Slippery Rock Gazette

Dr. Frederick M. Hueston, PhD

It was one of those mornings where the rain pounded the city like it had a grudge – the kind of downpour that made you wonder if Mother Nature was in a bad mood or if she just wanted to keep everyone indoors. 

I was sitting on my favorite counter stool at the diner, nursing a black coffee and waiting for the caffeine to kick in. Flo was busy behind the counter, flashing her usual smile as she slung plates of eggs and toast to the regulars. 

Next to me, as usual, sat the ole Admiral. No one knew exactly why he was called the Admiral—he hadn’t seen the inside of a ship in decades—but he sure loved telling tales about the high seas. Every morning it was the same. He’d lean in, tap my arm, and start with, “Back in ’42, we were up against a storm so fierce it made grown men cry…” It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy a good war story now and then, but I’d heard his every tale at least ten times. Today, I just smiled and let him go on while I waited for my coffee to do its job. Then, right in the middle of one of the Admiral’s stories about a supposed mutiny, my phone rang. Saved by the bell.

 “Stone Detective,” I said, barely suppressing a sigh of relief. The voice on the other end was nervous, like someone who had just watched their investment start to crumble—literally. 

“We’ve got a problem, Detective. A penthouse job in one of the new high-rises. Tile cracking in the master bath. Expensive work, too. It was supposed to be flawless.” 

I straightened up, the haze from my late night starting to lift. “Cracked tiles, huh? I’ll be there in an hour.” I tossed a couple of bucks on the counter, nodding to Flo. “Hold that war story, Admiral. Duty calls.” The Admiral gave me a knowing wink, like he thought I was off to fight my own kind of war. And in a way, he wasn’t wrong. 

The high-rise was one of those luxury towers that screamed “money.” The kind where even the door handles looked like they could pay off a mortgage. The building manager met me in the lobby, wringing his hands like he’d just watched the Titanic sink. “It’s the master bath, Detective. Imported tile. We’re talking top-of-the-line, hand-cut. Clients are coming back in a week, and if they see these cracks… well, it won’t be pretty.” I followed him to the penthouse, where the scene was laid out in front of me. The bathroom was a marble-tiled wonderland, the kind of place that made you feel like you’d been transported to a Roman villa. But the cracks in the tile were as clear as the clouds outside, running along the grout lines like veins in the stone. I crouched down, running my fingers along the fissures. 

“How long have these been here?” 

“Showed up about two weeks ago, out of nowhere,” the manager said. “One day, everything was perfect. The next, cracks. The tile installer swears it’s not their fault.” 

I raised an eyebrow. “They always do.” 

I pulled out my trusty loupe, inspecting the edges of the tile. The cracks ran deep. This wasn’t a surface issue. Something was shifting underneath. “You have any idea what’s under these tiles?” 

The manager shook his head. “Just what the contractor told us. Standard subflooring, thinset, the usual.” I gave him a hard look. 

“The usual, huh? Something tells me it’s anything but.” I moved to the corner of the room, where the grout lines met the wall. It was subtle, but there it was—just a hint of lifting around the edges. “Looks like we’ve got some movement in the subfloor,” I said, standing up. “Tile is only as good as the foundation it’s sitting on. If the floor beneath is shifting, expanding, or contracting, you’re going to get cracks – no matter how perfect the tile is.” 

The manager frowned. “But this is a brand-new building. There shouldn’t be any movement.” 

I shrugged. “Brand new or not, if the subfloor wasn’t prepped right, or if there’s too much settling, the cracks will come through. It’s called telegraphing. Movement in the subfloor projects right into the tile. You have to use a crack isolation membrane to stop the subfloor’s movement from reaching the surface.” 

The manager looked puzzled. “Crack isolation membrane?” 

I nodded. “It’s a flexible layer you apply before the tile goes down. It allows the subfloor to move without transferring the movement to the tile. Without it, any shifting in the subfloor shows up as cracks right where you don’t want them. Whoever installed this didn’t think ahead.” 

“So, what’s the fix?” 

“Well, first things first—you’re gonna need to pull up the cracked tiles. Check the subfloor for any major cracks or shifting, then apply the crack isolation membrane before retiling. Without that layer of protection, you’re just asking for more cracks in the future.” 

The manager sighed, clearly calculating the cost in his head. “And here I thought expensive tile meant we wouldn’t have these problems.” 

“Expensive or not, it’s all about what’s underneath,” I said, tipping my hat as I made my way to the door. “It’s always the foundation that matters.” I left the penthouse, the rain still beating down as I stepped onto the street. 

Another case cracked, another mystery solved. As I made my way back to the diner, I couldn’t help but smile. “Another case solved,” I muttered to myself, pushing open the door. The ole Admiral was still there, mid-story. I slid back onto my favorite counter stool and caught the end of his tale, feeling a strange sense of comfort. After all, even a detective needs a little routine between cracking cases.

The Stone Detective is a fictional character created by Dr. Frederick M. Hueston, PhD, written to entertain and educate. Dr. Fred has written over 33 books on stone and tile installations, fabrication and restoration and also serves as an expert for many legal cases across the world.  Send your comments to fhueston@stoneforensics.com.