by Monabi Mitra
‘Slow down, Mistry. This is not a Formula One racetrack. Turn the car around and take me to Broad Street. Number 21.’
Mistry, who had been engaged in a battle for road space with a large van carrying speakers and amplifiers, muttered what sounded like ‘says who’ under his breath and meekly stopped at a break in the median divider to make a U-turn.
Biswas was bellowing into his mobile phone when Bikram arrived. Though his heart sank at this unwelcome visitor from Crime Branch who was known to be prickly in manner and maddeningly fastidious about procedure, he put on a brave face and saluted. He gave Bikram a quick recap of events and padded behind him as the DSP stared at the corpses of man and dogs. Monica Sarkar had been sent off to the thana to lodge an F.I.R, and Bikram was alone with Biswas when a constable entered the room.
‘We’ve found a knife in a dark corner of the passage, sir. It’s got blood stains on it,’ he informed with an air of discovery.
Bikram and Biswas went out to the entrance passageway and bent down to look at the knife. It was sharp and big, like the ones bakers use for cutting loaves, and had a wooden handle. The crook at its sharp end was now smeared with a red and pink mess.
Beyond the gate stood Chotu and a dozen of the neighbourhood curious, savouring the unexpected excitement. On a hunch, Bikram surveyed the front door, paying special attention to the lock. The door looked clean and the lock intact, so forensics would have to check for a forced entry and a possible duplicate key.
‘What do you think of it?’ asked Bikram.
‘It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen,’ said Biswas forlornly. ‘A door opens, a killer enters, perhaps unknown to the master of the house, who sat placidly watching TV. The obvious thing would have been to shoot the man if he wanted him dead. Instead, the killer gives him an injection and most arbitrarily uses his gun on the dog, after which he tries to leave, is attacked by the other dog which has somehow freed itself from the room in which it had been locked, kills the second one also, spends time mutilating it, wipes the knife free of fingerprints, surely, tosses it into a dark recess of the passage on his way out, to a car, or to hail a cab, or to take a bus, or what?’
‘If the second dog escaped from the room in which it was locked, the other dogs would also have come out,’ Bikram said, frowning at the mutilated corpse of the dog in the dining room.
The Broad Street police station officer looked like he was about to give an angry shrug but hastily converted it into a neck exercise for a tired shoulder. ‘Perhaps the dead man had let it out earlier, for a . . . a biscuit or something,’ he argued.
‘Would you get up from watching the evening news to feed a dog a biscuit? After it has been fed its customary rice and meat? Be imaginative! More likely that the dog was nervous and kept scratching and pawing at the door to be set free. Was cowering under the bed when the crackers began and only came out when the killer fired at its comrade,’ Bikram said conclusively.
The officer stared at the door in despair. Would forensics never come and free him from this nonsense about dead dogs and a man poisoned with a syringe!
Bikram was staring at the knife with fierce concentration and the silence had turned uncomfortable. After thirty seconds he turned towards the door. ‘I wish you the best of luck,’ he said.
‘Will you be taking over the investigation, sir?’ quavered Biswas as Bikram slipped into the Sumo.
‘Who knows? Probably not. I’m off to Murshidabad for recruitment duty.’ Bikram returned the salute and the car shot off into the night like a Diwali rocket.
Five minutes later, the forensics doctor, Dr Ashok Singhal, arrived. He was a balding, crusty-looking man who made no secret of his annoyance. ‘You owe me one for calling me out on a night like this,’ he said sulkily and proceeded to look discontentedly about him. ‘Where’s the body? What on earth . . .’
The officer grinned to himself. Dr Singhal had almost slipped on the corpse of the first dead dog in the dining room. ‘There’s another one beside the dead man,’ he said helpfully.
‘What! Is this some kind of a vulgar joke?’ The doctor wrinkled his nose at the body of Brownie splayed near the sofa and knelt down beside the dead man. He pulled out a pair of gloves.
After a while, he stood up.
‘You were unlucky to have the dogs killed, or you could have passed it off as suicide. A most unusual method, though. Going by the rope and the syringe and the empty vial, we can safely say that this man has been killed by an overdose of Xylazine, a drug commonly used for sedation of animals. Is this place some sort of veterinary clinic?’
‘There are three other bottles in another room, with names like—’ here Biswas looked down at his notebook where he had scribbled something with his ballpoint pen, ‘acepromazine and Xylazine and ketamine.’
Dr Singhal looked distressed.
‘All these are sedatives and anaesthetics, while ketamine is further abused as a psychotropic drug! How come these are stored in an ordinary household? Without meaning to sound nasty, I promise you a troublesome investigation. And a very excited press!’ Then he paused and looked around. ‘I saw a woman alighting from a thana car as I came in. She was weeping inconsolably. Who is she?’ he asked.
‘His wife.’ The officer looked at him gloomily and continued, ‘She has an alibi, till now at least. She was away at a friend’s house and returned only around eleven-thirty.’
Singhal shook his head.
‘No, this man had been dead before that. Between eight and nine, I would say. Bad luck! Still, you should take her in for questioning. She might have hired someone else and stepped nimbly out of the way.’
‘I hope so,’ said Biswas fervently.
2
‘The police, in the center of the maelstrom, are the helpless tools—and victims . . .’
Inspector General of Police Prem Gupta stood still in the dewy morning and looked straight ahead. Around him were fifty faces, all staring stiffly into the distance. Someone was reading out the names of all the Indian policemen killed in the line of duty over the past year, as was customary at the Commemoration Day parade. To Prem Gupta the list seemed endless. More and more of us dying every day, with few to mourn us save ourselves, he thought. The voice droned on and the names tumbled out as Prem Gupta thought of this great ritualistic mourning taking place simultaneously at police parade grounds all over the country every year on the 21st of October. What kind of an impact would it have on a force already beleaguered? A dragonfly had alighted on the crest of the officer in front and Prem Gupta was momentarily distracted by its gossamer wings trembling on a curved sword and baton. A fragile existence, as airy and ephemeral as life itself, he thought with a sigh.
Ten paces behind Prem Gupta stood Deputy Inspector General of Police, Crime Branch, Toofan Kumar. Though his belt and epaulettes were polished to perfection and his moustache was immaculately trimmed, there was a frown on his face. Would time never pass and his holiday to Australia never begin! Toofan Kumar went over his travel arrangements and wondered whom he could leave in charge of his post. Someone quiet and meek, who would defer all decisions, and wait for him to rejoin work. The voice over the microphone quavered a little under the strain of a hundred names as Toofan Kumar bit his lip in a vexed manner, shifted his right hand slightly and scratched his nose. To a man who was indifferent to mortality and martyrdom, it seemed as if the catalogue of dead policemen was interminable.
Across the city, Biswas awoke at nine o’clock and cursed the heat. In spite of the hour the road outside his house was quiet. The half-melted candles on his bedroom windowsill had not been cleaned and looked melancholy against the morning sun. The officer yawned as he brushed his teeth and washed his face, then stood before a calendar with a picture of Lord Venkateshwara and prayed. Take the case away from me and my PS and give it to Homicide Squad, he fervently mouthed. As he prayed, his head swam a little and he took it as a good omen. He turned on the television.
There was a chance his prayer might
be answered. The TV channels had been quick to pick up the news and had found nothing more satisfying than the spicing up of a post-Diwali breakfast table with murder. The dead dogs had only made it more sensational. Biswas watched shots of himself and listened to the details he had supplied, marvelling at the embellished form in which the news was now being presented. There were now six dead dogs with their entrails scattered all over the house. Monica Sarkar appeared as a gangster’s moll with a kinky fetish, who had ravaged the neighbourhood with her pack of murderous pets. The neighbours were either portrayed as bloodthirsty ogres or honest, hard-working, middle-class families living in continual fear of their lives. Two channels had briefly shown Bikram Chatterjee, with his handsome face and famous grey eyes, climbing elegantly into his car with Biswas making a clumsy salute and saying something as the car drove off. ‘Will this experienced officer be called in to clear up the case?’ wondered the voice-over as Biswas angrily changed channels. Huh! Always floating into photographs and getting all the publicity, while the real hard work was done by lesser mortals like the local thana cops!
Monica Sarkar had been interviewed off and on, all through the night and the following morning, being questioned with a vengeance. She stuck to her claim that she knew of no one who might want to kill her husband. The only other persons with access to their house were the maid and a man called Bishu, who helped out with the dogs and was also a dog handler, fortuitously living in a distant town. The maid was being interviewed. Many telephone calls later a bedraggled constable announced that Bishu had been rounded up and, with some luck, would be here soon. Monica Sarkar’s friends had confirmed that she had been faithfully engaged in the preparations for Kali puja from four in the evening till late at night. If only she had slipped out and somebody had seen her! His men would have to get started on tracking witnesses today. And getting the autopsy report! And figuring out what kind of a wife Monica Sarkar was and if she was desperate to gain something by her husband’s exit. What exactly did the dead man do for a living? And above all, why this army of dogs? Did they have something to conceal or was it really just their love for animals? The officer shivered in disgust. He hated dogs—ever since they had bitten his mother twenty- five years ago and she had to be given injections in her stomach muscles. Oh Lord Venkateshwara! Take this one away, leave me to discharge my law-violation duties and supervise American Embassy pickets or take deputations from political parties or provide security to cricket stars!
* * *
The parade had ended, but a battle was still being fought amongst the Crime Branch officers. A battle that would seal fates and decide the destinies of half a dozen people.
Early that morning Toofan Kumar, fiddling over his glass of raw gourd juice, had listened to the English news first and managed to haltingly make sense of two Bengali channels. Prem Gupta had also heard the seven o’clock news and looked thoughtfully ahead. The television journalists had whetted appetites. When the bugle rang out The Last Post Prem Gupta had made up his mind. He would tell Toofan all about it at the end of the parade, he thought.
After the parade they began walking together.
‘How are you Toofan? How bad is work?’
‘As challenging as ever, sir.’
All very cordial.
‘Did you watch the news on TV?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘What did you think about the Broad Street murder?’
‘Work of a Diwali drunk, most possibly. Had too much to drink, found an open door and finished the man off. Shot the dogs who had tried to defend their master.’
‘Do Diwali drunks carry veterinary injections in their pockets? Didn’t the Control Room inform you?’
‘I didn’t know it was a veterinary injection, sir. The channels talked of some highly toxic poison.’
‘Also, the wife was scheduled to go out that evening. The information might have been known to person or persons unknown. The crime could have been premeditated.’
‘Sir.’
A note of hostility had crept into the cordiality. Toofan Kumar braced himself for the next thrust.
‘So what do you say to our taking over the case?’
Toofan Kumar wanted to say, best not to get involved in cases that can’t have a snappy conclusion. Moreover, this looked like classic homicide, in which case investigation would be an albatross around any neck! Instead, he said in a small voice, ‘Sir.’
‘We are Crime Branch after all!’
‘Yes, but we can’t investigate the death of two mongrels on Diwali night,’ said Toofan Kumar peevishly.
‘What about the dead man?’
‘Oh yes, that slipped my mind. The man may have been drunk and killed his dogs, then poisoned himself in a fit of remorse.’
‘Really, Toofan. You’ve been watching too many crime serials on TV lately!’ Prem Gupta sounded amused.
Toofan Kumar gazed unhappily at the sky and slapped at an imaginary mosquito that was stinging his left hand. He knew what was coming next.
‘Is Bikram out on recruitment duty?’ The inspector general’s voice became apologetic, as if he knew what Toofan Kumar’s reaction would be to the utterance of the name.
Thankfully the bugger was! Toofan Kumar suppressed his rage and said meekly that Bikram was in Murshidabad and that Ashu Das was looking after his charge. Thank God for small mercies! Ashu Das could be bullied into fabricating evidence and doing exactly what Toofan Kumar wanted him to do.
‘Oh!’
Toofan Kumar could feel the tremendous disappointment of his boss! Good!
‘Very well, we’ll begin without him. Ask your man to contact the PS and start work tomorrow morning.’
‘As you say, sir.’
‘What are your feelings on dogs, Toofan?’
‘Weird, to keep so many such monsters hanging about the house. My son had forced us to keep one when we were in north Bengal and the animal made our life miserable. We kept him in a kennel in the backyard and he yelped his head off all night. I can’t imagine why people would want to keep ten of them in the house.’
‘I had asked your opinion on dogs in general, Toofan.’
The inspector general sounded hurt.
Oh, what a faux pas! Toofan Kumar suddenly remembered! The inspector general was keen on gardening, dogs and horses. He had a whippet and a cocker spaniel which he sent to dog shows. Toofan Kumar had been slobbered upon by the latter on visits to the inspector general’s house parties, while its master had looked indulgently on.
‘Of course, sir, breed dogs are different, I mean, the ones here were all strays.’
‘Ye—es.’ The inspector general sounded distant as he walked away.
* * *
Bikram Chatterjee was watching 3534 aspiring constables stumble along a ruined Police Line Stadium when his phone rang. There had actually been a little over 6000 applications for the post of 120 police constables, but half had failed the measurement test and were now sitting outside, weeping.
He pressed the button and heard men shouting in muffled voices at the other end as furniture thumped and things clattered. He frowned.
‘Hello? Hello?’
Loud measured noises as of footsteps filled his ear, along with a sudden burst of raucous music. It was his phone. He looked at the caller identification which said that it was Shona calling. He called her name but there was no answer and the line got disconnected.
The runners were scattered along the stadium like balls in a bowling den, whizzing, flashing, tottering, bumping and occasionally collapsing. Whenever someone fell, two constables would rush up with pouches of water and try to help him up and free the field, but the failed candidate usually burst into tears and sat sobbing as his last chance of getting a government job was gone with the wind. Bikram watched one underfed village boy being half led, half dragged away from the field and sighed. Then he looked at his watch—it was twelve-thirty, and rang her up.
‘Well?’
‘How did you know I was thinki
ng of you?’
‘I got a missed call from you just now.’
‘That’s funny! I hadn’t rung you up. The phone must have dialled your number by itself by mistake.’
‘All right then, do you still want to talk to me or am I just a wrong number?’
‘I do, just a sec . . .’
There was the sound of a door being shut and then Shona’s voice, sounding unreal and hollow, as if from a closed space, came again.
‘I’ve been meaning to call you but didn’t get a chance. Do you know about the producer who was killed on Diwali night? Poisoned! That’s what they’ve been jabbering about here ever since I came.’
‘I haven’t watched the news, Shona. I was in a car all night. Is this the Broad Street murder? What was his name?’
‘Piloo Adhikary. But I’ve never worked for him. He was just beginning to produce films and put his money on all the low- grade ones with terrible titles like The Last Hour and Sixer, all starring newcomers from suburban colleges. Do you think your leave will be cancelled? He was killed within city limits and the Crime Branch may be called in.’
‘I am not on leave, Shona. I am on duty, recruiting constables and trying to make policemen out of peasants who haven’t a chance elsewhere. And what if I had taken leave and it was cancelled? What difference would it make? You haven’t had a spot of time for me this last month.’
‘We’ve been through this before. I did tell you I would be very busy, Bikram, and you can’t blame me for that! And you have been especially rude in refusing my offer of a Diwali dinner. You went off on this damned recruitment a day early, just to prove a point. Why did you scuttle off so soon?’
‘I had to go. Also, I went to the site of the murder on my way here and that was more important.’
‘Oh yes. You had time to check out homicide scenes on Diwali night but no time for me.’
‘In a way, yes. To escape from your hordes of glamorous friends who appeared out of the blue and settled down in your flat to stare at me. Definitely not worth wasting a Diwali night over. In any case, I got to know about the murder later, while I was already on my way to Murshidabad and stopped by just on the spur of the moment.’