The Burden Of Proof

Sir, put down that smoking gun.
"What? This old thing?" He waves the pistol in the most every direction, settling on the corpse on the floor.
Yes. Please put that down. And the knife.
"Oh. Sure. Sorry about that," he begins to wipe the blood dripping from the blade.
If you could just put that down next to the body with the multiple stab wounds whose blood is an exact DNA match to that found on the knife.
"I suppose next you'll be asking for these," at which point he pulls out a half-empty bottle of cyanide capsules.
I notice a faint smell of almond coming from the stiff over there.
"What stiff?"
The body. The one you are standing over currently.
"This?" He kicks the cadaver. That is still soaking wet, having recently been dragged from the surf, made even more obvious by the tracks made by the heels coming onto the beach.
The rope is kind of a giveaway too.
"Oh. I needed that to rescue him from the sea."
It's around his neck.
"Is that a problem?"
The fact that you are in direct proximity to a carcass of someone who is obviously recently deceased, whether by drowning, strangulation, poison, stabbing or gunshot leads me to believe that yes, we have a problem here.
"And what might that problem be?"
Well, if I didn't know better, I would say that you murdered this poor soul.
"Prove it."
And once again, the "President" skates free.