“Whoa!” said Nora sharply as Skip reached toward the body. “No searching!”
“We’ll examine the remains back at the lab,” Corrie said, “and if there’s anything else to be discovered, we’ll find it then. So let’s put that gold cross into the box along with the body and get the hell back to Albuquerque. Having something like that in our possession way out here is making me really, really nervous.”
12
“WELCOME TO MY pathology lab,” said Nigel Lathrop, his plummy British accent filling the lab as he held open the door.
Corrie didn’t much like the “my” in that sentence, but she kept a friendly smile plastered on her face as she followed him in. Morwood had dropped a couple of veiled warnings about getting along with Lathrop. The forensic pathologist had apparently been with the Albuquerque FO forever, and had acquired a reputation as a harmless eccentric of whom everyone professed to be fond. In truth, Morwood hinted he was a pain in the ass—and that one of Corrie’s jobs was to win him over.
“He’s a jack of all trades,” Morwood had told her, “dating back to a time when forensic science wasn’t so specialized. He handled the basics: a touch of fiber and hair analysis, fingerprints, some blood spatter analysis, blood typing—stuff that they wanted done fast and didn’t need to be sent to a national lab.” He was likely, Morwood noted, to be less than thrilled at her advanced expertise in forensic anthropology. And if he didn’t like you, he could easily manage to slow things down or—worse—find himself mystified by something easily identifiable to anyone else.
Corrie promised to get along with him at all costs. As a result, she was both curious and apprehensive as she shook the man’s hand, as cool and dry as an iron railing. Lathrop was a small, lean man with a pointy gray beard, thin lips, and a springy step. He affected a hearty manner, but there wasn’t much of a friendly look on his face.
They were in a drab laboratory space in the basement of the Albuquerque Field Office, surrounded by equipment that was not aging well. She followed him, edging past stacks of shipping boxes—delivered but not yet opened—and into the cramped, brightly lit operating theater. It was dominated by three rolling, guttered tables displaying the recent finds in High Lonesome: the mummified corpse, still zippered in a white body bag; another table with plastic boxes containing the mule skeleton; and a third spread with rotting artifacts.
Lathrop exchanged his tweed jacket for a white lab coat hanging from a rack. He pulled a pair of nitrile gloves from a wall holder, snapped them on, and tied on a face mask and a hair cover. Corrie followed suit.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” he said, approaching the large examination gurney. Bending over the body bag, he unzipped it swiftly and spread the opening wide, peering down with pursed lips.
“Help me transfer this.”
She helped him with the bag. The mummified body was still desiccated in its fetal position, one arm raised, the other tucked underneath, covered in a duster. After they set it down, sand dribbled from cracks and fissures in its dried flesh and rotten clothing, forming little piles.
Lathrop circled the body, hands clasped behind his back, making various hmmms and aaahs.
He moved on to the other tables and glanced over the mule bones, the rotting panniers, and then paused at the cross, lying next to its former leather wrapping. He gently picked it up and turned it over, then held it up to the light.
“Impressive!” he said, laying it back down and turning to her. “Looks like I have quite a lot of work ahead. When would you like the report?”
Corrie cleared her throat. “Actually, I was expecting to work with you.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”
Corrie suppressed a swell of annoyance. “I have a degree in forensic anthropology, which is why I was assigned to this case. Didn’t Special Agent Morwood discuss this with you?”
“Ah, yes, yes! My apologies. Morwood did mention your background. I’m used to working alone, but I could always use some help. Delighted, perfectly delighted.”
He seemed anything but delighted.
Corrie reminded herself that, even though as a special agent she outranked Lathrop, he was a veteran of the Albuquerque office, and she was a rookie … and one who had recently fucked up. It would not do to get into a pissing contest with him about who was in charge, especially given Morwood’s warning.
“Well, this is a delicious little problem, isn’t it?” Lathrop rubbed his hands together and smacked his lips, as if about to commence a meal, as he circled the gurney with the body. He was, she felt, genuinely fascinated: he was no burned-out case going through the motions.
“Let’s get to work,” he said. “I’ll start on the body while you examine the artifactual evidence.”
“My specialty,” Corrie said, trying to muster some authority in her voice without sounding bitchy, “was biological anthropology. Perhaps it would be appropriate if I worked on the actual human remains, as well?”
Lathrop frowned. “I suppose so.”
“But first,” Corrie said, “would you suggest we look at the X-rays?”
“Naturally.” Lathrop turned on the flat-panel screen and, tapping away at a keyboard, called up the X-rays. A silence settled in the room as they examined the images, grid by grid, starting with the skull. Corrie had wanted to do a CT scan, but Morwood had vetoed it because of the expense and the fact that there was as yet no official case.
“No dental work,” said Lathrop. “Thus no dental records to help with identification. Pity.”
Corrie tried to focus on the images. In her forensic training, she had been dismayed at how easily you could miss something that became glaringly obvious when it was pointed out. She was determined not to overlook anything Lathrop might notice, primarily because she didn’t want him lording it over her.
“Look at that,” Corrie said. “Isn’t that a faint closed fracture in the frontal bone, and another in the sphenoid?”
“I see them,” said Lathrop, manipulating the images to magnify and increase contrast. “Yes, indeed: very faint but distinct.”
They moved on down the body.
“And here, too,” Corrie said, pointing to a rib. “Another small fracture.”
Lathrop peered in and magnified it.
“I see no sign of the formation of a fibrocartilaginous callus,” said Corrie. “Seems to have occurred perimortem.”
Lathrop grunted his assent.
“Look, another one,” said Corrie. “And another. Anterior four, five, and six. Do you see?”
No sound from Lathrop.
“All these fractures are anterior,” Corrie said, excited despite herself. “And perimortem. Looks like maybe he had a fall right before his death. What do you think?”
“Shall we wait for the physical examination before drawing conclusions?” said Lathrop, lips pursed, a sarcastic prickliness in his voice.
Corrie swallowed hard and pushed down on her irritation.
After completing the X-ray examination in silence, Lathrop turned to Corrie. “Let me show you how to set up the video recorder,” he said, “for the gross examination.”
This is better, Corrie thought. She watched as he turned on the video system and tested it, memorizing the process.
“Now we start work,” said Lathrop. “We both speak the date, time, and location, and give our names and titles. And then, as we work, we say out loud what it is that we’re doing. Are you clear on that, young lady, or would you like me to repeat?”
“I’m clear.” She had practiced all this many times in her pathology classes at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Only at John Jay they had better equipment.
They started working on the body, one on each side. Lathrop began cutting off the duster while Corrie helped, snipping up one sleeve and down the front, so it could be removed in pieces without disturbing the brittle body. The duster was then folded up in an evidence container and sealed.
“A brown stain is noted,” said Lathrop, “on the f
ront of the shirt. There is more staining around the nose. It would appear the subject had a severe nosebleed not long before death.”
Corrie was about to say that was more evidence of a fall but decided to refrain from commenting. She kept silent and let Lathrop do most of the talking for the tape recorder. After examining and photographing the bloodstains, they cut off the shirt, undershirt, and pants, again sealing them up in evidence containers. The boots were tricky, having shrunk and warped, and they had to be snipped off with great care. Even then, a piece of foot broke off, adhering to the boot, and had to be teased away from the leather.
Corrie was secretly hoping to find more treasure hidden in the clothes, a wallet or some sort of ID, but nothing came to light beyond some small change in the man’s pocket. She removed the coins and laid them out: two quarters, five nickels, and four pennies. Lathrop went to put them in a container, but Corrie spoke.
“Shall we get the dates?”
Lathrop paused while Corrie sorted through the coins and jotted down the dates, which ranged from 1922 to 1945. That latter date was on an almost uncirculated penny, which she thought significant.
“Looks like a terminus post quem of 1945,” said Lathrop, examining the penny with a loupe.
“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?”
“I’ve been working on a little paper for the Forensic Examiner. You know, just a note—nothing of any great importance.” The tone of his voice belied the self-deprecation.
“I’m sure they’d love to read a story on your findings.”
“The article just needs a bit of an edit, that’s all. Another pair of eyes.”
“I’d be happy to, ah, look it over—if you’d like.”
“I say—really? That would be first-rate! I’ll bring it in. And now, let’s continue our perusal of the gentleman and his hinnie.”
13
MORWOOD SAT ON the edge of his desk, arms crossed, his tie pulled down, top button unbuttoned—apparently, Corrie thought, his idea of Casual Friday. She noticed her report sitting on the desk beside him.
“Please, sit down.”
Corrie took a seat, hoping her nervousness wasn’t too obvious.
“I read through your report and found it quite interesting,” Morwood said. “After giving it some thought, and conferring with the SAC, I think we’re going to follow your recommendation and declare this an official case.” He smiled.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you.”
“That’s two thank-yous too many,” said Morwood. “This is not a favor. Even if I am putting you in charge.”
Corrie bit off another thank you.
“We don’t know if we’re dealing with a homicide
or not, but what we do know is that this gold cross is valuable, and as you point out in the report, the likelihood of it being stolen property is high.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I understand you’ve developed a working relationship with Sheriff Watts.”
“Yes, sir. I think he’ll be easy to work with.”
“Good, good. As I’ve repeated ad infinitum, getting along with local law enforcement is always a top priority.”
Because Corrie was still in the two-year probationary period for a new special agent, Morwood, her supervisor, was “ghosting” her as she worked her first cases. He now switched into mentoring mode, Socratic style. “What are your thoughts on how the investigation should proceed?”
“I’d like to turn the cross over to Dr. Kelly at the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute for a detailed analysis and possibly even an ID—if it was ever reported stolen.”
Morwood nodded. “Good.”
“Now that it’s a case, do you think we could do a CT scan of the corpse? As noted in the report, we found evidence of injuries sustained at the time of death—fractured skull and ribs, a bloody nose. It doesn’t seem nearly enough to be a cause of death, but there may be more injuries a scan will bring to light.”
“You have my permission to proceed.”
“And we need to identify the body. There was no ID with it, and no dental work. We could order DNA testing, although with a seventy-five-year-old corpse we’re not likely to find any on file. We might get genealogical matches, but that can take months and it’s a shot in the dark at best.”
“As you well know,” Morwood replied.
Corrie didn’t respond to this veiled reference to her last—and to date only—big case. “Fingerprints are a possibility. There are a couple of techniques I learned at John Jay, which would require amputation of the fingers.”
“Very good.”
“If all else fails, I’ll do a forensic facial reconstruction.” She added, “It was one of my specialties at John Jay.”
The Scorpion's Tail (Nora Kelly Book 2) Page 7
