by Salil Desai
Surekhabai, who had quickly moved away and picked up the washing batter to protect herself from further assault, surveyed the mess her son had made and knew he was spent. She controlled the urge to wallop him with the batter. “You shameless monster! How dare you attack and abuse your own mother?” she shouted bitterly, her eyes running over the features of the son she had given birth to, loved, and raised—the thick, long hair she had once oiled and combed, the hooked nose and buck teeth which had never seemed ugly to her affectionate gaze, the cauliflower ear which she had kissed so often when other children had teased him about it . . .
Seething at his writhing body and the mess he had created, Surekhabai suddenly became aware of the bundles of cash that had fallen out of his pocket as a result of the struggle. Her rage gave way to alarm and panic. “Where did all this money come from?” she hissed. “What have you been up to?”
Her son was still curled up with pain and his hands were holding his head. Foul words flew out of his mouth.
“Hrithik, you fool! Tell me! Has this money come from the Doshis? Tell me, did you . . . harm them? Did you have anything to do with . . . with . . . what happened to them?”
Hrithik raised himself, shaking and quivering. “You whore, you characterless woman! Are you grieving that the bastard is dead? Did he just make passes at you or did you sleep with him? He’s dead now! Serves him right. He can no longer defile you.”
He struggled to his feet, swaying, and began gathering the bundles of cash, but soon lost his balance and fell over again in a drunken stupor, clutching the money.
A cold dread swept over Surekhabai’s heart. Had her son done the unthinkable? The violence she had just experienced at his hands suddenly made it all so feasible. If a man didn’t have any qualms attacking his mother, would he have demurred in killing someone else?
PSI Motkar’s attention had kept wandering during the drama practice. He was actually thoroughly bored with Walimbe’s directorial histrionics and hysterics as well as the attitudes of all the other amateur actors. He had finally managed to mug up his dialogues and at least deliver them without having to be prompted. His intonation still left much to be desired. Motkar doubted it would get much better, but at least he had got Walimbe off his back.
As the umpteenth rehearsal of one of the scenes in which he was not required commenced, Motkar wondered if he should make a placatory call to Saralkar. They hadn’t talked since his boss had left for Bangalore, fussing and fuming. It was perhaps time to ring him up to find out what his boss had dug up in Bangalore and also update him about what he himself had been doing.
Motkar stepped out of the practice hall and dialled the number, steeling himself up for some taunts, harsh words, and being taken to task. The rings, however, kept passing but the phone remained unanswered. Motkar glanced at his watch. It was past ten. Was it possible that Saralkar had called it a day already? He disconnected and decided he would try again next morning.
Just as he was about to enter the hall, his mobile began ringing. Perhaps his boss was giving a call back, but the caller ID on his screen showed the number of an old police informant, Bajrang Landge.
“Yes, Bajrang.”
“Namaskar, Motkar sahib,” Bajrang greeted him exuberantly. “Got some hot information for you.”
“About?”
“That sketch of the suspect released for the Doshi case.”
“I see. You know who it is?” Motkar asked, his pulse quickening.
“I think it’s a fellow called Hrithik Dhond. Stays in Bakre chawl near Shastrinagar.”
Something stirred in Motkar’s mind. The surname sounded familiar.
“Hrithik Dhond . . . Is he a history sheeter?”
“No, sahib, but I think he was booked last year for rioting and public disorder. No other crime record as far as I know. But given the company he keeps these days, it’s a matter of time before he has one.” Bajrang replied.
“So what does this Hrithik Dhond do for a living?”
“Not much. Odd painting contracts here and there these days. Earlier he worked as a peon, then delivery boy. As I said, spends most of his time with other good-for-nothing guys in the vicinity.”
“Hmm. You are sure it’s him?” Motkar asked.
“Yes, sahib. Pukka information,” Bajrang assured him.
“Okay. Good. Any idea of his current whereabouts?”
“He’s usually here only. Lives with his mother. You want me to confirm tonight? I’ll ask a friend to check if you want,” Bajrang offered. More information, more the remuneration, he knew.
“No. Don’t bother,” Motkar said. He knew it was a task the Kothrud police station could easily do. “Thanks, Bajrang. Keep in touch.”
He hung up and scratched his head. Hrithik Dhond. Where had he heard the surname recently? Was it related to this case or some older one? Then suddenly it came back to him. Dhond was the surname of Surekhabai, the cook of the Doshi and Tambe families. Almost immediately the significance of the tip he had received increased manifold. So the suspect in the sketch was Surekhabai’s son.
Motkar licked his lips in anticipation. There was no time to be lost. He had to get Hrithik Dhond picked up right away or first thing tomorrow morning.
“Motkar,” someone hollered from the hall door. “You are needed for the next scene.”
“Just a minute, I have a call to make,” Motkar replied, busy dialling the number of PSI Sarode. It took several rings before PSI Sarode’s sleepy voice came on the line. “What’s up, Motkar?”
“Sarode, I just got a tip about the sketch suspect. Apparently it’s a fellow called Hrithik Dhond who stays in Bakre chawl. He’s the son of the cook, Surekhabai. I want you to pick him up tomorrow morning from his house. Can you place a watch there tonight?”
“Okay, will do. Not sure whether I have the manpower for a watch tonight but I’ll pick him up tomorrow morning if he’s there in his house,” Sarode assured him.
“Okay, thanks. Just check, he might have a record. I am told he was picked up for rioting or something by you or your colleagues at Kothrud last year.”
“Sure, but it must be some minor offence otherwise I would’ve recognized a goon from my area,” Sarode replied with a yawn.
He hung up and even before Motkar could put the phone back in his pocket an incoming call began flashing and ringing. It was Saralkar. Motkar felt elated his boss wasn’t cold shouldering him. He cast a glance in the direction of the practice hall door, saw no one was waiting to beckon him impatiently, then took Saralkar’s call.
“Hullo, sir. How are you?” Motkar asked, feeling awkward.
“Ah, Motkar, cracked the case, did you?” Saralkar said, his voice booming with unbridled sarcasm.
“No, sir. Just called to brief you and inquire how, er, Bangalore’s treating you,” Motkar said carefully.
“Oh, so you finally found time from your grand drama practice, is it?” Saralkar said without letting up. “Where are you right now?”
Motkar contemplated lying to him for a second. “Just . . . finishing the rehearsal for the day, sir,” he replied clumsily.
“Great! What commitment, Motkar! When you become an acting sensation and someone interviews me for a feature on you, I’ll wax eloquent on how dedicated you were to your art. His job was crime investigation, I’ll say, but acting was his real passion! How’s that for a quote, Motkar? Look how neatly investigation rhymes with passion,” Saralkar spoke in his scathing best.
It riled Motkar but he kept his peace. “Come on, sir, that’s a little harsh,” he replied mildly.
“Okay, so what sweet nothings do you wish me to murmur in your ears, Motkar?”
Motkar ignored the jibe again and quickly began briefing the senior inspector about Dulange and Rangdev, the sketch based on Mrs. Tambe’s description, and the informant’s tip that pointed to Hrithik Dhond.
“I see. Not too bad, Motkar. Grill Dhond properly. Don’t bloody handle him with kid gloves. If he’s a first-timer, I be
t he’ll confess fast. A couple of blows will do the trick. Use Shewale if you have any qualms,” Saralkar advised knowing his subordinate’s distaste for even the mildest form of third degree. “And when are you questioning Rangdev Baba?”
“That’s what I wanted to check with you, sir. Being a god-man and all that, should I go ahead with questioning Rangdev by myself or wait for you to return?”
“Mmm, might be a good idea to wait. Rangdev’s not in the big league really as a god-man but we should be prepared for string pulling and his devotees making a ruckus—that sort of a thing. We’ll do it after I’m back.”
“How’s it going in Bangalore, sir? Any big leads?”
“Lots of interesting information. Let’s see where it takes us. Too much to pass on over phone,” Saralkar replied. “Do one thing, check out with Sanjay Doshi’s bank whether he made Demand Drafts of big amounts in the name of his first wife, Latha Bhupathi. Apparently, he kept sending big sums to her, though she claims he never got in touch.”
“Sure, sir. So when are you going to be back?”
“Depends, Motkar. The officer who investigated the case, Inspector Hegde, is going to be available tomorrow. I’ll know if I have to check anything further only after meeting him. In the meanwhile I’ve decided to get a taste of Bangalore’s nightlife. Don’t keep me from it.”
He called off cheerfully and for a moment left Motkar tickled with disbelief, trying to visualize his boss moving across Bangalore’s famed pubs and having a good time.
“Motkar, what the hell’s wrong with you, man?” Walimbe, the director, screamed at him, hands on his hips, framed in the hall doorway. “Who are you sucking up to this time—your wife or your boss? For God’s sake, man, do you come here to practice or for time pass?’
The normally placid Motkar now flipped his lid. He strode up to Walimbe and said in a voice loud enough for other actors to hear. “Walimbe, you and your play be stuffed, okay! I’m a police officer and I damn well have things to do. You talk to me like that once again and I’ll slap you right here and quit. Understood?”
It stopped Walimbe in his tracks, Motkar was gratified to see.
“Are you okay?” Jyoti’s voice pleasantly filled Saralkar’s ears as he was getting ready to leave for the Bangalore Homicide Squad office the next morning.
“Fine. What’s wrong with me?” he replied jauntily. Of course he didn’t ask her how she was because he knew from experience that women used the question as the perfect pretext to talk about all that was going on in their lives at that time, including boring nuggets from their routines.
“You haven’t called me up at all since you reached Bangalore,” Jyoti said.
“I sent you a text message as soon as I reached, didn’t I?”
“Yes, but it’s been three days . . . I was getting worried.”
“I’ve been busy,” Saralkar replied. He wasn’t about to tell her what a relief it was not to be nagged about the medical tests—part of the reason why he had come to Bangalore.
“Haven’t you finished your work there? When are you coming back?” his wife asked.
“Can’t say. Probably day after tomorrow.”
“Have you been taking the blood pressure tablets without fail?”
“Yes,” Saralkar said a little too assertively, having realized he had forgotten to take it this morning. “Okay, see you, I’ve got to go.”
“Okay. I miss you. Do you miss me?” Jyoti asked softly.
It caught Saralkar off guard. He felt flustered. What was a forty-seven-year-old man like him supposed to reply? Yes like a lovesick teenager or No like a daft male who does not know what’s good for him?
“You-your voice is breaking, Jyoti! We’ll speak later.”
“You are lying. Of course you can hear me and of course you miss me. Bye!” Jyoti laughed. “And take that tablet.”
She called off, leaving Saralkar wondering again whether women had some mysterious third eye. He looked at his watch. It was time to leave.
Half an hour later he sat facing Inspector Hegde, the man who had investigated the Rahul Fernandes murder seven years earlier. Hegde was about six to seven years senior to Saralkar; a dignified officer, dressed impeccably in his uniform. He was clean-shaven, the scant hair on his pate neatly combed. A smile played on his face as if he had come to the conclusion that investigating murder was a philosophically amusing pursuit. But there was also a toughness about him that could suddenly be revealed when the smile switched off. His thick fingers and rugged palm had held Saralkar’s hand in a firm, strong grip when they had shaken hands.
“Ah, Senior Inspector Saralkar, sorry I couldn’t meet you earlier. My daughter’s wedding, you know,” he said with a distinct Kannada twang in his voice. They chatted a bit about this and that—first about Hegde’s daughter and son-in-law and then about their own backgrounds, careers, and cases.
“Okay, tell me. I believe you’ve found my missing murderer, Krishna Bhupathi,” Hegde said, signalling the end of the small talk.
“Yes,” Saralkar replied and quickly summarized all that had happened in Pune and how the trail had led to Bangalore. He also showed Hegde the photographs of Sanjay Doshi alias Krishna Bhupathi’s body which the latter carefully examined.
“It’s him, all right. I guess the forensic data has also been matched, hasn’t it?” Hegde observed.
“Yes, it has.”
Hegde handed back the photos. “The bugger eluded the law for seven years,” he said, almost as if he were admiring Bhupathi’s skills. “And now he’s managed to cheat justice forever.”
“True. Were you sure of his guilt in Rahul Fernandes’ murder?” Saralkar asked.
“Well, you’ve read my case papers. Bhupathi confessed almost straightaway after we nabbed him that he and Shaunak Sodhi had done it.”
“But he retracted the confession later and said that he’d done it under duress. I understand you couldn’t find sufficient corroborative evidence and so the charge sheet could not be filed and he was let out on bail,” Saralkar said, knowing well no police officer liked being reminded of failure.
Hegde made a face. “That does not mean the bugger didn’t do it or otherwise why did he abscond as soon as he was out on bail? Because he knew some day we would get the evidence to nail him and his accomplice Shaunak Sodhi, who had already run away immediately after the incident.”
He paused and shook his head as if ruing a lost opportunity. “And if I had got a tip off that Bhupathi was living in Pune with a fake identity, I would’ve promptly nabbed him and got him chargesheeted and tried with the fresh evidence I had.”
“Fresh evidence against Krishna Bhupathi for Rahul Fernandes’ murder?” Saralkar asked, sitting up alert.
“Yes, against both him and Sodhi,” Hegde asserted.
Saralkar frowned. “But I saw no mention of any fresh evidence in the files, unless I missed something. All that you had was the blood-stained pullover, Bhupathi’s confession, call records that all three had been together that night, statements of witnesses who had seen them leave the bar where they had dined together, right? Since you hadn’t been able to find Rahul Fernandes’ body and Bhupathi had retracted his confession, there was nothing except circumstantial evidence.”
It was Hegde’s turn to look mystified. “That was in 2008. Fernandes’ body was found in 2013. Didn’t Pai give you that update and related documents?”
“No! I haven’t seen any of that. Why don’t you tell me,” Saralkar said, glad he hadn’t left Bangalore without meeting Hegde.
“Well . . . that is pretty tardy of Pai,” Hegde said with annoyance. “Anyway I am sure you already know that Bhupathi told us he and Sodhi dismembered Fernandes’ body and buried the torso and limbs somewhere off the Mysore highway, deep into the woods, and threw his head amidst the valleys on the hill road from Mysore to Mercara. We took Bhupathi along to search and locate the exact spot where they had buried the body. He said it had been late at night and he had been drunk and scared o
f Sodhi. He showed us where they had turned off the highway onto a smaller road but then simply couldn’t locate the spot. We tried everything—threatening, cajoling even offering to make him a prosecution witness if he helped us recover the body. But he kept pleading he just couldn’t remember where exactly they had buried it. We conducted a search operation for two days, combed the surrounding countryside but nothing came off it. We alerted all police stations and posts in the area and hoped that someone from the nearby villages would stumble upon the remains.
‘‘Many times, as you know, even animals dig up shallow graves. But no luck. We grilled Bhupathi again, carried out another search. No results again, so we just didn’t have a body. In fact I began wondering if Bhupathi was misleading us about the area and whether Sodhi and he had dumped Fernandes’ corpse elsewhere.”
“I see. So how and where did you find it in 2013?”
“Well, Bhupathi had led us to the right area, but either deliberately or erroneously he had taken us much farther ahead and that too along the wrong road. After turning off the highway, a few kilometres ahead, the road bifurcated once again. While the main road continued straight ahead, another smaller road forked left. It was in a wooded area off that road that Fernandes’ body was found in 2013 by a developer who had started a farmhouse scheme there. He immediately called in the local police when his site workers found a headless skeleton and remains. Local police called us, because one of the constables posted there remembered the search.”
“But how did you establish the identity of Fernandes? DNA testing or something?” Saralkar asked, and even as he said it he remembered that Sherly Fernandes had told him Rahul had had no kin.
Inspector Hegde confirmed the fact. “No, Fernandes didn’t have any family apart from his wife, so DNA testing was out of question. But there was his watch and his smashed mobile phone with the body. The SIM card had been thrown away but the IMEI number of the phone matched.”
“So was Fernandes’ wife informed and did she come for the identification?”