by Carmen Amato
Emilia went in. The space was long and narrow with the three doorless toilet stalls along one wall. On the opposite wall a row of urinals hung below a mirror running the width of the space. A single sink was located between the last urinal and the door. The cement floor was cracked and spotted with yellow stains. This late in the day the place smelled of piss and stale cigarettes but Emilia was alone.
She went into a stall, slid down her jeans, sat down on the cool porcelain and let nature take its course.
The bathroom door opened and Lt. Inocente came in.
As Emilia watched helplessly, he glanced at the mirror above the urinals. El teniente’s face was expressionless as he saw Emilia’s reflection as she sat on the toilet with her jeans around her knees and the toilet paper in her hands. Emilia pulled her gaze down before her eyes could meet his in the mirror.
There was the soft sound of a zipper being pulled and then Emilia heard a stream tinkle into the urinal. She hastily used the toilet paper and fastened her jeans. Lt. Inocente probably watched her every move but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of letting him know she was bothered. Emilia didn’t look at him or say a word as she tucked the toilet paper roll under one arm and washed her hands at the sink. When she left, Lt. Inocente was still standing motionless in front of the urinal with his pants unzipped. The stream had ended.
Emilia walked back to her desk and flipped the roll back into the drawer.
When she’d first started to use the detectives’ bathroom the men had often followed her in. They’d do what el teniente had done, but loudly and joking about it, making sure she saw their equipment. Emilia had ignored them, until the day five walked in and stood around the doorless cubicle. As soon as she started to pull up her pants Castro had opened his own pants and announced he was going to give her what she’d been looking for. He’d shoved his hand between her legs, with his own pants around his thighs and Emilia had grabbed his balls and dug in her fingernails and head butted his chest at the same time. Castro had screamed like a stuck pig as Emilia charged hard, driving him backwards through the surprised onlookers until the back of his head connected with the rim of a urinal. The porcelain had cracked as Castro’s eyes rolled back in his head and the episode was over.
Since then, by silent agreement, none of the detectives ever went into the bathroom when they saw Emilia head out of the squadroom with her roll of white toilet paper.
Except for el teniente. It wasn’t frequent, maybe only every few months, and he never said a word but it was still unnerving. Emilia didn’t know if it was an accident--his door was usually closed so he probably didn’t realize she’d walked out with the toilet paper--or deliberate. She didn’t really want to know as long as he didn’t bother her.
Her phone rang. It was the desk sergeant saying that a Señor Rooker wished to see her. Emilia avoided Rico’s eye as she said, yes, the sergeant could let el señor pass into the detectives’ area.
A minute later Rucker was standing by her desk, sweat beaded on his forehead. The starched collar of his shirt was damp.
“There’s a head,” he gulped. “Someone’s head in a bucket on the hood of my car.”
One last thing . . .
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Thank you and happy reading.
All the best, Carmen