CHICAGO
Platt figured there might not be such a thing as a surprise inspection. Even the rain beating down on the tin roof sounded like it was announcing their arrival. The state health inspector had met them at the front entrance, bringing with him the last several inspection reports. Bix exploded when he saw the blacked-out sections.
“It’s proprietary information,” Inspector Alfred said without apology. “I do as I’m instructed. Besides, I think it’s just their recipe for the taco seasoning. No big deal.”
“Really,” Bix said. “What if it’s something in that seasoning that’s making kids sick?”
“I doubt it.”
Platt grimaced at the man’s foolish attempt to argue with Bix. He started flipping pages while the other two men established their territory. He noticed several warnings and citations, but they appeared to be minor infractions.
Finally they were ready to move on. The three of them stopped at security so Bix and Platt could present their credentials. They were issued badges and security key cards that would allow them access throughout the facility. A tech handed out several pairs of shoe covers, telling the guests to change each time they entered a new area. The covers would be available at each entrance.
Platt still wasn’t sure what Bix expected to find. Worse, he didn’t think Bix knew.
They started with the production lines. The first one shaped ground beef into patties. A supervisor explained the process, step by step. Alfred didn’t appear to be listening and concentrated instead on making notes and conducting his own checks. Platt wandered away from the group to look through glass doors into other sections.
They were told that the shift would end in an hour and they would be able to observe the wash down and cleaning of the equipment. They could take samples of the cleaning chemicals and do their own “wipe down” to check for residue. But Platt wasn’t interested. He was certain it wasn’t chemicals or residue of chemicals that was making these kids sick.
He watched another production line where scraps and chunks of beef were fed into a huge grinder. The beef would supply the other production lines. Lots of raw meat. Lots of potential.
“Where does the beef come from?” Platt asked the supervisor when the group caught up.
“Various places.”
“Not just Illinois?”
“Oh gosh, no. Colorado, Nebraska, Florida, California, and Illinois—just to name a few states. We get the scraps and chunks from slaughterhouses that aren’t used for commercial cuts.”
“USDA contracts with you for the school lunch program?”
“USDA contracts with us, but I don’t know about the school lunch program. We don’t really know where all our products end up. We ship to state warehouses or other processors who might repackage and put their brand name on it for retail sale. Some of the product is bought by hospitals. And yeah, some is sent to school distribution centers.”
“You don’t have records of where your products end up?” Bix asked.
“No, sir. We only have records of which state warehouses we ship to. Those warehouses would probably have records of where they shipped the products.”
“What about the slaughterhouses?” Platt asked. “Do they provide you with test samples for bacteria or do you do your own testing?”
“They provide their test results but we pull routine samples after we grind the meat.”
“What happens when you get a positive back?”
“We’re supposed to shut the line. Clean everything. Pull another sample.”
“Every time?” Bix asked.
“Yup, every time.”
Platt was concerned that the supervisor had said “we’re supposed to” rather than “we do.” Grinding beef that might already be contaminated usually ended up spreading it. Taking random samplings was a crapshoot at best.
They moved on to another area, and again Platt ventured off on his own. He noticed two workers entering one of the security doors. As they changed their shoe covers Platt noticed the old covers looked wet. One of the men carried a clean plastic bucket that he took over to the grinding line and filled with ground beef.
Curious, Platt went to check if this particular door actually led to the outside, wondering why a worker would be allowed to bring in an unsterile container, but he saw through the glass window that the door didn’t lead outside. It led to what looked like a small warehouse.
Platt used his key card to open the door. Bix saw him and hurried over, bringing the other two men with him.
“I was just curious,” Platt said.
Without going into the room he saw what had made the shoe covers wet. A drain in the middle of the floor was filled with murky sludge that gave off a rancid smell.
“Oh yeah, it backs up sometimes when it rains,” the supervisor explained. “We’ve talked about that before.” He exchanged looks with Alfred like it was okay since they had talked about it. “George,” he called to a worker sorting supplies on the back shelves. “Clean this up.”
Platt watched as George complied, going to a stack of plastic buckets exactly like the one Platt had seen taken inside the production area and filled with ground beef. George took one off the same stack to mop up the floor.
“Are those disposable?” Platt asked.
“Not to worry. We send them through a special rinse cycle.”
“Plastic?” Platt said and looked over at Bix, who was already trying not to scream.