Page 11 of Nothing Left

Then, Juliette stepped out of the bathroom and took a look at the last bedroom down the corridor. This was Heather's room, where she and her boyfriend had slept until Heather's drunken state had caused her to throw up. The bedcovers were still tangled and unmade, half pulled off the bed from where the boyfriend must have erupted in a panic when he heard Heather scream.

Returning to the kitchen, Juliette then took a final look at the object she'd saved until last - the wooden block that had four chef's knives stored in it. All were good quality, sharp items.

The biggest knife, with the widest blade, was missing from the block, and this was the knife that had been found next to Heather at the crime scene and which she'd grasped upon waking. Her fingerprints had been all over the knife - but they might have been anyway. It was a kitchen knife used by the occupants of the apartment.

It didn't help matters, though, that Heather had picked it up at exactly the wrong time.

Juliette walked back to the hallway, letting out the breath she'd been instinctively holding and glancing in a troubled way at Wyatt. The air outside the front door seemed fresh and fragrant after the unpleasant, thick, bloody stink inside.

This evidence wasn't looking good. Not so far, but perhaps they were all missing something.

"Let's go to the pathologist's office," she said. "I want to see those stab wounds for myself."

CHAPTER SEVEN

What evidence did the body hold? Would it add to the mountain of proof that Heather had murdered her friend, or would there be some extenuating factors? Juliette felt anxious to know.

Officer Vasquez and his partner kindly drove the task force team to the pathologist's offices, which were on the way to the police station. Juliette thanked the officer when they arrived there and took the keys. From here, they would be on their own, with the use of this loaned vehicle.

She felt grateful that they had been cooperative. It wasn't always the case, and she was appreciative when they were able to work with the local law enforcement in a harmonious way.

The pathologist's office was located a little way out of the town itself, in an area of Barcelona that was far less scenic than the clustered, colorful, and historic buildings of the Gothic quarter and the tourist areas. This was the grimmer side of the city, with crumbling, aging housing tracts and stark industrial buildings, a hodgepodge of different styles, all crammed on either side of surprisingly narrow streets.

The rain was setting in now, unseasonal for the area and turning the late afternoon chilly.

Again, there seemed no need for Sierra to accompany them inside, and Juliette directed her to stay in the car, but before they went in, Juliette turned to her and asked, "Have you gotten any information yet from the chat boards or social media?"

Sierra shook her head. "I'm saving all of it as I go. New comments are coming up by the minute. There are about six different sites and groups that I'm monitoring. The conversation is all in Spanish, so I'm translating it with an app and then pasting it into a master file. So far, it's just chit-chat and wild theories and a lot of blame." She frowned. "Everyone thinks the American woman is a murderer. And the story's getting bigger. It's trending worldwide now."

Juliette pressed her lips together. This wasn't good news.

The media frenzy was increasing, and public opinion was turning against Heather even before they had any concrete evidence. It was frustrating to know that the public was already forming their judgments based on incomplete information. She knew that this would make their jobs even harder. But it was inevitable. All it meant was that they were working under even more pressure than usual.

The pathologist's office was a somber building with high walls and tiny windows. It looked like a fortress.

They headed inside to a network of rooms that were smaller than their counterparts in America would be but which was scrupulously clean.

The front room was quiet and clinical, the smell of disinfectant strong in the air. A stern-looking woman at a very tidy desk greeted them sharply.

In Spanish, she asked what they were here for, and in her best Spanish, Juliette replied that they were there to view the British murder victim, Samantha Cole. She showed their ID.

"Wait, please," the woman said, getting on the phone.

Juliette shivered in the cool environment, pacing up and down to keep herself warm while the woman went back to her fast typing on the computer keyboard.

In another minute, the door behind her opened, and the pathologist, in a white lab coat, gloves, and with a mask pulled down under his chin, looked out.

"FBI team?" he asked in accented English. "I’m Dr. Manuel. Come through, please."

He was a sallow, dark-haired man with a compact, wiry build and an efficient demeanor.

He led them into the autopsy room, where a steel table held the victim's body, covered in a sheet.

"I have just completed the autopsy," he said, handing them each a mask to wear before leading the way across the room.

He pulled the sheet back, and Juliette steeled herself for a moment, preparing herself for the emotional toll that it would take to look down at the body of the young woman who'd lost her life in such a violent way. She might be an experienced and seasoned agent, but she was also a highly empathetic person who could easily visualize what a victim must have felt.

A moment later, when she was ready, she looked down.

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