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.”
48
The Coroner
Dr. Burgess, the Clark County coroner, was tall and gaunt, his pallor almost ghostly, as if his work with the deceased had somehow rubbed off on him. I recognized his name from the preliminary autopsy report. His spiky reddish-brown hair stood upright, a cartoonish halo around his receding hairline. His thin lips formed a straight line, devoid of emotion as he glanced at me.
Dylan Mitchell walked toward the stand with a measured pace. The courtroom remained silent, anticipation thick in the air. Over the past few days, I’d learned something about courtroom spectators—they acted like a hive, their emotions ebbing and flowing in sync, like an orchestra playing to the batons of the two counselors and the judge.
“Dr. Burgess, you conducted the autopsy on Winston Donovan. Can you describe your findings for the court?” Mitchell’s voice was steady, with grim undertones.
Dr. Burgess nodded, his voice calm and clinical. “Mr. Donovan’s cause of death was a massive coronary event, induced by methamphetamine. The substance was introduced into his system through spiked eye drops, which triggered the heart attack. This was a sudden and violent reaction, leading to his almost immediate death.”
Mitchell leaned in slightly. “Was there any other evidence on Mr. Donovan’s body that might indicate foul play?”
Dr. Burgess paused. “Yes, there was a bruise on Mr. Donovan’s left temple. However, it was superficial, likely caused by a minor impact during the fall.”
“Is it possible the victim was subdued with the blow, then given the eye drops?” Mitchell followed.
“Objection!” Colton said, standing abruptly. “Calls for speculation.”
“Overruled,” Judge Antunez replied curtly.
“It’s possible, yes, but the blow was relatively minor, possibly just a punch to the head. If subdued by it, the victim wasn’t subdued for long.”
The public murmured, the implication of a struggle hanging in the air. Mitchell let the tension build before pressing on. “Was there any other significant forensic evidence discovered during the autopsy?”
Dr. Burgess’s eyes scanned the jury as he continued. “Yes. We found epithelial cells—skin cells—under Mr. Donovan’s fingernails. Upon further analysis, these cells were identified as belonging to Olivia Taylor.”
The public gasped in unison with me. Next to me, Colton stiffened. My skin, under his fingernails? How?
Mitchell straightened his tie, his tone firm. “And what does this suggest, Dr. Burgess?”
The coroner’s voice remained even. “Skin cells under the fingernails can sometimes indicate a struggle, where victims try to defend themselves. However, given the other evidence, it’s not definitive.”
“No more questions for this witness, Your Honor.” Mitchell’s chair grated against the floor when he sat.
