Patang

by Chattopadhyay, Bhaskar

  For the next 10 minutes or so she waited patiently, peeping around the corner every now and then. At last, her perseverance paid off. She heard a phone ring – a nice, catchy Nepalese song for a ringtone – and peeped around the corner. The guard was on the phone! After a few seconds, the guard, lost in his conversation, the manner of which seemed extremely flirtatious to her, wandered out of sight, scratching his groin ferociously as he went. Ananya immediately dashed towards the gate and climbed over it on to the narrow passage guarded by iron rails on both sides. Just as she hid behind an iron girder, the guard appeared again, staring at his phone with a content expression on his face, and resumed his position.

  Sighing with relief, she walked up three steps to reach the metal platform and looked up. This is crazy, she thought. There was no way she could do it. But then she bit her lips and took a deep breath. If she could pull this off, it would be a killer scoop! She smiled at her own pun, looked at the rickety elevator in front of her, made up her mind and placed her palm on its gate.

  ‘Breaking into a crime scene is a crime in itself.’ A voice boomed from behind, startling the living daylights out of her. She gasped and turned around.

  There were thick girders supporting the entire structure – squarish pillars of iron and rivets. Even in broad daylight, there were parts of the base where the sun didn’t reach. The man came out of one such dark nook and stepped into the light. He was quite tall and broad-shouldered, but looked haggard and exhausted. He was wearing a faded white shirt, a pair of jeans and sports shoes.

  Rathod looked at the girl standing in front of him for a few seconds. She was young and attractive. One could say her eyes were very pretty. For some reason, he felt as though she once had long hair. She didn’t anymore, though, her hair now carelessly tied in a little bun near the nape of her neck. She was looking at him intently.

  ‘Who are you?’ Rathod asked, adopting a stern expression.

  Ananya was trying to think on her feet. The man in front of her had a towering personality with a voice to match. What could she possibly say that could justify her presence at the base of the Central Network Tower in the middle of a rainy afternoon?

  ‘You’re from the media, aren’t you?’ asked Rathod. The girl had ‘aspiring journalist’ written all over her. A notebook peeped out of her purse and it looked like a pen was permanently lodged in between her slender fingers.

  Ananya realized she was in deep shit. Even people from the media had boundaries. She had just hopped over one.

  ‘Do you know how much trouble you could be in?’ Rathod continued, making his scary eyes look even scarier.

  From long experience, not as a journalist but as a girl who grew up in a small town amid a hundred restrictions, Ananya knew that when someone asked her that specific question there was usually not much trouble that she could be in. Her jaw set in defiance, she said, ‘And who might you be?’

  ‘Police,’ Rathod said promptly.

  ‘Really? May I see some ID?’ Ananya said, as she crossed her hands over her chest, primarily to steady them. Her heart beat faster than ever, but she knew that this was the only path she could take now.

  Rathod looked at the girl with some interest. She had clenched her teeth, and her sharp, feminine jaw looking beautifully chiselled. The stern look that she was trying to bring to her eyes was genuine. She was the kind of girl who would say that she wasn’t afraid even if she was. Defiance against all odds – such was sure to be her nature.

  ‘Hey you!’ Rathod clicked his fingers and called out to the security guard. ‘Come here and escort this woman out.’

  As the guard came running towards them, wondering how on earth the woman had managed to get inside and how deep a pile of shit he himself was in, Ananya turned to Rathod and shouted, ‘Why don’t you show me your ID, huh?’ Rathod stepped into the service elevator, locked its gate securely and took out a key that the head of security had given him. He inserted the key into a slot and turned it. The motor revved up and he hit a specific button. As the rickety lift went up, he couldn’t help but look down at the young girl once more, who continued to fume. ‘He is not a policeman, and don’t touch me with those hands,’ Rathod heard her say to the guard, who was trying his best to escort the stupid memsahib out decently.

  The ride up seemed virtually endless, and every single time the rusty elevator creaked, Rathod felt he was about to be hurtled into an abyss. As the lift reached the top of the tower and came to a jolting stop, Rathod thanked his stars, unlatched the gate and stepped onto the metal gangway. He walked up to the circular platform carefully and looked around.

  For a few minutes, he acclimatized himself to the dizzying height and the strong winds. Then he started scoping out the place. What a nightmare it would have been for the forensics team – with the rain and all! Though judging by the way the murder was committed, Rathod doubted if the killer would have left any prints. No, this man seemed quite methodical. Sick, perhaps, but definitely not a loony. In fact, from the way the letters were written, the specific words that were used, the excessive repetitions, he would think that the letters were deliberately crafted to give the impression that the killer was deranged.

  For the next half hour or so, Rathod examined the place thoroughly, repeatedly referring to a few photographs that were taken after the body was discovered. At one spot diametrically opposite to where the body was found, he found a very tiny, almost unnoticeable piece of worn-out fabric lodged in a sharply jutting screw. He went on his knees and examined the fabric carefully for some time. At first glance, it looked black in colour, but on careful observation Rathod realized it was a piece of blue denim, which now looked black because it was wet and weathered. Very carefully, with the help of a pair of tweezers, he placed the piece of denim in a small celophane pouch and zipped it. He continued to scan the area carefully, stooping here, going down on his knees there, examining the walls of the central pillar and covering the area in sweeping concentric circles, gradually and systematically moving outwards till he reached the railing.

  Finally, he sat down with his back against the railing on the eastern side and looked up at the antenna from which the corpse of Sukhdeo Saran had been found hanging. For several minutes, Rathod kept staring at the antenna, unperturbed by the rain. To someone watching him, it would almost seem like he was consciously soaking in the environment so that he could refer to it later. He had opened the windows of his mind to let the atmosphere of the place in – the sights, sounds, smells…even the touch of the rain lashing at his face. He absorbed everything like a sheet of blotting paper.

  As he looked at the pole from which the body was hung, he visualized the hanging corpse swaying in the strong winds. ‘Just like a kite!’ he whispered to himself as he remembered Uday Singh’s words.

  A frown appeared on his forehead. How did the killer hang the victim from that metallic pole up there? The pole was easily 30 feet higher than the circular walkway platform. And there was no way someone could have climbed it, because there was no foothold. No carves, no edges, no niches, just a smooth metallic pillar all the way up.

  Rathod rose to his feet and began examining the pole from several angles. Soon, he realized that the killer had not gone up there at all. He had first tied the victim’s hands behind his back, and perhaps gagged him as well. He had then probably tied his victim’s feet together at the end of a long rope, and flung the other end of the rope over the metallic pole. After that, all that the killer would have had to do was to hoist the body of the victim to a height of his liking by pulling down at the free end of the rope, just like one pulls a bucket of water out of a well using a pulley. But that would mean tying the free end of the rope to something to ensure that the weight of the body did not drag the rope back over the pole. Rathod quickly looked at the photographs again. No, the rope wasn’t tied to anything at the platform level. It was tied directly to the pole. It almost seemed like the victim was hanged, execution-style, from someone standing on top of the pole. Impo
ssible! How had the killer done it?

  The more Rathod looked at the photographs and the metallic pole now hovering ominously over his head, the more confused he got. How on earth was the other end of the rope tied to the pole up there?

  Rathod’s eyes were fixed on one specific photograph, and he examined it closely. It was a blurry image, but having worked closely with Mumbai Police for several years now, Rathod was in the habit of making do with whatever little resources were at his disposal. As he strained his eyes and focussed on the metallic pole in the photograph, two words escaped his lips almost in a whisper:

  ‘Axle Hitch!’

  8

  ‘Do your employees have access to the terrace?’ Rathod asked as he looked around. He stood on the terrace of the McArthur building under his umbrella. The rain showed absolutely no sign of relenting.

  ‘Well, no, it seems there was a technical glitch. We have rectified it since then,’ said the man to whom the question had been addressed.

  Rathod liked that the man owned up to his mistake. Retired colonel, now chief security officer (CSO) of McArthur’s India business, he was a no-nonsense man who knew that the best thing to do under these circumstances was to cooperate with the police.

  ‘What were you two doing here?’ Rathod turned around and asked in a straightforward manner.

  The young fellow stole a furtive glance at the girl standing at a distance. Neither of them responded. The CSO cast them an admonishing look. The decision had already been made – they were to be fired after the dust settled.

  ‘Yes?’ Rathod rudely insisted on an answer.

  ‘We…we came here for…a smoke.’ The boy was nervous but trying his best to summon an air of defiance.

  ‘In the middle of a rainy night?’ asked Rathod in a mocking tone. ‘Were you able to light your cigar?’

  The CSO rubbed his nose and tried to maintain a grave face, even as a chuckle tried to find its way out. The boy turned crimson. He lifted a finger and retorted, ‘Look here, sir, you have no right…’

  ‘What?’ Rathod’s voice rose several decibels as he took a few threatening steps towards the kid. ‘I couldn’t hear you properly. You were saying something about my rights? Why don’t we bring in her husband and let him ask you questions instead, huh?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, shut up, Karan!’ screamed the girl.

  Karan looked at Reena with bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Mr Grover,’ the CSO said gravely, ‘it is in your’s and Mrs Sharma’s best interest that you cooperate with the police.’

  ‘I’m willing to cooperate in any way, sir.’ The girl took a few steps towards Rathod.

  Rathod observed her closely. She was clearly scared, but it was also obvious that she was the smarter of the two.

  ‘Who found the body?’ Rathod asked.

  ‘We…both did, sir,’ Reena replied.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘We were…well, we were here, s-standing under this tank, and I suddenly saw a lot of blood on Karan. He said he wasn’t hurt, so we…looked up and saw the body tied to the base of the tank…up there – ’ she pointed at the overhead tank.

  Rathod looked at the tank and said, ‘What did you do then?’

  ‘We immediately went downstairs and spoke to our team lead, who informed office security.’

  ‘Correction, Mrs Sharma,’ the CSO said. ‘You spoke to your team lead a good hour after you reached your desk. Other members of your team have said that you seemed most distressed and even tried to leave the building in the middle of the night, which they repeatedly advised you against. Your team lead was then called to your cubicle and you…broke down and reported the body to him.’

  The girl gripped her umbrella tightly and hung her head. Rathod exchanged glances with the CSO, then walked up to the tank and examined its base carefully. The forensics team had told him there had been a pool of blood below the tank, and its outline was visible even now.

  ‘Did you see the body?’

  ‘Only briefly…and it was quite dark…’ Reena whimpered.

  ‘Describe it for me.’

  Reena swallowed hard and remained silent for a few seconds. Then she said, ‘It was ghastly…ghastly…one of his legs was missing…’

  ‘The right one,’ Karan chimed in.

  ‘And an arm too…’

  ‘The left arm,’ Karan said, ‘just below the elbow.’

  ‘Will you shut up for one second?’ Reena screamed at Karan.

  ‘What? I just want to help, okay?’ Karan yelled back.

  ‘All right, everybody calm down,’ Rathod said. ‘Please continue,’ he said to Reena.

  ‘…and…and there were chunks of…f-f-flesh…that had been…t-taken off…’ Reena whimpered.

  ‘Was it hanging from a rope, the body?’ Rathod asked Karan, sparing the trembling woman any more trouble.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there were two parallel ropes tied from one end of the base to the other, and he was…sort of…caught in them.’ Then, as an afterthought, he murmured to himself, ‘Just like a kite!’

  Rathod’s sharp ears caught the words and he swivelled around to look at the young man. He had hung his head and was fidgeting with the button of his umbrella. The CSO watched Rathod stare at the young man for a long time with a deep frown on his forehead. Finally, Karan looked up and stared blankly at everyone’s faces in turn. ‘Wh-what?’ He fumbled, sounding confused. ‘What did I say now?’

  Rathod said nothing. Instead, he watched the kid closely for tell-tale signs, but didn’t seem to find any. The CSO waited patiently and, after sometime, Rathod finally broke eye contact with the young man. He asked both of them to not leave the city without informing the police and then dismissed them. He turned to the CSO and asked, ‘How long has the boy been working for you?’

  ‘Mr Grover? I’ll need to check for the exact tenure. We can share his records with you, if required.’

  ‘Hmm…is there any way an outsider could have come up to the terrace unnoticed?’

  The colonel thought for a few moments and said, ‘There’s only one way. There’s a service elevator towards the back of the building that isn’t under surveillance. If someone were to gain access to it somehow, he would be able to ride it all the way up to the twelfth floor, from where it’s just one flight up the stairs to the terrace.’

  ‘And the access door had a glitch?’ Rathod asked.

  ‘Yes,’ the colonel admitted calmly.

  ‘Hmm…I’m going to need the security cam feeds from all around the premises.’

  ‘We have already made copies and handed them over to the police.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘But, Mr Rathod, what I don’t understand is, how did the killer bypass security at the main gate, go to the back of the building and get into the elevator? There are several security guards patrolling the campus, especially at night. Plus, the service elevator needs an access card to work. How did the killer operate the elevator?’

  Rathod didn’t respond. He didn’t have the answers to those questions just yet. In fact, he didn’t have answers to several questions yet. For instance, in the letter, the killer had written that the body of the second victim would be found ‘caught somewhere high up, near a place where dull boys only work and work and work, and do not play’. Rathod found one of the words in the letter quite curious. Why did the killer say that the body would be found near a place where dull boys worked? Why hadn’t he use the word ‘at’? If he was referring to the office building as the place where dull boys worked and never played, then the use of that specific preposition made no sense.

  Rathod looked around the terrace, unsure of what his next step should be. Then he walked up to the edge on the eastern side and looked down at the sprawling parking lot below. Hundreds of cars stood waiting in the rain. After a few seconds, he started walking along the edge, skirting the entire area, closely observing the neighbourhood as the CSO watched him patiently. As Rathod came to the southern side of the terrace, h
e slowed down and finally came to a halt.

  ‘What is that?’ he pointed towards an open area in the adjacent plot.

  ‘That’s a school – St. Joseph’s Boys.’

  ‘St. Joseph’s? Not St. Xavier’s?’

  ‘No, St. Joseph’s. It’s a pretty old school.’

  Rathod frowned. The CSO found him staring into the void, lost in thought while muttering to himself. After almost a minute, Rathod asked in an excited voice, ‘Isn’t that run by Jesuits?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure about that…perhaps…’

  Rathod seemed like he had found a ray of light in the dark. He thanked the CSO and left the McArthur office. As he drove through the streets, he dialled a number.

  ‘Wagle, I want to see the security cam feeds for the McArthur building, along with the company’s employee records. I also want the records of all students who have passed out of St. Joseph’s Boys in Vikhroli…yes, the one next to the McArthur building. And find out if Father Patton ever worked for that school in the past…no, in any capacity…go back several years if you have to. Yes, I’m going to Sukhdeo Saran’s office.’

  9

  ‘Well, I have 15 minutes, what have you got?’ Mule asked, sitting back in his chair as he glanced at his watch.

  Rathod stood against a white board that had several post-its stuck on it. He began with a confession. ‘Sir, I was wrong, right from the beginning.’

  ‘How so?’ Mule asked patiently.

  ‘The place where dull boys only work and work and don’t play is not an office, sir, it’s a school. The killer was referring to the St. Joseph’s Boys School in Vikhroli, which is right next to the McArthur building. Several years ago, Father Patton used to be a teacher in St. Joseph’s. Later, he was transferred to St. Xavier’s in Bandra, where he rose through the ranks and became the principal. I have interrogated several staff members and learnt that, several years ago, Father Patton was extremely popular among students and teachers alike, and he was responsible for all the sports and games-related activities in the school. But for some reason the twice-a-week sports and games class was cancelled.’