That's not even a dog,” Sheila said, defeated. “I’m sorry, Mr. Saunders, but we will have to excuse these people. Your complaint will be duly noted, but I don’t see how I can realistically accuse any of these tenants without proof.”

“Now you’re talking sense!” Mr. Johnson rose angrily. “Come Martha, let’s get out of here! Sheila, you may wish to look for a new job. I intend to inform the board of this petty charade!”

“Wait, Mr. Johnson, there’s no need to be rash!” Shelia rushed over to him. “Perhaps I can wave the homeowner’s fee?”

Mrs. Watson looked up startled. “Is the party over?”

“Come on, Beyoncé,” Britney whined, gathering her purse. “These people are such meanies! Imagine accusing you of making a mess!”

“Hold on, my friends!” Rafael shouted. “Everyone needs to seat back down. I know which of whom did it!”

“What now?” Mr. Johnson demanded, turning.

“Rafael? Are you out of your mind?” Sheila demanded. “Our most revered guests have all been found innocent!”

Mrs. Watson, who had risen earlier, sat down and declared: “I will not stand for this”

Rafael ran to where his Segway was parked at the back of the room and withdrew a brown paper-wrapped package from a custom pouch he had installed.

He carried the package to the front of the room. He held it out for all to see. On the front were the words “POOP POSITIVE.”

“Inside this package is the indisinputable, DNA evidence of the culprit, that I gathered.”

“Indisinputable?” Sheila questioned.

“Is that not the right word?” Rafael asked.

“Yes, I believe the popo is correct,” Britney, who had been a substitute English teacher for a year and a half, agreed.

“Indisputable, I think you both mean,” Shelia corrected.

“Maybe, Si. Okay.”

"Whatever," Britney sighed.

“Just show us what's in it,” Sheila sighed, plopping into her seat, revising her resume in her head.

Everyone re-took their seats.

“Before I reveal the name of the criminal, I should ‘splain.”

“I have a distant cousin, Bertha, who works at Poop Positive. When I told her what was happening, she says, ‘Rafael, I know what you should do. You should bring me the DNA and I will match for you.’”

“What in God’s holy name are you talking about?” Mr. Johnson demanded. “What’s Poop Positive?”

“They are a company that matches dog sheet by DNA samples to determine who left behind such evidence.”

“Sounds yucky.” Britney scrunched her nose. “Who’d want to work there?”

“I agree. It sounds fascinating,” Mrs. Watson nodded.

“As I have observed. You all have dogs that enjoy sheeting in the same place in the dog run. So, I could find samples to give my cousin. As per Sheila’s orders, I had already scooped up some from in front of Mr. Saunders’ grocery. I sent them all in. My cousin ran the samples. The culprit is inside.”

He tore open the package.

All the suspects leaned forward in anticipation and then quickly leaned back realizing it was probably dog shit inside.

It was indeed dog shit samples inside. But also, an envelope.

Rafael handed it to Sheila, who gingerly took it. She opened it and brightened considerably.

She rose. “The owner of the dog, whose name is on this paper, is being given my official thirty-day notice to quit and vacate their living quarters, effective immediately. We have quite the waiting list, so I expect no dawdling!”

“Oh, my!” gasped Mrs. Watson.

“And the name of the dog is... Bowser Johnson! Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, you are under notice!” Sheila smiled triumphantly.

“I protest!” Mr. Johnson swore. “Bowser wasn’t even here. He was at the spa that week, isn’t that right Martha?”

“I wasn’t here either. Remember, that was the week I was in Park City visiting–” Martha stuttered.

“Oh, shut up! No one's accusing you. Besides, DNA is not even admissible!”

“Bertha says they have a 98% accuracy,” Rafael insisted.

“Yeah right! I’ll be talking to my lawyer!” Mr. Johnson stormed out of the room, not even waiting for his wife.

Sheila laughed. “Please do! We have ours on retainer and I’d like to see him earn his keep for once!” Sheila gathered her things. “The rest of you are free to go,” she smiled.

Britney was already on her iPhone, tweeting the shocking news to all concerned.

Mrs. Watson walked slowly out, mumbling to herself. “I don’t even have a dog? Do I?”

Rafael lightly grabbed Saunders’ arm, holding him back.

“Wait one minute, my friend,” Rafael smiled.

“What? What do you want?” Saunders paled.

Rafael waited until everyone else had left.

“I just wanted to congratulate you.”

“Congratulate me for what?” Saunders asked.

“Are you not next on the list for an apartment here?”

“Oh. Yes. I believe I am.” Saunders tried to act surprised. “It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten. I guess I’m the lucky one.”

“Si. You are the lucky one.” Rafael slipped something into Saunders’ hand.

“Encapsulating. I will see you around, no?” Rafael asked as he turned to leave.

“But...” Saunders looked at the thumb drive marked ‘Dog Run.’ “What is this?”

“Just the real poop positive,” Rafael grinned. “Better quality. Crystal clear. Show’s a man placing the poop. But do not worry, I have another.”

“I will see you around, no? I like to shop on Sundays.”

“No. I mean, yes.” Saunders’ fist tightened around the flash drive.

Rafael turned smartly on his Segway and waved.

“Adios, amigo.”