And what a humdinger of a case this was. A history teacher murdered in his own flat, under mysterious circumstances. He reflected on the perplexing facts of the case even as he tried to digest the contents of the report. Nothing seemed to make any sense.
It was this sense of hopelessness — the lack of obvious clues or a direction to work towards — that made this case exciting for Kapoor. The challenge thrilled him. If the Police Commissioner hadn’t assigned this case to him, there was a high degree of probability that he would have asked for it, just for the thrill of solving a case with no obvious clues. His outstanding investigative track record was the envy of many of his fellow batchmates from the IPS. Though his unorthodox methods of investigation were not always looked upon favourably by his superiors, even his detractors agreed that Kapoor’s tenacity was unmatched. He would dig deep into a case, examine every lead, however insignificant, and sniff out clues that defied the possibilities, until the case was solved. He had built up a fearsome reputation for solving the most complicated cases against all odds.
And this one was possibly the most difficult case he had come across so far. He was looking forward to the investigation. This case had the potential to be the highlight of his career.
Kapoor reviewed the report for the umpteenth time. By now, he knew its contents by heart.
Trivedi’s neighbours had heard bloodcurdling screams and had rushed to the schoolmaster’s flat only to find it locked and barred from inside. There was no way they could get in; the outer door was made of solid iron. Even as they had tried to break into the flat, while waiting for the police to arrive, Trivedi’s screams had faded away, replaced by a deathly silence.
The police had arrived after an hour. It had taken another hour to get the tools to cut open the iron grill door and access the apartment.
Trivedi’s lifeless body was lying on the floor next to the dining table, on which lay his mobile phone. A quick look around the flat revealed that nothing seemed to have been disturbed or removed. And how could anything have been stolen anyway? Both doors at the entrance had been locked from the inside — the police had had to break down the iron, as well as the wooden door to enter.
That was when the first mystery had reared its head. Despite the yells and agonizing screams that had tipped the neighbours off, there were no signs of trauma on the teacher’s body. No possible indications of the cause of death. An autopsy was called for.
And now that the initial results of the autopsy were in, they had thrown up another set of questions.
The dead man’s internal organs displayed all the symptoms of having been subjected to intense heat. It was as if Trivedi had been trapped in a blazing fire, unable to escape, and had finally been burnt alive. The report detailed the colour and texture of his organs to substantiate the conclusion, which was clear: fifth degree burns. The man had had no chance of survival.
Therein lay the mystery. Far from the charring normally associated with fifth degree burns, Trivedi’s skin was unblemished. In fact even his clothing was intact. It was as if his skin and clothes had been untouched by the fire that had consumed his internal organs.
That was not all. Trivedi’s lungs showed no indication of his having inhaled smoke or died of asphyxiation, a common killer of people trapped in infernos. His lungs and air passageways were clean, or as clean as they could be living in a polluted city like New Delhi.
Kapoor couldn’t understand it. Had the autopsy missed something? How could a man die of internal burns when his clothing and skin were untouched by fire?
He picked up the phone and dialled a number.
Kapoor came straight to the point as soon as the call was answered. ‘The last call on Trivedi’s phone. I want to meet the man he spoke to. Tomorrow.’
He put the receiver down and leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowing as he tried to think his way through this one.
Whichever way he tried to analyze it, there was only one conclusion he could come to.
Things were not as they seemed. Something big was happening here. Something that he did not understand.
He could only hope that it wouldn’t be too late before he discovered what they were.
Chapter Three
The Miseries of History
Day Three
Present Day
New Delhi
Damn History!
Arjun scowled at his text book, but he knew he was being unfair. It wasn’t the subject that was to blame. In fact he had loved history until just two days ago.
That was when they had found out about the death of Dhananjay Trivedi, or DJ sir, as he was affectionately called by the students. The news had crushed him.
Arjun had been in this school for the past ten years, since nursery, and loved most of his teachers. He had never been one of the class toppers but was diligent in his studies, if a little talkative and fidgety.
He had always displayed a greater proclivity for sports, where he excelled. Not only had he won accolades in athletics, swimming and tennis but he also played football, basketball and cricket. He had represented the school in all these activities and had been a part of the winning team on several occasions at inter-school tournaments.
His teachers, through the years, had understood his talents and patiently nurtured him. Of course, they reprimanded him when he daydreamed in class or engaged in surreptitious conversations with the student sitting next to him; but they would also encourage him and try to bring out the best in him. Arjun appreciated their patience and was grateful for their guidance. It was one of the reasons he loved school so much — the teachers made all the difference.
And then there was DJ sir. The very best amongst all the teachers at school. He had been . . . well, different. While the other teachers encouraged students, Dj sir had the ability to inspire them. His own love for History compelled his students to focus on the subject and do well in it. Arjun too had been drawn to the subject only because of him. And now his teacher was gone . . .
‘Arjun!’ the voice of Sumitra, DJ sir’s replacement cut through his thoughts. ‘I don’t know why your parents send you to school. Waste of their money and waste of my damn time!’
Arjun grimaced. In just two days, he had begun hating history with a vengeance. And he knew it was because of Sumitra.
With Dhananjay Trivedi’s sudden demise, the school authorities had been left floundering. An immediate replacement was needed, and the history department had reallocated classes to Sumitra. She had taught history to the eleventh and twelfth grades for the last four years.
Her reputation among the senior classes had already filtered down to the ninth grade.
With a PhD in History from St. Stephen’s College, Delhi, when Sumitra had joined the school, four years ago, there was much excitement amongst the children. The students had expected to welcome a teacher who was steeped in learning and loved the subject.
Instead, they soon learned that, far from being an enthusiastic teacher, she actually hated children. She had admitted as much privately to a couple of her favourite students. Of course, no one spoke about it publicly; doing so would have invited her wrath — and an F grade for sure. As it was, she was known to generously dole out E grades to any student she took a dislike to for reasons that she did not care to share.
And Arjun and his classmates had found her reputation to be well founded. If anything, she was more of a terror than they had expected. Whether it was because she felt she had been demoted to teach the middle school, or that she resented the extra workload, she seemed to have become more vindictive and harsher than the stories about her had indicated. Of course, as per her routine practice, she had chosen four or five students to be her favourites in class. These students hung on to her every word and adored her. The rest of the grade loathed her.
Clearly, Arjun was not amongst the chosen few.
‘You are going to fail in your terminals.’ Sumitra hadn’t finished with Arjun yet. ‘I’m going to see to it.’
Arjun bit back the retort that threatened to burst out of him.
There was no point in responding to her, especially by way of argument.
It was better to keep mum, he decided.
He was saved by the bell going off, announcing the end of school. Relieved, he quickly stuffed his books in his bag and joined the throng of students in the corridor as they moved towards the school gates, all thoughts of Sumitra Ma’am forgotten.
There was a spring in his step. Not because school was over — he actually loved being in school — but because his uncle, Virendra Singh, had promised to teach him a new sword-fighting technique that day. Virendra had been teaching Arjun the art of sword fighting since the third grade. It was an unusual sport with little practical use since it really wasn’t an organized, or even recognized, sport that he could compete in, but Arjun loved it anyway. His uncle had explained to him that this sport combined intelligence, alertness, strategy and speed of response with strength and agility, as few other sports did. They had started with wooden sticks for swords, but Arjun was a natural sportsman and had picked up the art well enough to graduate to training with real swords by the time he was in the seventh grade. He enjoyed the training and looked forward to it — it was intensive and exhausting, but somehow mentally rejuvenating.
When he was training he could banish all unpleasant thoughts from his mind. The thought of Sumitra, for example, especially today.
The technique Virendra had promised to teach Arjun today was one that could only be imparted to a swordsman who had reached a certain level of mastery; one that usually took anywhere between seven to ten years to accomplish. Arjun had been thrilled that his uncle had considered him worthy after just six years of training.
A girl waved to him and smiled broadly as he approached the gate. ‘Hey AJ!’ she called out.
Arjun grinned back. Maya and he weren’t just close friends, they had grown up together. His uncle and her father were old mates from Allahabad and both had apparently come to Delhi at almost the same time. They also lived a short drive from each other’s house and met almost every day. Maya and he went home together daily after school, except on days when he had to stay back for sports practice.
They ended up spending a lot of time together and their bond had only grown stronger over time. Maya was always cheerful and highly optimistic about everything. She was a great listener and a loyal friend. She was the only girl he felt he could trust with his secrets.
The two teenagers looked around for Arjun’s uncle. Virendra would drop them in the morning and pick them up after school. On days when Arjun had sports practice, Virendra would first pick up Maya and then return later to pick up Arjun when he finished. This was a practice that had been established since the two children had joined school.
Last year, when Arjun had entered the eighth grade he had tried to break free of this daily routine.
‘I’m old enough to go to school by myself,’ he had argued with his mother, Pramila. ‘Loads of kids do it. They come to school by auto, Metro or the bus. It’s totally safe. Why do I need to be dropped and picked up?’
But Pramila had refused outright. ‘When the time comes, you will be free to do as you wish,’ she had said. Arjun had sulked and fumed but his mother had been unaffected. The daily chaperoning, to and from school, had continued.
Arjun had tried speaking to his uncle too, but his words had only echoed Pramila’s.
‘When you are ready,’ Virendra had said, placing a hand on Arjun’s shoulder, ‘I will push you forward to be independent, to take charge even. You will shake off your reliance on your mother and me and take your place in the world. But that time has not yet come. This is a dangerous city. You don’t realize it because . . . well, we’ve sheltered you. You’ll have to face it all someday, but only when you are prepared. Until then all I can say is, trust me. Please.’
Grownups could be so melodramatic. All he had wanted was some freedom . . . sheesh! Arjun had seethed inwardly but had seen no point in raising the issue again. It would be futile. He didn’t want to deal with their paranoia. Arjun wondered if Maya felt the same way as him, constrained and dependent. After all she, too, led a pretty sheltered life.
‘Oh, look, it’s your mom.’ Maya tugged at Arjun’s arm, having spotted Pramila among the parents standing outside the gate, each peering intently towards the school entrance, trying to catch sight of their wards.
They hurried towards Pramila. ‘Where’s uncle?’ Arjun asked. ‘We have sword practice today. He said he would . . . ’
‘He had to go somewhere with Maya’s dad,’ Pramila cut in. ‘They’ll be back soon. Maya will stay with us till they return,’ she said as the children piled into the car.
Chapter Four
Meeting the Police
SP Kapoor’s office
New Delhi
SP Raman Kapoor regarded the two men sitting across the desk. Both seemed to be of the same age, in their early to mid-forties. The one who had introduced himself as Dr. Naresh Upadhyay was tall and gaunt with a prominent forehead. He was the head of the history department at a local school. The other, Virendra Singh, was tall and well-built and extremely fit for his age, which suited his occupation as the owner of a prominent gym that had branches all over the city. Both men claimed to be friends of the deceased, Dhananjay Trivedi.
‘So, you were the last person to speak to the victim,’ Kapoor addressed Upadhyay. It sounded like an accusation and Kapoor immediately regretted his tone. He was accustomed to dealing with hardened criminals, not genteel folk like the two men before him. He felt that he should have modified his usual way of interrogation.
Upadhyay nodded. He seemed not to have noticed Kapoor’s insinuation. His eyes had a sad and weary look.
‘And you, sir?’ Kapoor shifted his gaze to Virendra Singh.
The big man shrugged. ‘I wish I had spoken to him before he died. He was a close friend. The three of us were together for many years in Allahabad.’
‘And by sheer coincidence, you all turned up in New Delhi.’ It was a statement but Kapoor managed to insert a hint of scepticism, almost turning it into a question.
‘I’m glad it happened that way,’ Upadhyay responded. ‘As Virendra said, we were good friends.’
Kapoor prided himself on being discerning. He was an astute officer and his judgment of people was rarely wrong. And he was getting the feeling that, although both men seemed honest, there was more to their story than they were letting on. He decided to get to the point.
‘The reason I asked you to meet me,’ Kapoor addressed Upadhyay, ‘is because you spoke to Dhananjay Trivedi just before his murder.’
Upadhyay’s eyes widened. ‘Murder?’ He exchanged a quick glance with Virendra, an action that did not go unnoticed by the SP.
‘Yes, murder,’ Kapoor affirmed, ‘and a most mysterious one at that. I do not mind admitting that we are at our wit’s end trying to figure this one out. I was hoping you could shed some light on this case. We need all the help we can get.’
‘We will do whatever we can to help you,’ Upadhyay assured Kapoor, gravely. ‘We want nothing more than to bring Dhananjay’s killer to justice.’
Kapoor nodded. ‘Good. You can start by telling me what Trivedi and you spoke about during that last call.’
‘Sure,’ Upadhyay replied. ‘He told me that he had met someone, a young man, outside school that day and he wanted to know if I knew this person.’
Kapoor’s eyes narrowed. Could this be the lead he was looking for?
‘And who was this young man?’ he asked.
‘A young student from Allahabad. He gave his name as Vishwaraj.’
‘And did you know him?’ Kapoor pressed.
‘I have heard of him,’ Upadhyay admitted, ‘but I can’t say I know him, and that’s what I told Dhananjay. If he is the same Vishwaraj, then he studied in a school where I had taught for a while, so I am familiar with the name.’
‘Vishwaraj,’ Kapoor repeated, lookin
g thoughtful, as if he was trying to etch the name in his memory. ‘Any description?’
Upadhyay shook his head. ‘Like I said, I don’t know the boy.’
‘I meant, did Trivedi give you a description?’
‘No, he didn’t,’ Upadhyay paused. ‘What makes you think it was murder?’
Kapoor contemplated the question for a few moments. These men seemed to be his only means to solve this case, at least for now. He decided to be candid. He told them about the preliminary autopsy report and its baffling conclusions.
It did not escape his notice that the two men exchanged another quick glance when he mentioned that while the victim had died of severe internal burns there were no external burn injuries on his body.
‘So,’ Kapoor concluded, ‘what do you make of all this? And is there anything you would like to tell us about the victim which could help us find the person behind this?’
Virendra had sat, stoic and silent, until now. ‘SP sahib,’ he said, in a deep baritone, ‘what you have described — the autopsy report’s conclusion — is physically impossible.’ He glanced yet again at his friend sitting next to him and then back to Kapoor. ‘I am not a superstitious man, but if what you say is true, then this is not a matter for the police. It sounds like a case involving the supernatural.’
Kapoor stared at him, unsure if he was being facetious. But Virendra stared back at him, unblinking. The SP realized that the man was serious. He shook his head a little incredulously.
‘I don’t believe in the supernatural,’ he said firmly. ‘There has to be a rational explanation for the murder. And no matter who is behind this, we shall get to the bottom of it.’ He looked at both men in turn. ‘Thank you for your time and for coming in to meet me. I appreciate your cooperation.’
The two men rose to leave.
‘One more thing,’ Kapoor said as the men turned. ‘Please don’t leave town without informing me. I may want to ask you both a few more questions. This is a request.’
Son of Bhrigu Page 2