by Vaseem Khan
The anthropologist had flown in from New Delhi that morning.
Homi, in his search for expert advice, had alighted on Coin’s profile, and then, to his delight, discovered that he was already in India for a research meeting at the Jawaharlal Nehru University.
The pair chatted for a while, before Homi signalled to his assistant, Rohit, who had been roped into manning the video camera, and was slumped behind it in his bottle-green scrubs like the eternal bridesmaid.
Homi swivelled to face the camera, coughed ostentatiously, and began: ‘My name is Dr Homi Contractor, Chair of the College of Cardiac Physicians and Surgeons of Mumbai. I am joined at the Sahar Hospital in Mumbai by Dr Decker Coin, Head of the Forensic Anthropology Research Group at Griffith University in Australia. Dr Coin is a recognised expert in the identification of human remains and has worked extensively with the Australian Defence Force to identify recovered servicemen. Dr Coin will assist me as I attempt to use a technique known as forensic facial reconstruction in order to aid in the identification of these two cadavers’ – he waved at the autopsy tables – ‘Unnamed Male 1 and Unnamed Female 1. This will be the first time such a technique has been employed in India. The bodies have been interred for a period of less than ninety days, but, due to the ambient environment, and the poor construction of the burial caskets – both of which appear to have been breached by micro-organisms – we find them in a relatively advanced state of decomposition. The victims died from close-range gunshot wounds to the head, and their bodies were subsequently immolated using a high-temperature accelerant. No identifying artefacts were discovered on the cadavers, or at the scene. At the request of the Brihanmumbai police service the bodies have been exhumed in order to apply this technique to their identification. I will now ask Dr Coin to explain the process.’
Coin’s voice sailed forth authoritatively. ‘Forensic facial reconstruction is the process of recreating the face of an individual from their skeletal remains through an amalgamation of forensic science, anthropology, anatomical sciences and artistry. The process is somewhat controversial because it does not uphold the usual standards of legal admissibility for expert witness testimony. The subjectivity involved in the method means that reconstructions of the same set of remains by different forensic experts vary. Nevertheless, the technique has gained significant traction in the past few years as the methodological underpinnings of the process continue to be advanced.’
‘What language is he speaking?’ muttered Sheriwal. ‘These academic types love the sound of their own voices. I wonder if a well-placed bullet in the foot would speed him along.’
Chopra gave her a sideways look.
‘It was a joke,’ she said, with a fleshless grin.
Coin continued with his explanation. ‘In this instance the sex, age and race of the individuals have already been ascertained through traditional forensic anthropological techniques, permitting us to utilise the three-dimensional clay reconstruction method popularised by Taylor and Angel.’ He turned to the bodies and pointed at the two gooey skulls. ‘As we can see, both these cadavers display extensive remnants of soft tissue. This allows us to estimate tissue thickness when reconstructing the facial features. Our first step will be to take a complete set of digital images of the facial skeleton.’
Coin excavated an expensive-looking camera from his bag, and connected it to a laptop. He fiddled with the computer, then took the camera and began moving around the two corpses, requesting Homi to manipulate the skulls so that he could photograph them from all angles. The software on the laptop converted the images into a complete 3D rendering of the skulls. ‘The next step is to clean the skulls, and examine them,’ continued the Australian.
Homi bent to the gruesome task of detaching the two skulls from their cadavers.
Then, together, using jet scalpels, bone brushes and a chemical bath, they removed the remaining putrefied skin and soft tissue from the twin craniums, revealing the clean white bone beneath.
Homi pointed each skull at the camera. ‘Note the extensive damage caused by the gunshot wounds. In both instances the victims were shot at close range in the back of the head. In the case of Unnamed Male 1, the bullet entered through the occipital bone, and exited through the right eye socket. In the case of Unnamed Female 1, the bullet entered through the parietal bone and exited through the frontal bone.’
Chopra shivered.
He understood that Homi was a professional, and had carried out more autopsies than Chopra could imagine, yet the dispassionate manner with which he catalogued the death of these two individuals bothered him. Somehow, he felt the occasion deserved more, a sense of empathy that was missing from the cold scientific analysis.
Next Coin carried out a detailed naked-eye examination of the skulls, explaining that he was looking for bony pathologies, unusual landmarks, and wear of the occlusal surfaces. Any one of these features would have an effect on the shape and contours of the individual’s face. He then took another complete set of 3D photographs of the naked skulls.
The next step was to prep the skulls for a plaster cast.
With Coin showing Homi the way, the two men repaired the damage to the skulls caused by the bullets, using sealing wax and modelling clay. Coin removed a jar from his bag, from which he took out two sets of prosthetic eyes. These he set, with great care, into the eye sockets of the skulls.
‘Not bad,’ he remarked. He turned to Homi. ‘Now for the cast.’
The next hour was spent in the creation of the casts, first creating a mould of each, and then a cast from the moulds. Chopra sensed Sheriwal’s growing impatience. The woman kept checking her watch, and stepped out a couple of times to make calls on her phone.
‘You do not have to be here,’ he said.
She gave him a cold look. ‘This is my case.’
When the casts were done, Coin turned to the camera once more. ‘Now we must wait for the casts to set. We will then use them to model the facial features of the specimens.’
Homi patted his colleague on the back, grinned at the camera, then stepped out of the autopsy suite. ‘Why don’t you two come back later this afternoon, around five, say? I have invited a forensic artist from Germany to help with the reconstruction. Her flight will be landing in a few hours. We should have something for you by the end of the day.’ He was about to duck back into the suite, but stopped by the door. ‘By the way, something just floated up in my memory. This whole Zorabian thing. Did you know that they tried to get rid of him last year?’
‘Get rid of him?’ said Chopra. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The Vulture Club. There was a vote of no confidence carried out by the club’s managing committee. Apparently they were trying to oust Cyrus. They didn’t succeed, but I thought it was worth you knowing. Caused a big stink in Parsee circles. We had a good laugh over at the Cyclists Club, I can tell you.’
Aside from being one of the city’s top medical practitioners, Homi was also on the board of the city’s other big Parsee association, the Cyclists Club. There was little love lost between the two outfits, stemming back to a perceived slight when, decades earlier, the Vulture Club members, attending a dinner at the Cyclists, had cast aspersions upon the dhansak recipe served by their rivals. The Dhansak Cold War, as it became known, had rumbled on for longer than anyone cared to remember, with no end in sight.
‘Are you sure?’ said Chopra. ‘No one at the club mentioned this when I paid them a visit.’
Homi gave him a withering look. ‘I am a pathologist. I am always sure. You can’t be a little bit dead, Chopra.’
As they stepped back out into the street, Sheriwal, checking her watch, turned to the former policeman. ‘I usually take lunch at this time.’
‘As it happens I was headed to my restaurant,’ said Chopra. ‘It is nearby. Why not join me? We can carry on discussing the case.’
At the restaurant, the lunchtime service was in full flow.
Chopra scouted around for a table, but then realised
that he and Sheriwal were attracting a great deal of attention. A number of junior policemen slid off their chairs and slunk out from the restaurant leaving their meals half-eaten.
Chopra suspected that their initiative in policing the restaurant – no doubt to ensure that it was not stolen in a world-first whole-eatery theft – would probably not be appreciated by their commanding officer.
He led Sheriwal into his office, then rang for the chef.
Lucknowwallah turned up red-faced from the service. ‘Ah, Chopra. What brings you back at lunchtime?’
‘This is a colleague. Inspector Malini Sheriwal. We are working together on a case.’
‘Nothing like a duet!’ said the chef, who seemed to be in unnaturally high spirits. Either that, thought Chopra, or the man was unnaturally high on spirits. He knew the chef had a weakness for good whisky.
‘We would like to order some lunch. Could you also make sure that Ganesha is fed?’
‘Your dish is my command,’ said Lucknowwallah, with a wink.
In short order, menus were presented and food ordered. Chopra was intrigued to discover that Sheriwal was a vegetarian. The fact shouldn’t have surprised him. India had more vegetarians than the rest of the world put together. But there was something about Sheriwal’s aggressive reputation that made him feel that the woman ought to be a carnivore.
Once the waiter had left, Chopra asked, ‘How are things at the station?’
Sheriwal shrugged. ‘I don’t know how you did it for so long. No offence, but it is hardly the most exciting posting in the service.’
‘We are there to resolve problems, to uphold the rule of law,’ bristled Chopra. ‘Excitement was never a factor.’
Sheriwal snorted. ‘Spoken like a true idealist.’
‘What about you?’ said Chopra. ‘Do you really think that charging around as “Shoot’em Up Sheriwal” made a difference?’
‘I always disliked that name.’ The policewoman scowled. ‘I did what I did because it had to be done. The underworld had become a cancer in our city. It was the only way to treat the problem.’
‘What about due process?’
Sheriwal shrugged. ‘There are some who transgress so far beyond the limits that they do not deserve due process.’
‘What gives you the right to decide?’
Another awkward silence hovered between them. Chopra searched for a less fractious topic. He had never been good at small talk. In such situations Poppy always asked after family. Yes. That was what was needed here: a subtle conversational gambit. ‘You are divorced, aren’t you?’
Sheriwal glared at him. Finally, she spoke. ‘Yes. My husband was a scoundrel.’
‘Relationships can be complicated,’ stuttered Chopra, reaching for the nearest available cliché.
‘I have found that when you have a gun in your hand they can quickly become very uncomplicated.’
Another silence. ‘Do you have children?’
‘I have a daughter. But she lives with my ex-husband. In Pune. I rarely see her.’ Sheriwal picked up a marble figurine of an elephant trapped inside a trelliswork Taj Mahal, spun it around with her long fingers. ‘What about you? Do you and, ah, Poppy, wasn’t it, have children?’
‘No. We were unable to.’
‘That is unfortunate. And now you have an elephant.’
Chopra wondered if the woman was making fun of him. It was hard to tell. Malini Sheriwal was possibly the only person he had ever met with less of an ear for social niceties than himself.
‘The elephant was bequeathed to me. I am his guardian. I do not take such a responsibility lightly.’ He realised that he sounded pompous, but Sheriwal’s condescending manner had riled him.
‘Ah, yes. Myself, I have always thought a little responsibility can go a long way. Like pickle. Besides, if you begin to take things too personally it dulls your objectivity.’
‘I have always thought the opposite,’ said Chopra, feeling his cheeks flush. ‘For me, each and every case is a personal matter. It is the only way we can be sure to see things through.’
‘Is that why you care so much? About those two bodies?’
‘If we don’t care, who will?’ It was as good an answer as he could give.
The door opened and Rangwalla walked in.
He skidded to a halt at the sight of both of his former commanding officers, staring in horrified fascination as if doubting the evidence of his own eyes. His hand twitched involuntarily as if it were contemplating saluting Sheriwal without necessarily first engaging in a discussion with his brain. A sheen of sweat broke out on his forehead as he remembered his recent hijacking of Sub-Inspector Surat’s time for the purposes of his own investigation.
‘Rangwalla,’ began Sheriwal, ‘you appear to have seen a ghost.’
Rangwalla winched his lips into a skeletal grin. ‘Ah ha. Ha ha. How are you, madam?’
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Chopra.
The junior man turned to his boss. ‘I, ah, I had a few loose ends to tie up on current investigations. Plus I obtained a mountain of paperwork from the BMC yesterday regarding the Gafoor case. I was going to go through it with a fine-tooth comb. Following the money, as you suggested. I didn’t realise you had, ah, company.’
Chopra gave him a stern look. ‘Sheriwal and I are attempting to identify the two burned bodies linked to the Zorabian case.’
Rangwalla’s gaze dropped to the plates of food on the desk. ‘Yes,’ he said pointedly. ‘I can see that.’
Chopra had had enough.
He reached into his pocket and took out a printout, holding it out to his deputy. ‘This is a list of former employers of William Buckley, Cyrus Zorabian’s PA. Buckley was once Adam Beresford – he changed his name following a prison sentence. I need you to call everyone on that list and see what else you can find out about him. Did his employers know about his criminal background? Did any incidents occur while he was employed: theft, fraud, violence, that sort of thing?’
‘You think Buckley may have killed Zorabian? What was his motive?’
‘I have no idea if Buckley’s past is even linked to Cyrus’s death. Perhaps it is exactly as it appears: Buckley wished to turn over a new leaf, so he changed his name, eradicated his past, and fled abroad.’
Rangwalla smirked. ‘An emu cannot go backwards, sir.’
Chopra frowned. ‘What are you talking about? What emu?’
Rangwalla’s face fell. ‘It is an expression I heard on the television. The emu is a flightless bird. It cannot walk backwards. What I meant was that a leopard does not change its spots.’
‘Then why the hell didn’t you just say so?’
Rangwalla took the paper, then practically ran from the room.
‘He is a strange one,’ said Sheriwal.
‘But curiously effective, in his own way.’
Sheriwal rose to her feet, checking her watch again. ‘I have some work back in the office.’
Chopra pushed back his chair. ‘Yes. I too have some urgent business to attend to.’
‘We will meet again this afternoon.’
A vote of no confidence
There was a commotion on the busy thoroughfare outside the Vulture Club.
A youngish, dishevelled-looking man was standing on a soapbox, vehemently denouncing the government. A band of supporters were gathered before him, throwing fists into the air, banging steel drums, and generally raising a ruckus. A trio of policemen looked on somnolently, leaning against their police jeep, but made no move to interrupt proceedings.
Chopra paused for a moment to listen to the man speak. He knew that this was another of the ongoing series of protests currently convulsing the country.
Ever since India had become a republic, the country had sought to address the disadvantage suffered by the poorest elements of society by enshrining within its constitution a series of affirmative action measures for so-called ‘backwards’ castes and tribes. These measures ‘reserved’ access to seats in the various legisl
atures, to government jobs and to enrolment in higher educational institutions for those so categorised, in this way redressing the historic oppression, inequality and discrimination faced by such communities.
Recently, however, the debate had shifted.
With India aspiring to the status of a true meritocracy, many argued that it was time to do away with this antiquated ‘reservation system’, and that only talent should determine opportunities. To this end the government was considering a bill to de-list some of the ‘backwards castes’ qualifying for the reservation system, a development that had ignited protests around the country, such as the one Chopra was presently confronted with.
Only in India, he thought, would people fight to be labelled backwards.
He found Zubin Engineer, the club secretary, in the Vulture Club’s grand hall, supervising a cleaning effort that appeared to consist of a solitary gentleman even older than Zubin pushing an enormous, industrial-strength floor polishing machine around at the general speed of continental drift. Ganesha, trotting behind Chopra, was instantly beguiled by the thunderous piece of equipment, and padded forward to investigate. The ancient cleaner leaned on the handle watching him with interest.