‘Lucky the gas stove was not on when the killer arrived. Else there could have been a bigger accident,’ Gopi Reddy commented.
Seeing nothing unusual about the apartment, the two policemen went back to the drawing room. The medical examiner had finished his examination. The body was being shifted to the morgue for autopsy.
‘So what do you think Doctor?’ Reddy asked.
‘She has been hit first with a blunt object. Once she fell down, she was strangled.’
‘So you think that the death was due to strangulation?’ The doctor nodded.
‘How long has she been dead?’
‘I need to examine further but I would say she was killed around 11 am.’
‘Looks like the murderer deliberately chose this time as most of the folks would be in schools, offices or colleges then.’
‘Wonder why the security guard did not notice anything.’
A constable was sent to fetch the security guard for questioning. The security guard was old and lived in a tiny room at the back of the apartment. He said he had gone to the bathroom for a few minutes when the murderer must have entered unnoticed. As he had a sugar problem, he needed to go to the bathroom frequently. When questioned about a backup he laughed a little bitterly and said that there were no backups. He monitored the gate from 8 am till 8 pm and then the night guard came. They could not get any more information from him. Avoiding the paparazzi and their questions, ACP Reddy and inspector Kannan moved towards the waiting police car.
Inspector Kannan said, ‘The murderer must have been keeping a watch. He must have entered the building the moment the watchman moved.’
‘That would be a foolish thing to do. He could have been easily seen. A very brazen killer.’
‘Or it might be that the murderer had done his homework really well and had watched the security guard to understand his routine before striking.’
‘Possible. This is such a busy area, that a stranger loitering around will not raise too much suspicion.’
After a pause, Inspector Kannan asked, ‘Do you think that the husband killed her?’
Reddy shook his head. ‘If he killed her, why send a letter to the Telangana Times saying that he will kill an old woman next? Makes no sense to me. Still it would not hurt to look into his. Whenever a wife is killed, ninety nine percent of the time, the husband is the killer.’ Reddy said somewhat cynically.
‘Good point Reddy sir. Maybe Ashok himself wrote the letter to the press and is trying to deflect suspicion from himself – who knows? Though he looks likes he won’t hurt a fly, nowadays you never know. I will try to find out what he was doing around the time of the murder.’
Reddy nodded his head in approval. ‘You do that. And please keep me posted.’ With that the two men parted ways.
Reddy went back to his office and updated the Commissioner. Next day the Commissioner called a conference of all senior members of the Hyderabad Police Force. The matter was discussed in detail.
‘There is no doubt that there is an attention seeking random murderer around. What steps do we plan to take?’ The Commissioner looked around the faces of the assembled policemen.
As nobody said anything, the Commissioner looked at Gopi Reddy, ‘Well, Reddy what is your opinion?’
Reddy shook his head. ‘It is difficult to say. Hyderabad is such a vast area. To look for a murderer on 15th April would be like looking for needle in a haystack.’
Inspector Satish Rao, who headed the Begumpet Police Station, spoke up, ‘A small suggestion.’ All faces turned to him. ‘We can deploy police patrol in the old Hyderabad area. The murderer seems more comfortable in that area. Maybe he is a resident of that area and hence chose his victim in Charminar.
‘But remember we are dealing with a possible madman. It is quite possible that the place Charminar was just a coincidence. There is no clue regarding the motive.’ Gopi Reddy said.
‘Does a madman need any motive to kill?’ the Commissioner asked sceptically.
Reddy said, ‘Do you remember the Raman Raghav case in Mumbai? He felt that other people were trying to put homosexual temptations in his way so that he may succumb and get converted to a woman. Hence he killed them. And many of them were not even gay. It was just his perception that his victims were gay. He used to say that divine forces urged him to kill these people and that he killed them at the behest of God. So yes, even a mad random killer will have a motive even though his logic may be incomprehensible to sane people’
‘At least we can start patrolling the streets of Old Hyderabad. I do not think we can do anything more than that. Keep an eye on unkempt looking persons. Though going by the email that he sent to the press, I would say that this person would look educated and normal.’
ACP Reddy uttered a groan, ‘Old Hyderabad is such a huge area. It is also fairly crowded. I am not sure how much the police can cover.’
‘We must do what we can,’ the Commissioner said sharply.
Kannan said, ‘The Charminar police will keep an eye on Padma’s family as well just in case they are involved in this. And I also found out that Ashok had gone to office quite late on 1st April, the day Padma was murdered. In fact he reached office at 11:30. When asked, why he had been late, he said that the bus he had been travelling in had a break down and he had to change buses twice to get to office from Charminar.’
Kannan paused as if waiting for effect. All heads were turned towards him eagerly then he said, ‘And I found out one more thing. Padma’s mother died recently. She had her own house in Haffizpet. When she died, she left the house to Padma. Now that Padma is dead, the house by default goes to Ashok.’
‘Did you go and check the house?’
‘Yes, the house itself is in a dilapidated condition. But because the area has developed rapidly over the last few years, it will fetch at least 50-60 lakhs.’
Gopi Reddy whistled. ‘That gives enough motive for murder.’
Kannan nodded eagerly. ‘And ninety percent of the time the husband is generally responsible for the wife’s murder. I am very much inclined to think that Ashok has dreamt up this random killer story and is using this to hide his own crime.’
‘In that case there may be no second murder!’ The Commissioner said optimistically.
Reddy shook his head and said, ‘I am sure that another murder will happen. Let us gear up and try to prevent this murder – when it happens.’
The Commissioner said, ‘One more thing – if any homicide happens on 15th April, do not treat it as an ordinary case, inform Gopi Reddy immediately.’
The conference broke up soon after this.
Satish Rao and Reddy came from the meeting and headed for a smoke outside.
Satish turned towards Reddy and said, ‘What do you think?’
Gopi Reddy shook his head slowly and said, ‘I am very much afraid…this is not going to end any time soon. Random murders are the hardest ones to solve….’
2
SATYA’S NARRATIVE
FRIDAY 1ST APRIL 2016
MORNING
My name is Satya and I am a drug addict. I wake up to the unmistakable feelings of withdrawal. My body is covered in sweat, but I am freezing. My stomach is doing somersaults and my muscles ache. I hate waking up like this. It’s a good thing I saved the Mephedrone I bought last night. I’d hoped to make it last until later, but I have to get well. I climb out of bed, grind the pill into a fine powder, roll up a Rs.10 note and breathe life back into my body. I instantly feel better…but the euphoria quickly fades. I’m officially out of “drugs.”
I am a door to door salesman somehow eking out a living. I was not always like this. In fact I had a good childhood. My mother became a widow when I was just six years old. I barely remember my father. Just a vague shadowy figure who used to laugh and play with me. People say that I am the spitting image of him. After his death my lonely, mousy mother transferred all her love and devotion to me and I was spoilt rotten. We were not well off but she ensured that I lacked
for nothing. I studied in a posh English medium school. My mother worked double shifts as a nurse to provide for me.
But when I was about to join college, she was diagnosed with cancer. She died within a month of the diagnosis. I suddenly found myself all alone in the world. I could not cope with this loss and I turned to drugs to overcome my grief and loneliness. My maternal uncle, who took me under his wings, admitted me to a drug rehabilitation centre, and tapered me off the drugs. He then made sure I studied and that I got my bachelor’s degree and then he arranged a good job for me by begging some influential people he knew. Bless him, he even got me married. Once my body was drug free, I found that I had a talent for selling. Of course, my good looks and public school accent also helped. I excelled at my job. But within a few months of my marriage, I again succumbed to drugs. Once a drug addict, always a drug addict. The drugs take over your life. There is no escape.
The funny part is that during the initial stages of my addiction I excelled at work when I was high. I remember having a conversation with my boss once where he told me he was worried that I was taking on too much work and that I would eventually have a breakdown. He begged me to slow down. The poor man did not understand that I was able to work so hard due to the drugs. He had no idea that I was an addict. I fed him some cock and bull story that I was happiest at work and my home life was not so good so being at work made me feel better. Eventually, he promoted me to a job with more responsibility. This also meant more money to sustain my drug habit. But as I became more dependent on cocaine and crack, my performance began to suffer. At first, my boss excused my performance as a one - off case, but eventually he had to get rid of me when I started to show up late for work, and in unkempt clothes. He had finally realised that I was an addict. He fired me and also blacklisted me so that I could not get another job. Even my maternal uncle washed his hands off me.
My contact came to my rescue and gave me the door to door salesman job that I am currently doing. In spite of the abuse that I have put my body through, I have an excellent physique. I am blessed with my father’s genes I guess. I look younger than my 32 years. Women find me charming and I use this to my advantage.
I’ve managed to eat breakfast and shower. My high is wearing off and a familiar panic begins to settle in. I curse under my breath, asking myself why I let things get this bad. I hate my life right now, but there will be plenty of time for berating myself up later. I’ve got to find some drugs.
I call my contact (who also supplies me with the items that I sell) but there’s no answer. What the hell am I going to do if I can’t get in touch with him? I feel panic stricken.
I call my contact over and over again. He finally answers on the fifth attempt and we arrange a meeting. I take an auto. My nausea kicks in during the auto ride and I’m sweating again. I give my contact the last Rs. 500 in exchange for cocaine.
I come back as fast as possible to my one room apartment, my sanctuary, left to me by my mother and snort up the drug. I instantly feel better. Immediately I hate myself for allowing drugs to control my mind and body and vow to quit. But I know I will never quit.
So I am ready to start the day. I look at the list which tells me which area I have to cover for this month and on what date. The list also tells me that I have to sell in the Charminar region today. But I must be careful so that I do not get too high on drugs while doing my door to door rounds. I do not know what I do when I am high on drugs as then I have no control on my body, and certainly not my mind.
3
MR. ASHOK MANEPALLY
Exactly a week had passed since the murder of Padma Manepally. Vikram Rana, an ex-cop turned private investigator was sitting in his luxurious office. It was only 10 am but exceedingly hot outside. A hidden air-conditioner coped efficiently with the rising temperature. Hot and golden sunshine made patterns on the office carpet that his pretty but bossy wife Veena had bought to impress his clients, but to him, it seemed too expensive to walk on. Veena was tall, fair and slim. She and Vikram made a very handsome couple together.
Vikram had a mini-fridge in his office where he kept soft drinks. Veena, his health freak wife, had strictly forbidden him to take cold drinks. But Veena was not here to monitor him. So he had taken out a can of coke and was sipping with contentment.
Vikram was in his late thirties. He had been born and brought up in Hyderabad. With his macho good looks, Vikram had been quite a lady-killer before his marriage. His was a face that was more attractive as he matured. His thick black hair was fashionably cut and held only a few strands of grey. Vikram had been well-respected in the police force and was known for his sharp intellect and good investigative skills. He also had a dry sense of humour which had made him extremely popular with his colleagues in the police force.
After leaving the police force, he had opened his own detective agency. In the initial days he had operated from an office in the ground floor room of his home. Within eight months he gained fame by solving the murder of Mrs. Richa Lohia, the wife of a rich industrialist. It had been a difficult, high-profile case, made all the more nerve-wracking by the fact that it was his first case as a private investigator. Mr. Rohan Lohia, his close friend and the victim’s brother-in-law, had at first been accused of the murder. But then Vikram caught the real killer. In gratitude, Rohan had provided him with the money to set up his own plush private office in a big commercial complex in Somajigudda.
In the outer office, Radha, his efficient secretary was reviewing the expense sheet prepared by Murali, Vikram’s handy leg-man cum assistant. The expense sheet was as complex as Shahrukh Khan’s tax assessment. Radha was tall and gorgeous. She had a voluptuous figure, which generated a lot of male interest, particularly Murali’s. But Radha had no time for him. Right now she was frowning into the excel sheet submitted by him and tapping her pen impatiently on the desk.
‘Fifty rupees for a cup of tea! Where did you have it? At the Taj Banjara?’ She asked sarcastically.
Murali grinned feebly, ‘You know how difficult it is nowadays with inflation and all.’
‘I know that a cup of tea costs Rs 10 at the roadside stall. That too ginger tea.’ Radha said.
‘Well you cannot expect me to have tea from the road side.’ Murali said in an outraged voice.
‘If Vikram sir can have tea on the roadside stall, I don’t see why you cannot do the same. Money does not grow on trees you know!’
As they were arguing, the front door was pushed open and a dark, lean, inoffensive looking man of medium height walked in. He had a slight stoop and his eyeballs seemed extra large through his steel framed spectacles. Radha turned to look at the newcomer and her eyes widened. This was Ashok Manepally, husband of the woman Padma, who had been brutally murdered. The story and their pictures were being shown on television 24x7, the channels going all out to milk the story as much as they could. The man looked around, hesitating, unsure of whom to address. Radha kept her pen and the report aside and stood up. She smiled encouragingly and said, ‘Yes – what can we do for you?’
‘I am Ashok Manepally and would like to meet Mr. Vikram Rana,’ the man replied softly
Radha asked him to take a seat and called Vikram over the intercom. After about five minutes, he was shown into Vikram’s inner sanctum.
At first glance, Mr. Manepally looked older in real life than on TV and in the newspaper photos. He must be around 37, 38 years old, Vikram thought and then remembered from newspaper reports that Padma was in her early twenties and very pretty. He wondered at the age difference between the husband and wife.
While these thoughts were going on inside his head, he gestured to Ashok to take a seat. Once he ensured that Ashok was comfortably seated, he said, ‘So, Mr. Manepally, what can I do for you.’
Ashok deliberated as if he was unsure of how to begin. He was clearly a man of few words and opening up in front of Vikram was proving to be difficult for him.
Vikram waited in silence. With a determined expression on his face as if ste
eling himself to speak, Ashok said abruptly, ‘You might know that my wife has been killed recently. She was targeted by a random killer called Prakash. I have come to you as the Charminar police, especially Inspector Kannan seem to suspect me.’
‘And why does he suspect you?’
‘I have no idea. He feels that I have created this fictional random killer and have murdered my own wife.’
‘Did you really murder your wife?’
‘What are you saying! Of course not! I loved her. Even though she was much younger to me, I fell in love with her the first time I saw her.”
‘And when was that?’ Vikram prompted gently.
‘She came to the printer’s shop where I work to get stationary printed. She was working as an administrator in Asha Foundation, a drug rehabilitation centre.’
He took a gulp as if reliving those initial days, brought a lump in his throat.
‘I used to work with her for the flyers, posters and all such publicity materials. Over a period of time a friendship developed. I was in love with her but it was absolutely one sided. She considered me as a good friend and nothing else. She even used to tell me about her boyfriend.’
‘Then how did you get married to her?’
‘Her boyfriend was a doctor and she considered herself to be very lucky as she herself came from a lower middle class background and was only a graduate. She was madly in love with him.’
He cleared his throat nervously. Then wiping his face with a handkerchief to compose himself, he continued, ‘One day, she called me. She was crying. She wanted to meet me in nearby Swathi Restaurant for a cup of coffee. She started crying again on seeing me in the restaurant. When I asked what the matter was, she confessed to me that she was pregnant, but her boyfriend had refused to marry her. He told her to get an abortion. He also told her that their relationship was over. It seems he was quite brutal about it. She was devastated. She did not know what to do.’
A Season for Dying: A Vikram Rana Mystery (Vikram Rana Series Book 2) Page 2