I looked to Galiano, cheeks burning with humiliation. Or anger.
“As I explained, Senor Diaz, Dr. Brennan is here at our request.” Galiano’s voice was tempered steel.
“Why exactly
Anger makes me feisty.
“I’m thinking of opening a spa.”
“Dr. Brennan is here on other business,” Galiano jumped in.
“She is a forensic anthrop—”
“I know who she is,” Diaz cut him off.
“Dr. Brennan has experience with septic tank recovery, and she’s offered to help.”
Offered? How did Galiano come up with “offered”?
“We’d be foolish not to avail ourselves of her expertise.”
Diaz glared at Galiano, his face concrete. Hernandez and Xicay said nothing.
“We shall see.” Diaz looked hard at me, then stomped from the room.
Only the fly broke the silence. Galiano spoke first.
“I apologize, Dr. Brennan.”
Anger also goads me to action.
“Can we begin?” I asked.
“I’ll handle Diaz,” Galiano said, pulling out a chair.
“One other thing.”
“Name it.”
“Call me Tempe.”
For the next hour I explained the glories of septic disposal. Galiano and his partner listened closely, interrupting now and then to comment or to ask for clarification. Xicay sat in silence, eyes lowered, face devoid of expression.
“Septic tanks can be made of rock, brick, concrete, or fiberglass, and come in a number of designs. They can be round, square, or rectangular. They can have one, two, or three compartments, separated by partial baffles or by full walls.”
“How do they work?” Galiano.
“Basically, a septic tank is a watertight chamber that acts as an incubator for anaerobic bacteria, fungi, and actinomycetes that digest organic solids that fall to the bottom.”
“Sounds like Galiano’s kitchen.” Hernandez.
“What can we expect?” Galiano ignored his partner.
“The digestion process creates heat, and gases bubble to the surface. Those gases combine with particles of grease, soap, oils, hair, and other junk to produce a foamy scum. That’s the first thing we’re going to see when we open the tank.”
“Bring a little sunshine into your day.” Hernandez.
“With time, if left undisturbed, a floating semisolid mat can form.”
“Shit pudding.” Hernandez was covering his repugnance with macho humor.
“Tanks should be pumped out every two to three years, but if the owners are as lax as you say they are, that isn’t likely to have happened, so we’ll probably encounter this type of sediment.”
“So you’ve got this soup kitchen for microbes. Where does everything go from there?” Galiano asked.
“Once a tank fills to a certain level, the altered waste products flow out through an exit drain to a series of pipes, usually laid out in parallel rows, called a drain field.”
“What kind of pipes?”
“Typically, clay or perforated plastic.”
“This system dates to the Preclassic, so I’m sure we’re talking clay. What goes on there?”
“The drain field rests on a bed of gravel, usually covered by soil and vegetation. While some aerobic breakdown occurs there, the drain field primarly functions as a biological filter.”
“Fine or coarse drip. Now we’re talking Mr. Coffee.”
Hernandez was starting to get on my nerves.
“As the final step in treatment, the waste water leaks from the pipes and percolates through the gravel bed. Bacteria, viruses, and other pollutants are absorbed by the soil or taken up by the root systems of the overlying plants.”
“So the grass really is greener over the septic tank.” Galiano.
“And a lot happier. What else do we know about this setup?”
Galiano pulled out a small spiral pad and flipped through his notes.
“The tank is located approximately seven feet from the south wall of the
