A Cut-Like Wound

by Anita Nair

  ‘I think we should conduct a parallel investigation.’ Gowda stared back at the ACP, meeting his glare.

  It was the ACP who dropped his gaze first, causing a small rumble of satisfaction in Gowda. ‘You think so,’ the ACP smirked. ‘The big man thinks so!’

  ‘Sir, it isn’t just a series of random murders. There is something more. This is a serial murderer,’ Gowda began. ‘If you will let me explain…’

  ‘Tell me, Gowda, how long have you been in service?’

  ‘Twenty-four years, sir.’

  ‘And you still haven’t become an ACP. Ever wonder why?’ the ACP asked softly.

  Gowda retreated into silence.

  ‘The problem with you, Gowda, is that you think you have a monopoly on righteousness. You think all others including me are idiots in uniforms and that you need to do our thinking for us. Which is why you end up pursuing cases that are destined to be B or C reports. Cases that are no cases. Files that are closed for lack of evidence. It doesn’t look good on your record,’ the ACP said. ‘Think about it. Leave this set of murders to the CCB. If there is a serial murderer, they’ll find him.’

  ‘I don’t think it is a him, sir,’ Gowda burst out. ‘That’s why, you see, I wanted to…’

  But the ACP wouldn’t let him finish. ‘Oh, that’s your angle now. Turn this into a sensational case? You would like your face in the newspapers. Didn’t you get your fill when you went after the minister’s son in that kidnapping case four years ago? What an embarrassment it was for the department when the girl turned around and said she had eloped with the boy.’

  Gowda clenched his fists around the arms of the chair. ‘You know as well as I do that the minister bought the girl and her family’s compliance.’ He counted under his breath. ‘Sir,’ he began again, willing himself to not let either rage or frustration mark his voice.

  ‘No, you listen to me. There’s a lot happening in your station jurisdiction. Several Africans have made it their home. Some of them may have a drug connection. Check on that. A consortium of quarry owners have been sniffing around there. They would like us to look the other way. Police that. It’ll do both you and me good. Leave all this serial murderer nonsense to the CCB.’

  Gowda rose, defeated. If he were to go after this case, it would be on his own. With perhaps Santosh and Gajendra and the goodwill he had built over the years.

  ‘Look at yourself, Gowda,’ the ACP said. ‘When did you last go to the gym? Officers have to set an example. An out-of-shape officer gives the service a bad name.’

  Gowda sucked in his belly. He needed to go to the gym; he needed to work out. He needed to drink less and cut out smoking. He needed to change his lifestyle. In fact, he needed to learn to kiss ass and suck his superiors’ dicks. Then, he would be a better man in the eyes of the world and the police force. But somehow Gowda didn’t think he was going down that route.

  ‘I remember how fit you were when I met you first… when you were stuck in that rat hole in Bowring Hospital. Get some exercise, Gowda,’ the ACP said, and buried his head in what seemed suspiciously like a sheaf of tourism brochures.

  And then something clicked in Gowda’s head. Bowring Hospital.

  Twelve years ago, Gowda had been shunted to the Bowring Hospital posting. Dowry deaths. Street fights. Road accidents. The mortuary and station records had seen so many unnatural deaths that after a while they seemed natural. Cases were booked, investigations conducted. Arrests had been made and criminals punished. Criminals who were acquitted. But Gowda was removed from all of that. He was merely the record keeper of the dead and dying brought to the hospital. At first, each case was unique. When did the apathy begin? When did the face morph into a case number and no more? Somewhere though, one part of his mind had kept tabs and it was this he remembered now.

  An elderly man had been knocked down on the road. It had been booked as a case of rash and negligent driving. Only, the post-mortem revealed something else. His throat had been slit and it was a bleeding man who had stumbled onto the street into the path of a van. The van driver had slammed the brakes, but the elderly man had already been hit and tossed. In shock, the driver pressed the accelerator and, as horrified bystanders watched, the van wrapped itself around a tree, shattering the windshield. There was glass and blood. The driver had remained slumped on the steering wheel till a few people pulled him out. He had been too shocked to protest or even describe what had happened. The old man and he had been taken to the hospital in the same ambulance. One dead, the other unconscious.

  The van driver wasn’t drunk or on any medication. He had been driving at a sedate 30 kmph. ‘The man walked into the van. What could I do?’ he wept when he came out of sedation.

  The government pathologist pointed out the cut-like wound in the neck. Long rather than deep. Spindle shaped. Clean-cut, well-defined and averted edges. ‘Do you see this?’ Dr Khan said, pointing to the skin. ‘You would think a knife had been used. But I don’t think so. I found particles of glass in the wound and on the victim’s fingers. If a piece of glass was used to slash his throat, that would be the explanation for the particles in the throat wound. But what about the lacerations on the fingers?’

  ‘There was glass from the shattered windshield,’ Gowda said.

  ‘Perhaps. But this seems like fine glass dust. In Hyderabad, where I grew up, we used glass dust like this to make the manja thread for our kites,’ Dr Khan said. He looked at Gowda. ‘There is something even more interesting. On examining his skull, I discovered that there was a depressed fracture. A roundish hard object had been used to inflict the blow. Just enough to disorient and maybe concuss if applied a few times, rigorously. So the idea was to get the victim disoriented. And then, see this…’ He indicated a well-defined, slightly depressed mark on either side of the wound on the throat. ‘Ligature marks.’

  Dr Khan turned the body around. ‘The ligature was tightened by pulling on the cross ends. Do you see this?’ He pointed to the marks at different levels.

  ‘And from this oblique marking, it appears that he was sitting down when the assailant applied the ligature standing from behind. Backwards and upward force. We know he was alive when he walked onto the road, but we would have known he was alive anyway by the bruising above and below the groove,’ Dr Khan finished with a flourish. ‘I have done my job.’ Now it is up to you and your ilk to go after the assailant or ignore it, his stance said.

  ‘You just gave what seemed like a sad accident a whole new angle.’ Gowda’s voice shook with excitement.

  Gowda could see it in his mind: The elderly man, seated. An assailant creeping up behind him. The attack is swift: a hard blow on the head that stuns the victim. Then the ligature is used. A ligature that would slash even as it strangled. The victim struggles, tries to prise the ligature away. Perhaps someone walks in then. Perhaps the assailant isn’t strong enough. But the victim manages to escape. In shock, in fear, in a desperate attempt to save himself, he stumbles onto the busy road and into the path of the van.

  Gowda stepped out of the mortuary, the blood singing in his veins. He would have to take this up with a senior officer and start the investigations.

  Gowda thought of the old man. His name was Ranganathan. Seventy-one years old. Gowda’s grandfather was the same age. He had been wearing a white kurta and dhoti, and around his neck was a gold chain with a rudraksh bead. His chin was smooth and his hair combed back. He could have been Gowda’s grandfather. Who would have wanted to kill him? And why?

  Something akin to sorrow riddled him. If someone did this to his Aja, he would have broken his back first and then snapped his neck. He would want retribution.

  In the corridor by the mortuary, a group of people waited. A woman in her thirties with a tear-stained face. The daughter or daughter-in-law, he presumed. A man stood by her, his arm around her as if to comfort her. One look was all it took for him to know that they were rich and probably well connected too. A couple of men dressed in safari suits stood with them.
As Gowda watched, a police vehicle drove up and DCP Naresh stepped out and came towards him. Gowda sprang to attention and saluted. ‘Sir,’ he began.

  ‘Gowda,’ the DCP said, peering at Gowda’s badge. ‘If all the formalities are complete, please release the body. I know the family…’

  The husband stepped forward. ‘Naresh, do you know what happened?’

  The DCP looked at Gowda’s face, indicating he should explain. Should he tell them what the pathologist had said?

  ‘I hope the van driver has been arrested,’ the woman, the daughter he realized now, cried.

  ‘Madam, it wasn’t the driver’s fault. Your father stepped into moving traffic,’ Gowda began.

  ‘What?’ The husband and wife’s voices rang through the corridor.

  The DCP stepped in neatly, ‘Radhika, your father must have had one of his dizzy spells and in that disoriented state… you know…’

  Gowda tried. Later, he would make peace with his conscience by telling himself that he had tried. ‘Sir, I don’t think…’ he began.

  ‘Just a minute, Gowda,’ the DCP said softly, leading him aside.

  ‘They are my friends. The old man is dead. And there are enough witnesses to prove the van driver is not guilty of negligent driving. Let it be. Whatever it was, nothing is going to change,’ the DCP murmured.

  ‘Sir, someone tried to kill him!’ Gowda said.

  ‘You are raking up mud, Gowda. Whatever you discover will only tarnish the old man’s name. Why hurt the family? They are good people. Respectable people. Do you want to do this? The man was well known. Everyone’s going to start speculating what happened if any of this comes out. It’s best you look the other way, Gowda. Let’s keep this an accident. A bizarre death no one was responsible for.’

  ‘Sir, but there’s a criminal out there who will think he has got away with murder!’

  ‘The impact killed him,’ the DCP said.

  ‘Someone tried to strangle him; the ligature was covered with glass. His throat was slit. He would have bled to death most probably,’ Gowda said, willing his voice to stay even and moderate.

  ‘Let it be, Gowda. There are so many criminals out there whom we haven’t been able to do a thing about. He is part of that list now,’ the DCP said, and walked back to the bereaved family.

  Gowda stopped in his tracks. Would there still be any records of that case? Looking at it again seemed imperative. Was it the same assailant? If it was, why after all these years had he suddenly surfaced? Like a dormant virus, he had reappeared, many times more virulent, many times more dangerous, and seeking death rather than mere injury.

  But first, there was something else that needed to be done. With a wicked grin, Gowda speed-dialled DCP Mirza. ‘Sir, just wanted to clarify something. Since ACP Vidyaprasad is on leave from tomorrow, I suppose I could report any developments on the case to ACP Stanley Sagayaraj.’

  Gowda’s grin widened at the DCP’s growl of anger.

  ‘No sir, I wouldn’t know … I don’t think he has cancelled his leave, at least that’s the impression that I got.’

  FRIDAY, 19 AUGUST

  It was a little past 5 p.m. at Gujri Gunta. In a little teashop he had identified in the row of shops, Santosh sat biding his time. If you wait long enough, everything you want will come to you, his father often said. Santosh hoped that at least this time his father would be proved right.

  The teashop was hot and stuffy. But it was perfectly located, just about 50 metres from the corporator’s main gate and at an oblique angle. At 5 p.m., Head Constable Gajendra’s watch would get over and it would be Santosh’s turn. But first, Gajendra would join him at the teashop and brief him on what had transpired during his watch.

  Santosh had worked out an elaborate plan. First a car, an old Maruti 800, had spluttered to a halt at about 2 p.m. Then Head Constable Gajendra had appeared in mufti, riding a moped. He was the mechanic trying to figure out what had caused the car to stall. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the car,’ Santosh had briefed him. ‘But if someone asks, say that it has engine trouble and if they’re still persistent, you can add a dead battery too.’

  ‘Who’s going to ask?’ Head Constable Gajendra asked. He stuck his little finger in his ear and shook it furiously.

  ‘The watchman, perhaps. Or passers-by.’ Santosh shrugged. ‘You remember what you have to do, don’t you?’

  Head Constable Gajendra nodded. ‘Yes, watch who is coming and going. But you do realize that it is a corporator’s home. All kinds of people will walk in and out all day…’

  Santosh’s mouth twisted. It was a grimace he had acquired from Gowda. ‘I do,’ he said. The grimace said the rest.

  Head Constable Gajendra looked at his face in amusement. ‘Where did you get that from? Inspector Gowda? Ha! I hope you have picked up a few more things from him apart from that!’

  Santosh turned on his heel and walked away fuming. What was this? A station or a mad house? Every creature here was a specimen of some sort.

  The corporator spotted the car a little past 3 p.m., when he stepped out into the balcony on a whim. The goddess had been not easy to appease that day. She seemed reluctant to bestow her powers on him. And Rupali and Nalini hadn’t been able to come. They were both unwell, Akka had said, and instead two others had come. They were competent, but the goddess needed more than mere competence. She demanded brilliance. So when the puja was complete, he had felt a great urge to step out and draw in deep lungfuls of air. An iron band seemed to constrain his chest, and a certain weariness.

  It was then that he saw the car. A mechanic was sitting beside it, deep in thought. The corporator went back in. He would take a little nap, he decided.

  An hour later, the car was still there and so was the mechanic. He went in and called the watchman. ‘What’s wrong with that car?’

  ‘I checked, Anna,’ the watchman said. ‘Something’s wrong with the engine. The mechanic’s waiting for a part, he said.’

  The corporator nodded. He called King Kong. ‘There’s a car opposite our gate. It’s been there for a while now. The mechanic claims he’s waiting for a part. It’s a Maruti 800, not a BMW. What part takes that long? Tell him to shift the car soon if it doesn’t arrive,’ he ordered.

  A little past 5 p.m., when the corporator set out for a meeting in Jayamahal, the car was gone. But something rankled. Something wasn’t in its place. He pulled out his cell phone and called the watchman. ‘Don’t let anyone park anywhere near our gates. And if you spot anything suspicious, call me…’

  Chikka looked at his brother. ‘What was that about?’

  ‘Don’t know why, but something tells me that the car parked by our gate this afternoon was no random occurrence. I think we are being watched.’

  Chikka stiffened. ‘Who could it be?’

  The corporator’s mouth spread in a mirthless smile. ‘One thing I don’t lack is enemies. It could be anybody. Jackie Kumar’s men, Chicken Razak’s men, some overenthusiastic newspaper reporter, the Crime Branch – I hear Ramachandra has made a complaint and asked for police protection after his dog was found with its throat slit … so you see, it could be anybody. In the last week, I have added six more people to the list who would like to see me dead or behind bars at least!’

  ‘Anna,’ Chikka said, taking his brother’s hand between his palms, ‘maybe it’s time to stop. Don’t we have enough and more to keep us going? Do you need to live a life like this? Not knowing who’s going to take a supari out on you.’

  The corporator patted his brother’s hand. ‘You worry too much. No contract killer’s going to get me.’ He withdrew his hand from Chikka’s clutch. ‘Besides, there is no going back now. Once you are in, there is no way out. It was a choice the goddess guided me towards. She will watch out for me.’

  Chikka looked down. He didn’t dare talk to his brother when he was in this mood. What about me? he wanted to ask. Who’s going to watch out for me?

  Santosh took the glass tumbler of tea and blew into
it noisily. ‘I’ll have one of those,’ he said, gesturing to a bun encrusted with red and green bits of candied fruit.

  He bit into the bun. It was stuffed with shredded coconut and sugar. He took a sip of tea. Something akin to contentment settled in him. Now, if only Gajendra would have something worthwhile to report.

  Gajendra walked in, wiping his face with an enormous handkerchief. ‘Why do we have to do this, sir?’ he said wearily. ‘The CCB is handling the case. Why do we need to get involved?’

  ‘Sit down, Gajendra,’ Santosh murmured. He turned to the teashop owner. ‘One tea.’ And then looking at Gajendra, he asked, ‘Do you want a bun?’

  ‘I want a bath,’ Gajendra grumbled.

  ‘And a bun.’ Santosh gestured to the teashop owner.

  ‘What happened?’ Santosh asked, his eyes fixed on the corporator’s gate.

  ‘Nothing. The watchman wanted to know what was wrong. Then, an hour later, he said the corporator wanted the car moved. It is a no-parking zone apparently. All rubbish! As if I don’t know whether it’s a no parking zone or not…’ Gajendra chewed on his bun hungrily. ‘This is rather good. I haven’t eaten it before.’

  Santosh sighed. ‘Did you make a list of everyone who came and went?’

  Gajendra pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Here.’

  Santosh scanned the list. He took a deep breath. ‘Look, you need to be here for some more time. I’ll be back at about half past six. Once it’s dark, it will be easier for me to blend with the surroundings.’

  ‘You want me to wait here,’ Gajendra spluttered. A mouthful of crumbs landed on the table.

  ‘This isn’t a game, Gajendra.’ Santosh stood up and drew himself to his full height. ‘This is official. You are on surveillance duty. So…’

  ‘Inspector Gowda…’ Gajendra began.

  ‘Don’t even think about it. He knows. He is the one who ordered it in the first place. So if you think Inspector Gowda is going to let you go home, forget it.’