The father isn’t dead, he’s under the floorboards, the girl said. The police began to excavate. Police Chief Luis Ramos looked up at the newly submitted report. Reporter’s name: Marta Gómez. Contents: husband missing, no clues, no additional notes. But what caught his attention was that the person filing the report wasn’t Marta, but a neighbor, Mrs. Francisca Díaz, accompanied by a 4-year-old girl clutching a teddy bear, her face completely pale.
“She didn’t want me to take the girl anywhere,” Doña Francisca said in a hurried voice. But the girl said something very strange. You all have to listen to her. Luis sat down. His gaze softened as he turned to Victoria. “What’s your name?” “My name is Victoria,” the girl replied in a voice barely audible above a whisper. “Do you know where your father went?” he asked gently. Victoria didn’t answer immediately. She looked up, her large dark eyes trembling, and then said slowly, “Dad, he’s under the kitchen floor.”
The atmosphere in the room froze. Luis looked at Francisca. Her face was ashen. A young officer nearby also cleared his throat, trying to hide a shiver. “What did you say?” Luis leaned over. His voice was no longer so gentle, but cautious. “Dad is under the kitchen floor,” Victoria repeated, “in the place where the tiles are the lightest. Dad is cold.” A strange, heavy silence fell over the room. Luis signaled his lieutenant, Ricardo Muñoz, to come closer.
“Call Marta Gómez at the police station. Put together a preliminary investigation team. I want to review the scene within the hour.” Less than 30 minutes later, Marta arrived, more serene and composed than Luis expected. She was wearing a white shirt, black pants, her hair tied back, and her expression showed neither alarm nor pain. “I already told you so,” Marta said in a calm voice. “My husband Julián has a habit of leaving for days without warning. This isn’t the first time. Did you notice anything strange?” Luis asked, without taking his eyes off Marta for even a second.
“No,” she replied, shrugging. “I thought he’d come back like always.” Ricardo intervened, but the neighbors said they heard screaming and things breaking that night. Marta glanced at Ricardo, then sighed. “We had arguments, but who doesn’t argue in a marriage?” Luis nodded and recently refinished the kitchen floor. Marta hesitated for a moment. “I changed it because there was mold. I did it myself. You laid the tiles yourself,” Luis asked, surprised. “Yes,” Marta replied quickly. “I watched how-to videos.”
Ricardo took out a USB flash drive. Her neighbor, Mr. Ernesto Morales, has a security camera. He provided us with a video showing her leaving the house with Victoria around 3:00 a.m. and returning alone with a bag of construction materials. How does she explain that? Marta pursed her lips. She didn’t want Victoria to breathe the smell of Molevé at a friend’s house to sleep and take the materials. I wanted to fix the house myself. Luis raised an eyebrow without purchase receipts, without hiring workers, without a remodeling notice.
And the girl says her father is under the floor. What a coincidence. Marta clenched her fists. Her voice rose. They’re saying I killed my husband. Luis responded calmly. We didn’t say that, we’re just asking questions. And it seems their answers don’t match up. Suddenly, Marta turned to Ricardo. Do you know what it’s like to live in an unhappy marriage? Do you know that Julián beat me? Luis intervened. He has proof, medical records, complaints, reports. Marta was silent for a few seconds, then exhaled sharply.
I didn’t go to the doctor. I held on. Ricardo leaned toward Luis and whispered, “We need an urgent search warrant. There’s a smell of fresh cement in the house. And the way she talks.” Luis nodded. “Start the process. I want the forensic team there tomorrow morning.” The next morning, the police arrived at the small house at the end of San Sebastián Street. The head of the forensic team, Leticia Paredes, a cold but very experienced woman, crouched down on the new tiles and inhaled gently.
The cement still smells. It hasn’t dried completely. There’s something underneath, he said, turning to another technician. “Start drilling in the area with the color difference.” Marta was held in the room, guarded by two police officers. Victoria wasn’t there. She had been taken by Francisca to her maternal grandmother’s house on Luis’s orders. Leticia signaled, “Drill layer by layer. Let’s start at the corner with the light-colored tiles.” The sound of the drill echoed in the tense atmosphere.
Half an hour later, the first layer of tile was removed. Beneath the gray cement, a fragment of a dark cloth bag appeared. Leticia stopped a technician. “Slow down. Remove the rest by hand.” Wearing gloves, they began to carefully move the cement aside. A young officer exclaimed, “Oh my God,” as he discovered a human foot, bruised and stiff. Luis approached, remained silent for a few seconds, and then turned to Marta. “Do you have anything else to say?” Marta didn’t respond. She turned her face away.
Leticia spoke in a deep voice. The body is that of a man wrapped in a cloth bag. There are traces of dried blood on the head. He was severely beaten. Ricardo took photos of the scene, then picked up a broken object next to the body. It’s a cell phone. It’s destroyed, but we can try to recover the data. Luis narrowed his eyes. Do it immediately. Send it to the tech lab. Another officer ran out of the house, vomiting outside. Leticia shook her head without reproach. Not everyone can deal with death.
Luis approached to look at the body, his eyes open, his hands still clenched as if he’d been struggling. He turned to look at the silent house, the curtains moving in the wind. This isn’t a disappearance, it’s not an accident, it’s a premeditated murder. He turned to Ricardo. Arrest Marta Gómez. Preventive detention under Article 142, suspicion of homicide and concealment of a corpse. Ricardo approached and read her rights. Mrs. Marta Gómez, you are being held on suspicion of homicide.
He has the right to remain silent. To remain silent? Marta let out a bitter laugh. “Do you know how many years I lived in silence?” Luis responded tersely. “Now there’s no need for more silence.” The sound of handcuffs echoed dryly inside the house, soaked in cement dust. Marta didn’t resist; she just stared at the removed tiles where her husband’s body had just been removed with a blank stare, as if there was nothing left to remain for. In the vehicle on the way to the detention center, Ricardo looked in the rearview mirror and saw Marta sitting motionless like a statue.
He thought to himself that some people commit crimes on impulse, but others, like Marta, seemed to have planned a whole tragedy. Upon arriving at the police station, Luis called an urgent meeting. The forensic team, the data recovery staff, and prosecutor Rosa Marín, a perceptive woman with razor-sharp eyes, attended. Leticia Paredes was the first to speak. The victim, Julián Gómez, died of head trauma, struck hard from behind with a blunt object. There were no signs of defense.
There was no blood in the area, indicating that the body had been moved before burial. Luis nodded. The crime was clearly a planned, intentional murder. Rosa clasped her hands on the table. But for a precise accusation, we must put all the pieces together. Motive, chronology, evidence. The child, Victoria, is key, but the testimony of a minor isn’t enough. We need more. A young digital forensics officer, Esteban Herrera, stood up to present. We are recovering data from the broken phone.
Much of the memory was lost, but some messages appeared just before it shut down. It projected on the screen. A conversation between Julián and Marta appeared. Julián, Marta, I can’t go on. I’m going to file for divorce next week. Victoria. Marta, if you leave me, I’ll make you disappear. Julián, stop talking nonsense. Think about Victoria. Marta, Victoria will be fine. Without you, she and I will live better. The conference room fell silent. Rosa frowned. It was enough to confirm that she had a motive.
Luis signaled to Ricardo. The investigation team must return to Marta’s house. Look for all the ownership documents, invoices, loans, and any evidence of her financial situation. Two hours later, Ricardo returned with a box of documents. He pulled out a bundle of papers. This is the contract for the house. It’s 100% in Julián’s name. There are indications that Marta was trying to initiate a transfer, claiming her husband is missing. He pulled out another bundle. These are loan receipts from Marta to Julián, almost 60 million pesos, justified by a small investment for a personal business.
There’s no sign of reimbursement. Luis looked at Rosa. Financial motive, threats in the messages, and the crime scene. We’ve already got enough. That’s not all, Ricardo added. We discovered that Marta had frequent contact with an unknown number, a man named Salvador y Barra, through private messages on social media. Luis rapped his knuckles on the table. I want to see that man. That same afternoon, Salvador y Barra, a tall man with well-groomed hair and a dark shirt, was taken to the interrogation room.
He seemed nervous, his eyes darting around. “How did you meet Marta Gómez?” Rosa asked directly. Salvador swallowed. “We met in an investment group. We talked online, we saw each other a few times. Did he have a relationship with her?” Luis asked. Salvador hesitated. “I had feelings for her, but we didn’t do anything wrong. She always said her husband was a horrible man and that she was tired of him controlling her. She once mentioned the idea of hurting her husband,” Ricardo chimed in.
Salvador inhaled deeply. He had once said, “I wish he would disappear, but I thought it was an impulsive expression.” Rosa repeated the words. “Do you think Marta is an impulsive person?” Salvador remained silent. “No, she’s more calculating than I thought.” Meanwhile, at Doña Carmen’s house, Julián’s mother, little Victoria was drawing by the window. Carmen placed a glass of milk next to the girl. “What are you drawing, my love?” she asked sweetly. Victoria pointed at the sheet of paper.
A hummed figure lay beneath a tile floor surrounded by stacked tiles. It’s Dad. Dad is under there. Carmen clenched her hands tightly. Her voice was breaking. “Who told you that?” “I heard it,” Victoria replied, still staring at her drawing. Mom had a large frying pan. Dad said no. Mom hit him hard. Dad didn’t speak again. Carmen trembled, trying to hold her ground. “And then what happened?” Mom said, “Don’t tell anyone. If you do, our family will fall apart.”
Carmen rested her head in her hands. Tears were falling uncontrollably. In the investigation room, Rosa concluded. Marta not only committed a homicide, she also tried to cover it up by creating a false scene, simulating a remodeling project, and taking the girl out of the house to fabricate an alibi. She urged the girl to remain silent, manipulated a minor, and that makes the case even worse. Luis nodded. I will request charges of premeditated homicide, concealment of a corpse, and coercing a minor to keep quiet.
She must accept all the consequences. Ricardo added firmly. Not only for Julián, but also for Victoria, a girl who grew up surrounded by lies and crime since she was 4. Rosa looked at her watch. Prepare for the preliminary hearing. I want all the evidence perfectly organized. And don’t forget Victoria’s words; even if they aren’t official testimony, they will be the emotional backbone of the case. Luis stood up, his voice deeper. We’re not here just to seek justice for a dead man. It’s also a way to save the soul of a survivor who carries many wounds.
On the way back to Carmen’s house, Francisca asked in a low voice, “Do you think Victoria understands everything that happened?” Carmen shook her head, her eyes red. She’s just a child, but the most painful thing is when a child understands too much and no one gives them the right to say it. Francisca swallowed hard. I’ve never seen a child so quiet and yet so hurt. When Victoria said, “Daddy’s cold,” my blood ran cold. Carmen squeezed her hand.
I’m going to protect her, no matter what. That night, Luis reviewed the case file. He opened the photo of Victoria drawing with a serious expression, strangely mature for his age. “He sighed. Some kill and bury bodies,” he murmured. Others bury their own children’s childhoods. He looked out the window of the police station, where the dim nightlight spilled onto San Sebastián Street. The next day, the case would officially enter the judicial phase. The cement had already dried, but blood, blood never disappears.
The following morning, under the freezing sun on the outskirts of Salamanca, the forensic team and special police gathered in front of the house at number 17 San Sebastián Street. The house, previously silent, was now surrounded by taut yellow tape. Neighbors spied behind the curtains, and specialized vehicles lined the narrow street. Leticia Paredes, the chief forensic officer, adjusted her latex gloves, her icy gaze scanning the kitchen floor.
He signaled two officers to begin drilling into the new tiles. Part of the floor had already been checked the day before, but this time they would completely demolish the 40 cm of thick cement where Victoria had pointed. The sound of the chainsaws resounded violently. Pieces of white tile shattered. A strong, penetrating odor began to waft up from below, thickening the air. Officer Ricardo Muñoz frowned, covered his nose, and took a step back.
“It smells like decomposition,” Leticia confirmed in a calm, unfazed voice. “Stand back. Let the team in protective suits continue.” Another forensic scientist, Tomás Delgado, inserted a lever to widen the edge of the cement. In less than 10 minutes, the layer of damp earth began to appear. “Be careful,” Leticia warned. “There are signs of a buried object. You must dig with your hands.” The sound of small shovels scraping echoed in the silence. Layers of fine earth were slowly being removed. Sweat trickled down Tomás’s forehead, although the temperature inside didn’t exceed 18°C.
Suddenly, he stopped, trembling. Something touched a piece of cloth. Leticia immediately bent down and shone a flashlight on it. “Stop, carefully remove the dirt around it.” Everyone held their breath. After almost 10 minutes of painstaking work, a corner of a thick, dark, wrinkled cloth bag emerged, stained with what looked like dried blood. Ricardo instinctively drew his hand back on the weapon, even though he knew nothing living lay down there. “Take a sample of the cloth. Open the bag.” Leticia lowered her voice, but was firm.
Upon unzipping the bag, a putrid stench filled the kitchen. Tomás immediately turned around and vomited in a corner. Another police officer covered his mouth, pale as plaster. Inside the bag, a male body lay crumpled, crushed by the confined space. His head was covered in dried blood, his head caved in, unmistakable signs of a severe blunt force trauma to the back. Luis entered, freezing when he saw the corpse’s face, despite its decomposition; it was unmistakably Julián Gómez.
The girl was right. Ricardo approached, trembling, taking photographs of the scene. He struggled to concentrate, but nausea threatened to overwhelm him. Leticia pulled out a small bag next to the body. “We have another piece of evidence: a broken phone. Take it to the technical team. I want all the information recovered,” Luis ordered without taking his eyes off the body. Leticia nodded. “The body shows signs of having died at least 72 hours ago. There are no signs of restraints. The fatal wound is on the head, consistent with a sudden blow from behind.”
There’s blood pooling on the back and collar of his shirt, indicating he was attacked while standing. He then fell and was placed in the bag. Ricardo made a note. Julián was then unable to defend himself. Death was swift. Leticia added, “There are no scratches on his hands to indicate resistance. His left hand is still clenched tightly. It could be a final reaction before he lost consciousness.” One of the forensic experts, Javier Morales, quietly removed another layer of the cloth bag.
He shuddered to see that the corpse’s wrist was still wearing a digital watch. The screen was cracked, but the hands had stopped at exactly 2:42 a.m. “Victoria. That could be the time of death,” Leticia said quietly. It matches the camera video where Marta is seen taking Victoria out of the house. Luis turned to Ricardo. “Call Rosa. Tell her to open the file for the prosecution. This is clearly a homicide, there’s nothing further to discuss.”
In the detention center cell, Marta Gómez sat on an iron bed, staring through the small, barred window. When the door opened, Rosa Marí entered, holding a thick folder. “Do you have something to say?” Rosa asked bluntly. “No,” Marta replied, her voice hollow. “We examined the kitchen floor. Julián’s body was there. A dark cloth bag, blood, a bruise, the cell phone, the watch that had stopped just as you brought your daughter out.”
Nothing more to add. Marta smiled bitterly. I suppose you’re happy to have been right. Rosa leaned forward. I don’t need to be right. I need the truth. And you should think about whether you’re a murderer or a victim. Marta didn’t reply; she stood up and walked slowly around the cell without turning around. Then Julián murmured that he was leaving, that he would take Victoria. He couldn’t allow that. Rosa frowned. He’s confessing to killing her husband. Marta remained silent.
You planned every step. You pretended to take your daughter out to create a cover, brought materials, and redid the floor that same night. It wasn’t an outburst, it was premeditated murder. He drove me crazy, Marta whispered. I felt like a shadow. If I didn’t act, he would disappear. Rosa coldly. She could have gotten a divorce, she could have reported him, but she chose to kill and bury the body in the kitchen where her daughter plays every morning. Marta clenched her fists and said through her teeth, “I don’t regret it.”
In the computer lab, specialist Esteban Herrera sat in front of his computer, staring at the screen. He had just recovered a video from the damaged cell phone. It was only 38 seconds long, but it was crucial evidence. Luis and Ricardo were behind him. A nighttime recording appeared on the screen, apparently from an indoor camera placed in a corner of the kitchen. In the video, Julián stood in front of Marta, holding a small suitcase.
Marta, I’m leaving. The lawyer will contact you in the morning. Victoria, he said clearly. You’re not going anywhere, Marta replied in a low voice. I don’t want Victoria to see this. Don’t make it worse. Julián turned around. Marta grabbed an object that looked like an iron skillet and lunged from behind. The video stopped at that instant. Esteban murmured in a trembling voice. That’s it. There’s no more. Luis clenched his fists. We have all the evidence.
