Free Run the Risk by Scott Frost

was a steady, blue-collar type of work ethic. He might not dazzle you with his insights, but he always worked a scene thoroughly and tracked down leads like a Labrador retriever. He glanced at Harrison and nodded as the ME began going over the victim, narrating as he went, as if it were a nature documentary.
    â€œNo wallet, keys . . . pants pockets empty . . . shirt pockets appear empty, no ID. No visible signs of bodily trauma.”
    The ME pulled the body over to the edge of the pool and rolled him over in the water. It was like turning a waterlogged piece of wood. The man’s arms were turned at the elbow straight out from the shoulder, his fingers bent as if he had been clawing at the water’s surface. He had a black mustache, neatly trimmed. His dark hair was cut short and just as neat. The ME tested the flexibility of the wrists.
    â€œRigor is nearly full.”
    He leaned in close and took a look at the man’s face.
    â€œAppears to be bruising just above the left eyebrow; skin appears undamaged except for slight hemorrhaging. No other facial trauma, no presence of blood on the body or in the water. There’s a gold band on left middle finger, looks like a wedding ring, no watch, no other jewelry. Estimate approximate age as forty-five to fifty.”
    â€œHe’ll be missed by somebody,” Foley said.
    â€œMale, married Hispanic in his forties, he probably has kids,” I added.
    â€œFound an empty bottle of tequila in a paper bag behind that bench,” Tolland said.
    Foley held it up already bagged for evidence.
    â€œWho found him?” I asked.
    â€œThe guy with the fishing pole, about seven-thirty,” he said, motioning toward a white-haired man in his sixties standing by a squad, holding a fishing rod.
    â€œAny unaccounted-for vehicles?” I asked.
    â€œNope,” Foley said. “He either walked here, got a lift, or came with somebody. Looks like the guy got hammered, fell, and hit his head as he went into the water.”
    â€œIf there’s water in the lungs,” I said.
    â€œYeah,” Foley said.
    â€œAfter the storm cleared last night there was no wind,” Harrison said.
    We all turned to him. I didn’t know where he was going with this, but he had me. I was curious to see if he could go over a potential homicide scene the same way he could dismantle a bomb. Foley looked like an annoyed high-school teacher.
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with anything?” Foley asked.
    â€œLook at his legs. They’re submerged from the hip down, dragging on the bottom. Only way he could have drifted out that far is if he would have been blown by a strong wind.”
    Harrison glanced at me as if to see if he had stepped out of line. I motioned with my eyes that he most certainly had not.
    â€œHe could have walked out that far and hit his head when he fell,” Foley said.
    Harrison studied the body for a moment, then shook his head.
    â€œHe looks like he goes maybe one-fifty?” he asked the ME.
    The ME cocked his head and nodded like he was juggling numbers. “Give or take, yeah.”
    â€œThen he didn’t hit his forehead on the bottom unless he did a swan dive off that bench,” Harrison said.
    â€œHow do you figure that?” Foley asked.
    â€œAt one-fifty he didn’t carry enough mass to penetrate the water with enough force to strike the bottom—not unless he dove in. The water would have dissipated the energy. He would have slapped the surface and at most kissed the bottom.”
    Foley looked at Harrison like he had just spoken Chinese. “What the hell are you, Mr. Wizard?”
    I looked at Foley and nodded.
    â€œThat’s exactly who he is,” I said.
    â€œWell, shit on me,” Foley said.
    Harrison walked over to the bench where the bottle of tequila was found. He knelt down and studied the ground for a moment, then looked out toward the pond.
    â€œDon’t tell