At the deer camp I used to frequent near Crystal Springs, Mississippi, we called it "the autopsy": In an open-sided shed, the deer would be hoisted up by their hind legs on a gambrel and inspected by our camp butcher and amateur forensic expert, Bill Peavey. An irascible man, tough as a camp skillet, Peavey always took meticulous care in showing us precisely where and how our bullets had penetrated the deer and, more importantly, where we should have aimed those bullets to avoid damaging the meat.