You pick up weird hobbies,
Harry reflected, when you’re a hundred-year old fishman living at the bottom of the local lake.
Not that he’d know personally. But he could observe his grandfather. And Grandpa Morty had the expected hobbies of a ten foot tall primeval man-fish hybrid- briefly surfacing in a way to confuse hobbyist monster hunters and ruin their attempts at clear photography, terrifying the local duck population, and the like, but then there was his other hobby.
Uncle Morty liked to solve crimes.
It started during the business when a cult had decided Morty was actually the god of the lake and started sacrificing virgins to him. Tips from Morty had been key in allowing the Sheriff’s office in tracking down the cultists and saving some of the victims.
But since Uncle Morty couldn’t leave the lake for very long, he couldn’t really do his own legwork.
And that was where his family came in, and since Harry had a government job that gave him an excuse to turn up just about anywhere in the area as the County Tax assessor, he wound up acting as the Archie Goodwin to his grandfather’s Fishman Nero Wolfe, more often than not.
And that’s why Harry, was sitting at the edge of the lake, reading the police blotter into a microphone whose terminal end was a transmitter about a hundred feet underwater, in case his grandfather had theories or information about one of the ongoing cases.