47 Forensics
Forensics
“Request for continuance denied,” Judge Antunez said, glaring at Colton over his glasses.
“But, Your Honor, the prosecution delivered hours of video evidence late yesterday. We haven’t had adequate time to review it, and it’s crucial to our defense.”
The judge’s frown deepened. “I’m declining your request. This case is highly publicized, and the jury has been sequestered. I won’t hold them hostage while you drag your heels. You had time to request a continuance earlier. Now it’s too late.”
Colton stepped closer, hands together in a pleading gesture. “Your Honor, this late discovery severely disadvantages us. It’s a matter of ensuring a fair trial for my client. Without this, our defense strategy is compromised.”
“The court acknowledges your concern, but the prosecution has complied with the discovery timeline, albeit pushing it to the breaking point. Your team has the resources to review the evidence promptly. Continuance denied.”
“The volume of material—”
“Continuance request denied, Mr. Blake!” Antunez leaned forward in a silent, heated face-off.
Colton backed away and took his seat next to me, breathing heavily, his jaw clenched.
“Mr. Mitchell, please call your first witness.”
The prosecutor stood quickly. “The State calls Camilla Reyes.”
The hotel maid I’d met on that Saturday took the stand, looking terrified. She glanced at me quickly, then looked down as ADA Mitchell started questioning her about her name, place of employment, and the moment she’d discovered Winston’s body.
I couldn’t listen.
I blocked everything out, letting my mind wander.
Things had changed between Colton and me since the Avery Sinclair conversation.
No more hand-holding, hugging, or reassuring words when I was overwhelmed with fear.
No more brief moments of respite shared on the back patio.
He stiffened whenever I got close, as if my presence repulsed him to the core.
It made me feel small, the rejection and judgment crushing my already fragile psyche.
But he was still committed to defending me.
The night before, neither of us had slept much.
Colton had worked on the new strategy while Billy Ray and I watched hours of surveillance video.
At about three in the morning, I’d found the time code when Claire had knocked on Winston’s door at the hotel—4:32 p.m. The mall video showed that Claire had been in a large apparel store at that time, shopping.
I had her going into the store at 4:11 p.m., dressed in a red top and black skirt—just like Detective Stanek had said—and looking at her phone at times, probably texting with her friends.
Then she’d left the store at 5:07 p.m., loaded with shopping bags, and met with friends for coffee and chocolates.
Unless that store had a back door and I could prove she’d snuck out, I had nothing.
Since the moment I’d realized that, I’d been feeling aloof, spinning out of control, knowing I was careening through this masquerade of a trial and headed for disaster. I couldn’t even bring myself to tell Colton about what I’d found.
Next to me, Colton sprang to his feet, startling me into present reality. “Objection, Your Honor. The witness is not qualified—”
“Sustained,” Antunez said.
“No more questions for this witness, Your Honor.”
“Cross, Mr. Blake?” the judge asked.
Colton rose halfway from his seat. “Not at this time, Your Honor.” He sat back down without looking at me.
I wished he would’ve glanced at me with that glimmer of encouragement I needed so badly. That was gone, and I couldn’t even ask him why. Although, I suppose I knew. He’d discovered things about me he wasn’t prepared to hear.
Camilla Reyes hurried out of the courtroom, her head lowered and her shoulders hunched forward, as if she wanted to disappear even faster than she was about to.
The judge made an inviting gesture to the prosecutor.
“The State calls Lydia Vargas, Your Honor.” Mitchell waited, standing, for a middle-aged woman with an aquiline nose and sharp eyes behind wire-framed glasses. Her face was wrinkled badly for her age. She seemed cool, unfazed by taking the stand.
After she was sworn in, ADA Mitchell stepped forward with a purposeful stride, locking eyes with the witness. “Ms. Vargas, in what capacity are you testifying today?”
“I’m a forensics expert with the Crime Scene Investigations unit of the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. I was in charge of the evidence in this case.” She spoke clearly, calmly.
“Let’s start with the murder weapon, Ms. Vargas. What were your findings?” Mitchell’s voice was steady, but with an edge that hinted at the gravity of the situation.
“The murder weapon was a bottle of Visine eye drops that had been tampered with. It contained a dangerously high concentration of methamphetamine.” The jurors followed her words closely, jotting down occasional notes.
“How did these eye drops cause Mr. Donovan’s death?”
“At the concentration of methamphetamine found in these eye drops, even a small dose would have caused a rapid and fatal heart attack in Mr. Winston Donovan. Additionally, the tampered eye drops led to ocular hemorrhaging—severe bleeding within the eyes—due to the immense pressure on his cardiovascular system.”
Hearing her words, I felt physical pain, a crushing sensation in my chest. If I closed my eyes, I could see Winston’s body, his face smeared with blood, the way I’d seen it in the crime scene photos now burned into my memory.
Mitchell took a step closer. “And, Ms. Vargas, whose fingerprints were found on that bottle?”
The forensics expert looked directly at the jury. “Olivia Taylor’s fingerprints were found on the Visine bottle. However, at the scene, there were no—”
Mitchell took one step closer to the witness stand. “Ms. Vargas, what did you find after analyzing Ms. Taylor’s computer?”
Colton fidgeted in his seat, then scribbled something on a notepad, underlining it twice so furiously that the pen ripped the paper.
Lydia’s gaze didn’t waver. “We found extensive evidence that Ms. Taylor had been obsessively researching Mr. Donovan. She accessed his social media profiles, tracked his movements online, and looked into his background and into his businesses.”
Mitchell pressed further. “And in your expert opinion, what does this behavior suggest?”
Lydia hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “It might suggest an unhealthy obsession. This level of surveillance and the specific nature of her research goes beyond casual interest and could be interpreted as stalking behavior.”
Colton rose to his feet once more. “Objection! The witness is not a psychologist and is not qualified to speak to the defendant’s mental state.”
“Sustained,” the judge ruled. “Ms. Vargas, please refrain from making psychological assessments. Stick to the forensic analysis.”
Ms. Vargas nodded and mouthed, I’m sorry, at the judge.
Mitchell didn’t seem bothered by the objection. The seed had already been planted in the jurors’ minds. “Thank you, Your Honor. No further questions.”
Colton walked over to the witness stand. He turned to face the jury. “Ms. Vargas, in today’s digital age, would you say it’s unusual for someone to look up information about a romantic partner online?”
“No, it’s quite common,” the expert conceded.
I held my breath, intrigued to see how Colton was spinning that particular piece of damning testimony.
Colton paused, then leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “In fact, many people in relationships—especially in the early stages—might google their partner, check their social media, or even track their movements online, wouldn’t you agree?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes, that’s true.”
Colton took a step back, letting his point settle in. “So, while Olivia’s research might be thorough, it’s not necessarily abnormal in your opinion. Correct?”
ADA Mitchell rose to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Counsel is leading the witness.”
“Sustained. Mr. Blake, I expect more from you.”
Colton nodded, unfazed. “Apologies, Your Honor. Ms. Vargas, based on your forensic analysis, would you say that Olivia Taylor’s online activity, while detailed, could be consistent with that of any individual who is deeply interested in their partner?”
“Yes, it could be consistent with that,” Lydia admitted.
Colton smiled slightly, making eye contact with the jurors. “Let’s revisit your crime scene findings. Olivia Taylor’s fingerprints may have been on the Visine bottle, but there was no forensic evidence placing her at the scene of Winston Donovan’s death? No fingerprints, DNA, or hair fibers?”
The woman nodded. “That is correct.”
“Not even fingerprints on the doorknob, which my client supposedly handled to open the door?”
“That is correct.”
“And nowhere inside the crime scene?”
“Correct.”
“But you did find numerous other prints in those locations? On the doorknob, at the crime scene, on surfaces inside the suite in question?”
“Yes, we did find quite a few prints. Some sets were eliminated; for example, those belonging to housekeeping staff or to Mr. Donovan himself. Others remain unidentified.”
“So, how do you explain your findings? There were no gloves recovered at the scene or seen on the hotel video surveillance. How do you suppose that was possible? My client’s fingerprints conveniently found on the murder weapon, but nowhere else in the room, including on the door handle she—”
“Objection, Your Honor!” ADA Mitchell shouted, his voice loaded with indignation. “Calls for speculation.”
“Withdrawn,” Colton said before the judge had a chance to announce his ruling. “What else have you found that the jury should know about?”
I frowned, feeling my heart beating faster. What else was there? I’d read the reports, and I didn’t remember seeing anything else. There must’ve been something I’d missed in yesterday’s discovery package.
The expert hesitated a little. “There was an Apple AirTag found in Ms. Taylor’s purse.”
A what? How did that get in there? Then I remembered leaving my purse open on Claire’s patio.
But now, with her ironclad alibi, the AirTag didn’t make sense.
Unless she’d wanted to ensure I kept my word and met Winston that night.
Or had it been Jack tracking me? Had he slipped the AirTag into my purse?
“Please tell the jury what that does, Ms. Vargas.”
“It allows the AirTag’s owner to track its location. In this case, the location of Ms. Taylor’s purse, or, by extension, the location of Ms. Taylor herself.”
“Objection!” Mitchell said angrily. “Speculation.”
“Your Honor, the expert was merely explaining to the jury how an AirTag works.”
Antunez weighed his decision. “Overruled. This is a capital case, Mr. Mitchell. I’m inclined to allow critical information.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Colton said. “Ms. Vargas, were you able to track the AirTag’s owner?”
“No. We were able to locate the last four digits of the owner’s phone number, but from there, we hit a dead end.”
“Finally, Ms. Vargas, were there other fingerprints on that eye-drop bottle?”
“Several partials, yes. They didn’t return any conclusive database matches.”
Colton smiled at the witness. “No more questions, Your Honor.” Then he took a seat without looking at me.
Meanwhile, ADA Mitchell rose from his seat. “The State calls Dr. Julian Burgess to the stand.”