Page 16 of Dirty Liars

“I thought the Amish didn’t believe in modern medicine?” Lily asked, handing me the clean gloves.

“They do, actually,” I said, snapping the gloves into place. “It usually just comes down to cost and accessibility. Many of those communities can’t afford to seek professional medical treatment, so they make do the best they can. If a tooth gets abscessed, you pull it. If you break your arm, you bind it up and hope it heals straight.”

“Geez,” Lily said, shaking her head.

“But I don’t know,” I said, looking down at the young woman on my table. “There could be multiple explanations for how she ended up here in the condition she did. Including something more sinister like torture or captivity. Pulling teeth is a common method of inflicting pain without leaving visible marks. But somehow she got connected to the son of a former Greek ambassador, and ended up in a million-dollar home in Newcastle. Whatever her background, moving to King George only to be murdered shortly after is suspicious at best.”

“Any idea where they lived before?” Lily asked, helping me move the body back to the main autopsy table.

“Theo Vasilios’s background is protected by the State Department,” I said, positioning Chloe’s body carefully. “A cursory background check on him just shows current information. Jack will have to pull some strings, but I’m sure he’ll end up with whatever information he needs. Let’s get back to work.”

I examined the gunshot wounds more carefully, noting their precise locations. There were no exit wounds on her body, which wasn’t unusual for a .22 caliber weapon. Sometimes it was better to be shot by a larger caliber weapon because the bullets would pass straight through tissue, creating a cleaner wound channel that a doctor could treat. But .22s were a crap shoot. Once they entered the body, they could tumble and ricochet off bones, scrambling someone’s insides like eggs.

“Hand me the probe, please,” I said, and Lily passed me the thin metal rod. I carefully inserted it into the head wound, tracking the bullet’s path through the brain tissue. “Bullet traveled upward through the frontal lobe and lodged in the parietal region. Death would have been instantaneous.”

I took more photographs, documenting the precise pattern of the wounds. The three chest shots were grouped tightly together over her heart, and the two pelvic shots were perfectly symmetrical.

“Whoever did this knew what they were doing,” I said quietly. “This wasn’t a crime of passion or a random attack. This was calculated, deliberate.”

Next came the delicate task of removing the bullets. I used a pair of long forceps and a scalpel to carefully extract each one, Lily holding a small evidence container ready for each bullet I retrieved. The soft ping as each bullet dropped into the metal container punctuated the quiet humming of the ventilation system.

“All seven accounted for,” I said finally, labeling the last container. “We’ll send these to ballistics, but they look like standard .22 caliber rounds. Different from the 9mm that killed Theo.”

I made detailed notes and drew diagrams in my chart, marking the exact position of each wound. Finally, I was ready for the Y-incision, the moment when the body would truly reveal its secrets.

“What music are you feeling like today?” I asked Lily, our traditional question before beginning the central part of the autopsy. Music helped maintain focus during the long, sometimes gruesome process.

“Something classic. And definitely no outlaw biker music. I need to be in a better headspace than that for tonight’s viewing.”

I grinned and said, “Alexa, turn on Dusty Springfield radio.”

The smooth, soulful tones of “Son of a Preacher Man” filled the lab as I picked up my scalpel. The blade gleamed under the surgical lights as I positioned it at the top of Chloe’s right shoulder. With a steady hand, I made the first incision, drawing the blade in a curving arc down toward the center of her chest. The skin parted easily beneath the sharp blade, revealing the pale yellow fat layer beneath.

As I worked, I felt the familiar detachment settle over me—not a lack of compassion, but a necessary professional distance. Chloe Vasilios was no longer a bride cut down on her wedding night—she was evidence, a puzzle to be solved, a story to be pieced together through the marks on her body and the secrets held within.

And as her body revealed those secrets one by one, I would give her the only thing I could now—a voice that would speak the truth of what had happened to her. Justice might come too late for Chloe, but if I did my job right, it would come.

The music played on as I continued my work, the rhythm of Dusty Springfield’s voice a counterpoint to the methodical movements of the autopsy. Outside, life went on—people laughing, loving, arguing, living. But here in this cold, quiet room, Chloe Vasilios would have her final say.

CHAPTERSIX

I’d underestimated how longit would take to finish up Chloe and Theo Vasilios, and by the time Theo had been pushed back into the refrigeration unit, I’d been standing hunched over the table for more than six hours. My back was on fire and so were my feet.

“I need a soak in the hot tub and I need wine,” Lily said, working the cricks out of her neck. “Definitely wine first.”

“That sounds amazing,” I said, even though I couldn’t have either of those things. “I was thinking I could bribe Jack into a back rub.”

“I don’t even want Cole to touch me,” Lily said. “Back rubs always lead to sex. And as much as I love having sex with Cole I just don’t have the strength.”

“I really don’t want that picture in my head,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

I’d sent everything to Jack by encrypted email, but I’d printed out my findings and put them in a manila envelope to bring with me.

“Don’t let me forget to have you sign off on my hours,” Lily said. “Today more than made up for what I was missing.”

I grunted in response, wondering if it was okay to go to bed before eight o’clock or if that would officially make me old. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it to the top of the stairs, but Lily and I kind of supported each other.

“Why didn’t we take the lift?” I asked.

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