I saw the obvious culprits on the nightstand right away.
A distraught man in his 40s stood in the corner with his hands covering his face, sobbing. Deputy Faulkner talked to him.
Brenda hovered over the woman’s remains, wearing pink nitrile gloves, examining the body.
Dietrich snapped photos, and forensic investigators chronicled the scene.
Sheer curtains blew with the breeze. French doors opened to the balcony, slightly ajar. The sprawling terrace was home to lounge chairs, tables, and an outdoor bar. A great place to sit in the evening and take in the view of the pool and the canal beyond that was full of expensive boats. Across the canal, more mansions.
A few prescription bottles rested on a black lacquer nightstand, along with an almost empty bottle of red wine. A few lines of a white powdery substance, which appeared to be cocaine, were cut neatly atop a small mirror. It told me just about everything I needed to know.
"What's her name?" I asked.
"Whitney Hollingsworth," the sheriff grumbled with a tight face.
The name sounded like money, and with a place like this, she had a lot of it.
Sheriff Daniels gave a nod to Faulkner, who got the cue to escort Mr. Hollingsworth out of the bedroom.
"Do we have a time of death?" I asked.
"Judging by the body temperature, sometime between midnight and 2:00 AM," Brenda said.
"Cause?”
"Hard to say. No signs of blunt-force trauma. No bruising or petechial hemorrhaging. No indication that she was strangled. My guess is a combination of narcotics, cocaine, and alcohol depressed her nervous system and respiration.” Then she added in a hushed tone. "I can tell you this, she wasn’t alone last night. Let's just say there's plenty of DNA all over the sheets."
Daniels whispered, "The husband was out of town. Came home and found her like this. Or so he says."
I cringed.
"That would certainly put a damper on your day," JD added.
"Do we have any idea who was with her last night?" I asked.
"No, but I'm sure you two are going to find out," the sheriff replied. It was more of a command than anything else.
"Has anybody checked the doorbell footage for visitors?"
"That’s a great idea. Why don’t you do that?” Daniels snarked.
I pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves, moved to the nightstand, and examined the pill bottles. The prescriptions were written to:
Diesel (canine).
Owner: Winnie Hollingsworth.
Prescribing physician: Dr. Hunter Carlson.
"You want to tell me why a dog has a prescription for Xanax and oxycodone?" I asked.
"Especially in those dosages," Brenda added in a suspicious voice.
I shared a look with JD and the sheriff.
"Looks like we've got a Dr. Feelgood," Jack said.
"More like a Dr. Death," Daniels added.
