ANTI-SOCIAL NETWORK (12 page)

Akhbir’s smile now turned malevolent. ‘At my building, you had asked me if I would like to sample some of your lipstick. Now I want to know, would you like to sample the bullets from my gun?’

The girl shuddered; her lithe body seemed to have lost all its spirit. Her free hand made a feeble attempt to punch Akhbir’s jaw, but he was too quick for her. He ducked and reached into his jeans.

Across the dance floor, Virkar raised his gun and waited for the right moment.

Ten minutes ago, he had arrived at the nightclub and sent Naina inside. It had taken her five minutes of peering in the dark to spot Akhbir. A few minutes later, Virkar was by her side and was now waiting for her to get the house lights switched on.

Two more seconds and all the lights in the nightclub came on at once. Virkar had prepared himself for this by staring into the laser lights so the sudden flash of light did not blind him. But Akhbir stood blinking, momentarily blinded, with his gun in his hand. Out of the corner of his eyes, Virkar noticed what seemed like another man standing with a gun aimed at Akhbir. Virkar made a mental note to take action in that direction too. But, right then, Virkar kept his eyes focused on his first target.

Using the distraction to her advantage, the girl shook off Akhbir’s hand and sprang away, crouching to avoid getting in the way of a bullet.

Across the floor, this was the moment Virkar was waiting for. He pulled the trigger, his bullet hitting Akhbir in the chest. As he fell, Akhbir shot a bullet in the direction of the crouching girl. His bullet grazed the girl’s skull and embedded itself a few feet away into the wall.

Virkar now swung his gun in the direction of what had seemed like another shooter, but saw that there was no one there. He turned around and dove into the panicked crowd that was now running helter-skelter and pushed his way towards the fallen Akhbir. He kicked Akhbir’s gun away from his body and checked for a pulse. Having quickly ascertained that Akhbir was well and truly dead, Virkar turned his attention to the girl.

Blood was pouring from the wound on her head but Virkar could see that she was still breathing. Cursing under his breath, he quickly took out his phone to call an ambulance but he was stopped short by Naina’s voice. ‘I’ve already called the ambulance and dialled 100 for the police.’ She then knelt next to the wounded girl, tore off the hemline of her soft top and used it to swab the girl’s wound in an attempt to slow down the blood flow.

Virkar’s voice was breathless, ‘Did you see the other man with the gun?’

Naina looked confused. ‘What other man?’

Virkar sighed and shook his head. ‘I guess these disco lights played a trick on my eyes.’ He sat down on the floor next to Naina. ‘Well, maybe you can do me another favour. Please tell me who this girl is? She’s definitely not Sagarika’.

T
he past week had been tumultuous. Virkar had simultaneously been lauded by his seniors for his actions at the SuperTrance Nightclub and at the same time, castigated by certain sections of the media for endangering the lives of other patrons. The Cyber Crime Cell had gathered enough evidence to conclude that Akhbir Singh Mann was the head of the Anti-Social Network and had been running a sextortion racket, which he operated from his Byculla apartment with the help of Rajesh Chawre, Kshitij Bhatia and Nayantara Joshi. Numerous video clippings saved on Akhbir’s hard disk bore disgusting testimony to this fact.

But what was more surprising was that the girl who had been shot by Akhbir at SuperTrance Nightclub had survived, although she had fallen into a coma. She had been identified as twenty-two-year-old Philo Garlosa from Assam, a student of St Catherine’s Polytech at Dhobitalao. Things moved swiftly from there, the Assam Police easily identified Philo since they had her fingerprints and photograph on file. Philo belonged to the Dimasa tribe of the Cachar district of Assam. Police records stated that she was an ex-member of the Black Widow militant group operating in the north-eastern corner of India. According to the Assam police, Philo had been a member of Black Widow since the age of fifteen but had had a falling out with the leader of the group a year ago after he had got her pregnant and then forced her to abort the child. Philo had come out of the hills and had surrendered to the police, after having struck a deal: she would trade any information she had about the group for a complete pardon and a chance to restart her life.

Having got a small government grant under the surrender policy, Philo had been allowed to restart her life away from Assam in distant Mumbai. Philo had come to the metropolis and enrolled herself in the St Catherine’s Polytechnic to do a course in hospitality management. She had chosen not to stay in the college hostel but had instead taken up a small room at the back of a dilapidated Parsi bungalow in Sion. She was also working as a hostess at the SuperTrance Nightclub to supplement her meagre allowance.

Virkar had led a team of his men to Philo’s room in Sion and found that the bungalow was right next to the base of the hill of the Sion hillock fort. The room itself had just a few of Philo’s clothes and some books but under the bed, Virkar discovered the most damning evidence possible: a black backpack containing a hunting knife and a long-haired wig.

It was still not known why she had gone on a murder spree, killing Rajesh Chawre, Kshitij Bhatia and Nayantara Joshi, but Virkar’s colleagues were willing to bet that she was actively involved in the racket. On his part, Virkar did not want to rush to a conclusion; after all, they hadn’t found Sagarika as yet. Moreover, Virkar was still unsure what the connection between Philo and Akhbir was, and why they were at each others’ throats with knives and guns. Unfortunately, Virkar’s voice was drowned in the cacophony of voices ready to put the case to rest and move on to other things. For a couple of days, Virkar had protested but no one was willing to listen. Hints were dropped that he shouldn’t rock a perfectly fine boat—after all, as ACP Wagh hadn’t hesitated to point out, Philo was clearly the killer. Virkar had finally decided to play along, but had privately gone over the case again and again with Naina. She had also been worried about Sagarika, but since there were no leads, her ideas, too, were hitting dead ends.

Something inside Virkar kept nudging him to look further. Why would Philo have killed the members of the Anti-Social Network? What was her connection to them? He had gone back to Philo’s room to try and find some answers. He had personally taken apart each and every fold of Philo’s wardrobe and scanned all her books till he had suddenly come upon a crude map scribbled on one of the blank sections of a recipe book.

The map had led Virkar and his team to the nearby Sion hillock fort, past the broken steps and scattered walls overrun by trees and graffiti to the place where there used to be a fresh water tank that acted as a catchment of water supply for the entire fort. The tank was now dry and overrun with vegetation but could be still accessed by a flight of steps. At the bottom of the tank, Virkar and the police party found the decaying body of Sagarika Purohit, shaved bald. Right next to her was a small mound of loose earth. In the mound were some hastily buried body parts that were identified as Rajesh Chawre’s penis, Kshitij Bhatia’s tongue and Nayantara Joshi’s eyes.

Seeing Sagarika’s body lying on the post-mortem table as the doctors worked upon the cadaver, Virkar was struck by the physical similarity between Sagarika and Philo. The long-haired wig that Philo was using to disguise herself was actually made out of Sagarika’s hair, carefully stitched on to a cloth skullcap. It was all that was required to create an illusion that could confuse an untrained eye or a grainy camera into mistaking one for the other. The lengths that Philo had gone to disguise her identity impressed Virkar. But he still couldn’t understand her motives; in fact, he couldn’t even come up with a plausible theory as to why Philo had become a serial killer. Meanwhile, another thought started bothering him.
Was Philo acting alone or was there someone else orchestrating the whole thing?
Virkar was aware that none of his colleagues were interested in indulging his sinister theories. Now that Sagarika’s body had been found, no one had even a shadow of doubt that the case file was to be shut and consigned to a back shelf.

Virkar, too, was cajoling his mind into moving on until the doctor examining Sagarika’s body on the post-mortem table shook his head and, with a mixture of remorse and resignation, said, ‘Sagarika was three months pregnant when she died.’ Something snapped in Virkar’s brain as he heard those words. He just couldn’t deal with the fact that a mother-to-be was killed so brutally.

As he walked out of the post-mortem ward at J.J. Hospital, he knew that he was not going to rest till he had got answers to all the questions that were bothering him.

‘W
hat do you mean, a sports pistol?’ Virkar was sitting in the office with ACP Shivaji Naik of the Mumbai Police Local Armoury-II at Tardeo. Virkar had just begun asking questions about the gun that was recovered from SuperTrance Nightclub and identified as the weapon used by Akhbir. In the aftermath of the SuperTrance shooting, Virkar had gone through the evidence collected from the crime scene, but his focus at that time had been on discovering clues to the identity of Philo, so much so that although the weapon had been examined by him, he had not been able to identify the make and model of the gun.

But as he was lying awake in his bed the previous night, not being able to sleep despite his lovemaking session with Naina, he suddenly remembered that the gun had had a wooden handle, which was not very common among those used by criminal gangs operating in Mumbai. They usually preferred Glocks and Berettas that were made out of lightweight metal. The next morning, he had left before Naina was awake and headed to the Crime Branch Headquarters, where he opened the evidence locker to examine the gun once again. The grooves and curves on the wooden handle were a comfortable fit for a grown man’s hand. As Virkar wrapped his fingers around the handle, he realized that his fingers automatically sat in the places that had sweat stains, the kind that are left behind on items that are used regularly over a period of years. Although the pistol was an automatic, the bullet that had grazed Philo’s head was not the standard .22 calibre round used in regular automatic pistols. It had a blunt head and almost felt as if it were half a bullet. Virkar pocketed the gun and the bullet and quickly made his way to the Police Armoury at Tardeo. There, he waited until the genial ACP arrived. Virkar knew that if anyone could tell him the make and model of the gun, it was ACP Shivaji Naik, a known weapons enthusiast.

‘This is a Swiss-made Hämmerli sports pistol and the bullet is a wadcutter, a special kind of bullet used for sports pistols.’

Virkar let the ACP’s words sink in. ‘Are you telling me that Akhbir Singh Mann was a sports shooter?’

The ACP flashed him a genial smile. ‘No, Virkar, I’m just telling you the make of the gun and the bullet.’

Virkar coughed in reply, a little embarrassed at shooting from the hip. But perhaps the ACP knew that Virkar didn’t really mean to be disrespectful, so he continued, ‘The accused could have stolen this gun from a sports shooter.’

Virkar couldn’t help showing his excitement as he asked, ‘Do you have a list of registered sports shooters in Mumbai?’

ACP Naik’s genial smile widened. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you have a list of sports pistols registered in Mumbai?’ This time the ACP just nodded, the smile still in place. Virkar blurted out his next question, ‘Can I have these lists?’

‘No,’ came the ACP’s pat reply. Suddenly, the smile that refused to go away seemed positively oily to Virkar.

‘Why?’ asked Virkar, making sure that his tone did not convey any hint of the irritation he could feel welling up inside him.

The ACP now sat back, as if preparing himself to tell a long story to a foolish listener. ‘Virkar, do you know who sports shooters are? They are generally wealthy men who shoot to pass their time and receive national or international awards for doing this. They represent their country, state or city at sporting events and receive awards and accolades from sports institutes and the government. Do you think I will allow you and your team to run amok among such eminent people? One of them might pick up the phone and speak to the sports minister, who in turn might call the home minister, who will not hesitate for even a second before calling up the commissioner of police, who will be so irritated by the unnecessary nature of that call that he will immediately pick up the phone and give me an earful—if and only if, he is in a good mood before the call. And if, God forbid, he is in a bad mood, then God only knows what will happen to me.’

Virkar sat staring at ACP Naik, his mouth agape. His brain reeled as he took in the vivid scenario that ACP Naik had presented in front of him. Naik, in the meantime, seemed to be enjoying Virkar’s discomfort as he continued, ‘Do you think I’ll look good sitting in the Police Training School office in Nasik, Virkar?’ In reply, Virkar just shook his head dumbly. ‘Then why ask me such a foolish question?’ The ACP’s smile grew even broader.

Virkar realized that he had no answer; neither did he know how to take the discussion forward. He got up, pocketed the pistol and the bullet and, without another word, made his way to the door of the cabin.

Just as he was about to step out, he heard the ACP call out to him. ‘Arre, where are you going? Don’t you want to know who owns the Hämmerli?’

Virkar turned and gawked at the ACP. ‘I didn’t say that I wouldn’t check that up for you.’ The ACP smiled mischievously. ‘Forgive me, Virkar, I don’t get too many chances to have a good laugh nowadays,’ he continued, breaking into peals of laughter. Virkar’s stoic face did not convey feelings as the ACP’s laughter boomed in his ears. Finally, Naik calmed down a little and turned to the computer on his table, typing ‘H-ä-m-m-e-r-l-i’ into a box that appeared on the screen, all the while chuckling as he went about it.

Suddenly, the ACP stopped laughing as his eyes darted across the screen. His lips pursed as he said, ‘Devendra Brahme, that’s your man.’