Bhendi Bazaar (8 page)

EIGHT
2007

Research was tedious work. No one joined the Crime Squad in police to go through realms of data, but someone had to. Collecting slices of information wasn't the most motivating task since one needed to glean thousands to get one profitable lead, and only if one was lucky.

Grunge, it was called in police circles. Inspector Jatin Singh, the lowest ranking of the three detectives on the case, until now, was afforded the grand opportunity to lead the research for the two murders.

On instructions from Rita, the Ops Room was relocated to a larger chamber to accommodate more officers. The case required more hands; the three detectives couldn’t even run down all alibis. Eleven new members were recruited to the task force: one Senior Inspector, two Inspectors, two Sub-Inspectors and six police constables. In keeping with the police procedures, the PCs and the uniformed officers would not be included in general briefing sessions, but they would get instructions from their respective team leaders.
Only share what is absolutely necessary
was the rubric: more the number of people that know details, the higher the risk of leaks. Why take a chance?

The place was bustling with unrestrained energy. The room, a large hall with a high ceiling and windows overlooking the
bona fide
Crawford Market, had an outsized conference table with seating for twelve, and a dozen computer terminals live to provide updated data, info or communications. There was a little podium in the corner and four additional computer terminals in the walls, which could be accessed while standing, should there be a need for additional hands. All five new police officers were ready to launch.
What?
All tongues stopped wagging; the room sank into silence the moment Rita walked in. It was apparent that this was no longer a standard murder investigation. Mumbai, or perhaps India, was waking up to a crime that had primarily existed in the West. Or fiction. A serial killer.

'I don't think I need to explain how nerve-wracking this case is,' Rita opened her briefing standing at the head of the table. She beckoned all to take their seats. Jatin had already arranged for the projector, and the scene of crime slides played behind her for all present to observe. 'We’ve had two murders in the last four days as all of you know by now, committed undoubtedly by the same killer.' She stopped and looked at the projection. Jatin played the two close-up frontal shots taken of the groins of Adit Lele and Samir Suri in quick succession; then, he stopped on each picture for ample time for the officers to absorb the juxtaposition. The resemblance was remarkable. Rita waited till most stopped looking at the slides and made notes on their pads or computers. 'I'm reasonably confident the same artiste has done both these slayings. I have spoken to the pathology department to emphasise the urgency. They've agreed to start the autopsy in an hour's time.' She glanced at the clock behind her: 11:53 a.m. 'Senior Inspector Nene, you may leave now for the autopsy suite. I'd like you to attend the post-mortem first hand, and return with all reports as soon as it's over. If there's anything important, please call.'

Senior Inspector Rajesh Nene, a local from Mumbai, was one of the most experienced inspectors in the crime branch. Nene was forty-seven years young. He had forgone all promotions to stay in Mumbai, and as such knew all the trenches, the nuts and bolts of Mumbai. A full, curly, black-dyed mane sat on top of his five feet eleven frame that was rigidly straight. Like some other sceptics in the department, he wasn't amused when Rita took over as the Unit Head, but like most he had stomached the matriarch. With an informal gesture of a salute, to Rita and the rest, he marched out of the Ops Room.

The tickets were booked. Two new members of the task force were instructed to leave for New Delhi by the afternoon flight to assist and supervise Delhi Police in its efforts to unravel everything about Samir Suri. Any leads would be helpful.

'We need to agree on exactly how much detail we are going to release to the media.' Rita spelt out to the rest of them present: Vikram, Jatin, and two sub-inspectors Steven D'Souza and Milind Anand. 'We don't want mayhem, which it would certainly result in if we release the scene of crime photographs. And, we also run the risk of loonies calling up to confess to the murders if we provide more details than required at this stage.'

Nods. Silence. Agreement.

'I have updated Mr Joshi and he reckons we should continue the search without causing any disruption in the city, which I think is the right approach. We are responsible for their security, and we should ensure there is no panic.'

Nods again.

More tasks were allocated. Jatin, relieved of research, was to liaise with the Forensics; Steven was allocated to keep abreast of developments in Juhu Police overlooking the murder at ITC Grand Maratha, and also to closely co-ordinate with the info still being collected from the first murder at Versova; Milind was in charge of the Ops Room, all coordination, all messages, and to maintain a chronology of investigation and all further research.

Rinika, Samir Suri's widow, arrived at the Police Station at noon. She had been rushed from the airport to the mortuary for identification of the body before being driven to Juhu. Vikram had been intimated of the timing and hence, had arrived shortly afterwards. There were a few news reporters, but it wasn't anything compared to what Vikram has seen at the hotel in the morning. The SHO introduced Rinika and Vikram before leaving the room.

Dishevelled and tearful, Rinika was a young and petite woman. One would have had to stretch the word
pretty
very cruelly to call her that, but she was well maintained. Straight black hair, wide eyes which were, presently, wet like the Mumbai monsoon. Vikram guessed she would be in her late twenties before he checked the papers. Twenty-eight. Not bad.

'I am extremely sorry for your loss, Mrs Suri,' he said politely. 'Hmm...' Rinika wanted to say something but broke down yet again. 'Should I get you something? Tea, coffee?'

'Water would be fine.'

Vikram walked out of the room and asked a PC to get some water and tea.

'As I was saying,' Vikram began after an appropriate pause when Rinika looked slightly composed. 'I can understand your loss Mrs Suri, and I can see how you feel, but we need to ask some questions.'

'Now...?'

'In any investigation Mrs Suri, the first thirty-six hours are considered the most crucial, so if you’re ready...' Vikram was prepared with his omnipresent notebook.

Rinika nodded.

'Do you know anyone who would have wanted Mr Suri killed?' Silence. Tears. Headshake. No.

'Anyone who would gain anything by his death?'

'No.'

'How long had you two been married?'

'Three years, but we've known each other for five.'

'Any kids?' Vikram knew the answer, but he gathered some non-murder conversation might be conducive.

'One daughter. We just had a baby three months back. He was so excited, we made plans. He had been very busy these past few months...involved in the public listing of the company he worked for. This was the final phase, he had promised, “we would take a break after this” but…’ she mumbled lost in a world of her own, and appeared on the brink of breaking down again when the tea arrived. She hadn't asked for the tea but the aroma of roadside tea got her. Thank Lord. Questioning recently bereaved close ones was regarded as the second worst task a police officer performed; the first one was to inform them about the tragedy and watch — first the disbelief, followed by acceptance of the tragedy, before losing emotional control. The triptych of emotions remained unchanged, only the degree of spectacle varied. Vikram watched Rinika captivated by the tea. Anything to distract from the loss, he surmised.

The doctrine of wife, partner, girlfriend, boyfriend as first or prime suspect was obviously betraying here. However hard he tried, Vikram couldn't envisage this domesticated housewife, who had a three-month-old child, killing the father of her daughter in such cold blood. He waited till she finished her tea. 'Mrs Suri, was your husband seeing another woman?'

'No way.'

'Please reflect on the question, Mrs Suri. I am not saying he definitely had an extramarital affair, but did you ever, even for a minute, think about such a thing?

'Not at all. He was a doting husband, he didn't as much as look at other women, forget having any affair. Please don't malign Samir...' Rinika's voice faded, as she took out another tissue from her handbag. The optical sprinklers looked ready for another spray.

'We need to be sure of everything, Mrs Suri.'

This was proving to be futile. This woman could not be a suspect Vikram reasoned and closed his yellow pad.

'When can I have Samir back?' She was mindful of not calling it a body yet. Given the circumstances, denial was a fairly common occurrence. Deliberate non-acceptance of facts.

'Only a couple of days, you don't have to stay in Mumbai any more than you want to.'

Commissioner of Mumbai Police Sanjay Saxena —
Sexy
, as he was referred to in absentia — was a politician in uniform. He looked more like a suave villain from some flick of the Black & White era than a policeman. Tall. Lean. Salt and pepper — more salt than pepper — hair. A chain smoker, he always had a cigarette between his fingers or fumes rising from the ashtray. Forever in mufti, and at all times dressed like he was to leave for an appointment with the Prime Minister in the next ten minutes. He wasn't the sharpest tool in Crawford Market. But he was ambitious and he did better than others. Promotions came in time. And one couldn't undermine his efforts to please those above him in the hierarchy and other significant people in the political world. Though he was exceedingly well entrenched in golf, he had initially only taken up the sport because influential people favoured it. He was
well connected
, they said. A Doon School product, he had all the right ingredients to be the face of Mumbai Police. His large office too was a display of his political ambitions. Pictures with the Who's Who of political, film and sporting worlds adorned the walls. The awards and accolades embellished the space. Some men merely attracted fortune;
Sexy
was more than that — he was a Neodymium magnet.

The Executive Assistant to the Chief Minister, who was supposed to meet Samir Suri, must have lost a significant amount in kickbacks considering the big fuss he kicked up. Vinay Joshi and Rita were urgently called to the Commissioner’s Office for an update.

'I've been indomitably following the reports on the two recent murders in Mumbai.'
Sexy
leaned back in his throne, looked at the cigarette in his hand; the tableau only lacked a cognac snifter. Grapevine was that
Sexy's
grammar teacher, at school, had worked hard on his adjectives, adverbs and lexicon, which he used gratuitously and
indomitably.

'We're on the case, DCP Ferreira is in charge.' Joshi passed the baton.

'Yes sir. The team is working 24/7 on this one. We've increased the task force to 14, including me, only this morning after the second murder —'

'Is there any intrinsic connection between these two murders?'

'They were both murdered in an identical manner sir.' Rita — judging
Sexy
hadn't been through the case files though he had apparently said he had — gave a succinct account.

'Have we concretised the motive?'

Concretised?
Was that even a word? Must have been derived from concrete, Rita quickly worked out and only then
Sexy’s
question annoyed her. You aren't listening Commissioner, she wanted to bang her fist on the table. Forget pinning down the motive, we don't even have a plausible one as yet. 'That's the worrying part, sir. Up till now we haven't been able to figure out any motive for the two murders.'

'No one gets murdered without a reason, no one murders without a reason. Surely, there has to be a compelling motive, some persuasive grounds to kill not one, but two men.'

Well said
Sexy
, well said.

'Two identical murders in such a short span without apparent motive make me think it could be a serial killer,' Joshi butted in.

'That is so Kafkaesque.'
Sexy
could have said unrealistic, but
Kafkaesque
demonstrated his lexicon. Pompous prick. 'Serial killer is a western concept, a developed world's disease, we don't have serial killers in this country.'

'I would like to differ sir. From
Thug Behram,
who was sentenced to death for 931 murders in 1840, to the
Stoneman
in recent times, we've had our own share of serial killers,' Rita slipped in politely.

Sexy
was clearly not amused. Brought up in an ossified bureaucracy, he didn't like being tutored by someone several ranks junior to him. He had never done that when he was junior. What did this girl know? 'I wouldn't take more of your precious time, DCP Ferreira. Keep on top of the case and keep Mr Joshi updated at all times.' He smiled, and looked at the door. It was obvious the meeting was over. At least for Rita. A salute and she tiptoed out of the king's suite.

Sexy
waited for the door to close. If his eyes had feet, they would have followed Rita out of the room to check if she wasn't standing outside to listen to what he had to say next. But he was confident she wouldn't dare.

'Mr Joshi, are you utterly certain DCP Rita can cope with this kind of a grotesque double-murder investigation? We can easily give her some undemanding posting like… traffic.'

'Oh no, no, no, sir. She is very competent and loves challenges. She's done homicide cases in Pune.'

The Commissioner looked unconvinced, but did not insist. 'You should give the press a briefing tomorrow. And keep my office appraised of any new breakthrough.’

‘Yes sir.’

Inspectors Akhil Mathur and Ravi Mathur — the two envoys from Crime Branch, Mumbai — arrived at Nehru Place in New Delhi five minutes before 5 p.m. Despite the surname, the two weren't related. In fact, they couldn't have been more dissimilar. One was short, the other was tall, one was bald, the other was not; one was from the south of the country, the other from the north. Akhil was known as
takla
(bald) Mathur; Ravi was called
chota
(short) Mathur. So much for political correctness in India: diversity was enjoyment, even for the diverse, it was not muted to sound appropriate.