The two bodies lay there on the kitchen floor. One of them a male, the other, female. Both around their mid-thirties. They are about a meter away from each other, the bodies, with backs to the floor, face up. A bullet hole sat in the middle of each of their foreheads. Their faces, streamed with dried blood, betrayed the shock of what had happened to them.

The detective crouches in front of the male, latex gloves on his hands. He examines the head, then the bullet hole. He then rifles through the man’s clothes and places their contents inside evidence bags. He reaches for the man’s left hand. It’s missing. He checks again. Still missing. Reaches for the right one. Missing.

He quickly stands and goes over to the female. Checks her hands, and finds none. He walks out of the house and orders the whole place searched.

On a whim, he checks the mailbox, and an expression of surprise enters his face. An officer beside him asks what’s wrong.

“There’s a hand holding a gun in the mailbox,” he says.