“He must have died in 1945 or later, but not earlier,” said Corrie.

“My dear, that’s what terminus post quem means,” said Lathrop, peering down at her like a disappointed professor.

Asshole, thought Corrie, with a smile. Had she been daydreaming when that was covered in her John Jay lectures? She’d have to Google and memorize the damn term so as not to be caught again.

The body now lay naked and exposed. As she peered into the abdominal cavity, she noted that a rodent had built a nest there, lining it with grass and bits of cotton.

“Snug little cottage,” said Lathrop, “with loads of hygge.” He gingerly removed the nest in a single piece and placed it in an evidence container.

Corrie had no idea what “hygge” was, but wasn’t about to ask. “We’re especially interested in toxicology and pathology results,” she said. “Particularly in light of the man’s, ah, facial expression and position, which might suggest poisoning. I’d like to recommend we remove the stomach, liver, and kidneys for analysis.”

“Noted,” said Lathrop. He reached in and began snipping and crackling around in the abdomen while Corrie stepped back. Soon he had removed the organs in question, shriveled up like ancient apples. They went into separate containers.

“And a hair sample, please,” said Corrie.

Snip, snip, and what small amount of hair still existed on the man’s head went into a test tube.

“Do you need the heart, brain, or lungs?” asked Lathrop.

“Not at this point. In fact, I’d like to stop the autopsy now, if you don’t mind, to keep the body as intact as possible for a CT scan later—on the chance this becomes an official case.”

“Very well.” Lathrop covered the body with a plastic sheet and arranged and labeled the evidence containers, while Corrie sorted through the man’s effects and began picking them apart and laying them out. There was some more clothing, a soot-stained pot and dented frying pan, a grill, old matches wrapped in oilcloth, a split can of condensed milk and a few swollen cans of beans, a tin of Spam split open with a dottle of desiccated meat still inside, a broken compass, a can opener, a pocketknife, two empty two-quart canteens, and a hip flask of Rich & Rare Canadian Whisky, also empty. But no notebook, maps, ID—or treasure; nothing to indicate what the man had been doing. It all went into labeled evidence containers, and she moved on to the mule skeleton, which had been heaped into a large box. Unlike the person, the animal had not been mummified, probably because it was out in the open. She pulled out the skull, along with the bullet she’d retrieved from inside the cranial cavity that had caused the animal’s death—a .22, sealed in an envelope bag—and placed them both on a gurney.

“Horse or mule?” Lathrop said, advancing with eyebrows raised as if he were administering a quiz.

“I always assumed a mule, but I actually have no idea,” Corrie said.

At this Lathrop brightened. His frown vanished, and he leaned down to examine the skull, picking it up and viewing it from different directions, squinting at it first with one eye and then with the other.

“We had a case here some thirty years ago,” he said. “A man stole a mule and was pursued and killed by the mule’s owner. The animal was also killed in the fight. This happened deep in the Sandia Mountains, and the skeletons weren’t found for twenty years. The man’s skeleton couldn’t be identified, but it was suspected it might be the mule thief. For that reason it was a significant clue to know whether the victim had been riding a horse or a mule. I undertook a little research project—a quantitative comparison of horse and mule skulls. It was something no one had done before—forensically, that is.”

“How did you do it?”

“I got my hands on several dozen horse and mule skulls and took various measurements, then drew up a list of averages for each species. With that we were able to determine that the skull was indeed that of a mule—which was instrumental in solving the case.”

“Clever,” said Corrie.

“Now watch as I apply that data to our skull—sadly perforated, I see, but no less useful for that.”

He rummaged in a drawer and brought out a pair of calipers, then began taking measurements along various parts of the skull, jotting them down on a piece of paper. This concluded, he brought out an old notebook and compared the measurements to others in the notebook. Clearly, Corrie thought, this re-creation of his long-vanished triumph had gone a long way toward dissipating his sour mood.

“Aha!” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “Now I know what animal this is.” He paused dramatically, the point of his beard thrust forward.

“Which is it?”

“Neither.”

Corrie paused. “Neither? What is it, then? A donkey?”

“A hinnie.”

“A … what’s a hinnie?”

“Well,” said Lathrop, adopting the tone of the lecture hall, “in point of fact a mule is a cross between a mare and a jack donkey. A hinnie is a cross between a stallion and a jenny donkey. Hinnies are smaller than mules, more donkey-like than horse-like. This is definitely a hinnie.”

Corrie couldn’t imagine a duller taxonomic factoid than this. But Lathrop’s beard was almost quivering with triumph, and realizing this was her opportunity she quickly seized it. “That’s remarkable! I’ve never heard of such a creature. Have you published your research?”