Reporters are trained to develop a sixth sense, a nose for when a story smells fishy. And something about this one wasn’t right. First of all, werewolves can’t swim. Something about their mass and water didn’t work well together. They could in human form, of course, but the werewolf floater–read dead, drowned guy–was naked. Werewolves had incredibly flexible rules on nudity, but the middle of a Michigan winter was a bit much even for them.
Which brought me to point two: by all rights, the lake should have been frozen. In fact, most of it was. Every part except a perfect circle of liquid around the dead Were, as though someone had pointed a huge hairdryer downward and melted the ice.
“They’re sayin’ his higher than normal body temp caused the ice tuh melt, as he was shiftin’ back,” the gruff, older Detective Larson spat. He was sitting by my desk, slumped down, an ever-present scowl on his grizzled face.
“Well, you know the Shrews–they’d try to cover up a war by saying it was a minor disagreement over cheese,” I said, and scoffed. The SRU–Supernatural Response Unit, or Shrews–were notorious for downplaying everything.
But even they were reaching with this one, because reason number three was sitting right by my desk. Every detective I knew would rather eat his pension than talk to a reporter. Especially one barely above Townie status.
“Yeah, but they were really tryin’ tuh play this one off. Not to mention…” He paused.
“What?” I prompted, politely. Detective Larson was already irritated he had to come to a reporter about this when he hated my ilk. He hated me, too, just an iota less than the others. Or maybe being an out-of-towner was my advantage.
He still scowled at me. “The lake still isn’t frozen. Not even the tiniest bit on the surface.”
“Sounds like magic, not some cockamamie accident with a drugged out Were,” I agreed. “Maybe you should let the Shrews handle it?”
This time he scoffed. “Not a chance. That kid was my nephew. Like I’d leave this investigation up to those backbiters.”