The hand was pale and lifeless, rightly so. Ripped from the rest of his body, rotted, bloody flesh stuck out from the wrist, and splintered shards of bone was jetting outwards. In the center of the palm, there was a blood-smeared hole in the skin where a bullet had torn into it. Mendel inspected the dead, greenish-black lobster that had clawed at the hand. Captain Kemosiri walked over to the Inspector, looking rather strained. “The fisher guy’s a dead end. Says he pulled up the lobster trap,” Kemosiri said, “and found a dead lobster holding a human hand.” “Which we already knew,” Mendel said. “Right. I’ll ask around, see if we have any witnesses.” Inspector Mendel turned around to face Kemosiri. He was a stout mad, barrel-chested, with caramel-colored skin, reminiscent of his Egyptian heritage. Unlike Mendel, Kemosiri was born and raised in Cairo, and had a thick accent when he spoke. “Tell the choppers to keep looking,” the Inspector said, “There’s still a body out there. We have to find it.”