Q: How does a homicide Detective determine a drowning?

A: First, we make sure the guy is dead. You don't make that mistake more than twice - not if you want to stay a Homicide Detective and not get busted back down to Traffic or Bunco.

Once we make sure the guy is dead - again, I can't stress how important this part is. You have to be sure. Hold a mirror under his nose. Listen to his heart. If no one's looking, kick him a few times. If he fogs up the mirror, or snores, or his heart beats, or he screams "Quit kicking me!" then he is not dead, and you don't have a homicide and you can go home and catch up on the DVR - once we make sure the guy is dead - and your husband is dead, trust me, I gave him a solid kick in the ribs, even poked him a few times in the eye with the pool skimmer; he didn't budge - once we're positive the corpse is, in fact, a corpse, we drag him out of the pool, his presence in the pool being a sign that he probably drowned, haul him down to the lab and have our forensics experts run some tests.

Now, I know what you're thinking - Sure he might have drowned, but how do you know he was murdered? Here's where the art of detection comes in. We drain his lungs to see if there's been foul play. That's where things get interesting.

You see, you have a saltwater pool, which is pretty rare for this area, and has to be expensive, but I guess beats having that smell of chlorine all over you after a late night dip. If you husband drowned in this pool, we would have found saltwater in his lungs. You know what we found? Gravy. Three gallons of country gravy.

We're confident he was murdered - drowned by gravy, we see it all the time - then pushed into the pool to cover up the crime. The question remains: Who would kill a man with gravy?

Now, Ma'am I appreciate how accommodating you've been to me and all the other officers, letting us in your home, bringing us drinks, rubbing our shoulders, covering us with blankets during our cat naps, judging our diving competitions, cooking us meal after meal, day after day, each one more delicious than the last, each one covered with heaping, steamy piles of thick, white country gravy. You have a lot of gravy around the house. More than I've ever seen, and in so many odd places, like on the floor of your bedroom and in that caulking gun.

Ma'am I hate to ask you this, because I've grown rather fond of your company, and your cooking, but is there anything you would like to tell me?

Anything at all?

Anything about the death of your husband?

No? Nothing? Not a thing?

Whew. Glad I got that off my chest. That's been bugging me for weeks.

Can I have some more biscuits, please?

Don't be stingy with the gravy, either.