Bhendi Bazaar

by Vish Dhamija

  Rita had a predilection for Jim Beam — a taste she had inherited from her father who was a guzzler: he drank for the taste, he said. But he drank when he was happy, he drank when he was sad, he drank in company, he drank when he was lonely. He drank when he had a reason; he drank when he couldn't find one. However, he was always in control, not an alcoholic. With his bar overflowing, he had little idea when Rita had nicked her first sip. And then regular sips. Jim became a soulmate; unusual for a woman in India to indulge in whiskey, but then she was atypical in many other ways. How many women DCPs did they have in the Indian police force? She had also retained her father's old turntable and vinyls, and paperbacks, mostly crime fiction, which she inherited from her mother. Some she had read, but most of them waited to be read some day. Karan, besides being a lover, had been a great friend till the American bug bit him. Happy memories. And she wanted them to stay that way.

  Though there was a touch of sadness in her happiness, at times, she knew the feeling would pass. Contrary to her façade of a tough cop, she was, at heart, a woman. Not even a tomboy. A woman who still had teddies on her bed, wore skirts and dresses when she socialised, though not on the job. Trousers, jeans were her ensembles at work. They were easy to manage and besides, being one of the few women at Crawford Market, she wanted to downplay the woman card.

  You couldn't see the sea from Rita's apartment, but you could get a whiff of the salt in the atmosphere, and you could hear the waves crash sometimes. Like they did this morning, so loudly as though the sea was thirsty, wailing for a drink. The breeze, besides providing the chill through the window left ajar, was also blowing the chimes. The jangling woke her up and she looked at the bedside clock. It was half past five. She grabbed the pillow and snuggled between the sheets to catch a few more hours of sleep, but it wasn't to be. The telephone ring was hardly avoidable. Ex-directory phone buzzing at this hour. Ominous. She knew it.

  It was Vikram. Already at the scene of crime. Another homicide. Male. At ITC Grand Maratha Sheraton.

  Rita groggily peeked at the bedside clock to see the time again. It was 5:33. Dragging herself out of the bed, she wrapped herself in a gown, put on the cafetiere and walked straight into the shower. The coffee was brewed to perfection by the time she was out. She pressed a cupful and poured it into her thermos glass; she preferred it hot to the last drop. She put on denims and a white shirt, and packed a spare shirt and lingerie in her bag. Who knew when one might need a change? This was going to be another long day. Grabbing a pale-blue corduroy jacket to cover the holster under her left arm, she looked at the clock: 5:48. She was getting good at it. She rushed out of the building, unlocked her Gypsy and throwing the switched-off rotating red beacon on the hood civilly drove out of the parking lot. Once out of the residential area, she switched on the flashing light and siren. As she got on to the Western Express Highway, she put the vehicle into second gear and floored the pedal. The wheels screeched once and then she took off, leaving everything else behind her. The traffic at dawn was minimal.

  The place was crawling with cops. And, ah, the piranhas of media, too, had arrived, but were made to crowd behind the yellow ribbons the police had tied to cordon off the area. Rita beckoned a constable, gave him the keys of her Gypsy to park and instructed him to call her driver to report at the hotel this morning.

  'This is the second murder in the last four days, DCP Ferreira,' someone called aloud from a distance. The male voice came from the direction where the journalists were parked. She could hear the cameras going. What were they clicking? Pictures of her ass?

  The second murder was exactly in the same vein of Lele's murder at Versova a couple of days prior. Only this time, the murderer had been a great deal more aggressive, slitting the prey from the groin till the navel. The entrails showed. Rita could see the punctured large intestine from quite a distance. Blood, almost blackened, had coagulated. Gruesome. Rita was impressed that none of those present seemed nauseated. Police officers were expected to have a button to spray local anaesthetic on themselves to put out the pain and grief when attending to such ghastly scenes of crime. As she put on the surgical gloves, she counted her blessings for not having eaten anything this morning, or she would have surely retched.

  'Samir Suri, age 35. Dead for more than seven, maybe eight, hours now. Arrived on a delayed Indian Airlines flight from New Delhi last night. Survived by his wife and a three- month-old daughter. They have been informed. His wife is booked on the seven-thirty flight from Delhi,' Vikram sheepishly recited Samir's resume.

  'I can see that the Forensics have almost scanned the room, so we'll know if the bastard has left any evidence this time.' Rita looked around.

  'One empty tumbler, six empty bottles of miniature Chivas, and as many bottles of soda. The Forensics think the remaining contents of his drink were emptied in the sink. They could smell the alcohol. In any case, they have unscrewed the tubes under the sink and the tub — where, presumably, the murderer washed this time — and taken them to the lab.'

  'Same guy?' It was a fluid question Rita knew. Which guy?

  'The MO is identical, ma'am. He has cut the body deeper and slit a larger surface area though. And also removed the penis from the body. They've turned the room upside down, but cannot find it, so it's safe to assume he's taken the penis with him.'

  'Motherfucker,' Rita murmured softly, but well within Vikram's earshot. She didn't care. Her mind had segued into another direction. Didn't the wounds in the groin symbolise castration, emasculation? There was a fraught silence for some time, the one that pierces the ears with fear.

  'The search team found a lipstick under the bed. But, it could well be nothing. It could belong to any guest who stayed in the room, in the past, who inadvertently dropped it and it might have rolled beneath the bed. According to the management here, the beds are made regularly, but the complete vacuuming of the carpets, where they move the bed, just happens on Sundays. Hence, if it was dropped any earlier than...' Vikram ran through the days in his brain; it was only Tuesday, '...a couple of days it should have definitely been removed. I've asked for the guest list for this room for the previous two nights. We'll check with everyone who stayed here if they lost a lipstick.'

  Rita did not respond. Seconds lazily dragged, as she stood spellbound.

  'He, Samir Suri, was to meet the EA to the CM today morning for breakfast, at the hotel. We've sent a message to CM's office and I am very sure the Commissioner would know about this before we get to office.'

  'Thanks for that update. I'll need to call Mr Joshi immediately.' Vikram nodded, said nothing.

  'I am sure the hotel has CCTVs. Ask them for all recordings of last night, and all recordings of the preceding week. Actually, all the way back till they overwrite them, ask them to hand over everything they have. I don't expect someone this clever — who obliterates all evidence so earnestly — to walk into a hotel without due preparation and kill without having explored ways of getting away. He would have surely recce’ed the place.'

  Vikram nodded instructions on his yellow pad.

  'Reconstruct Samir's movements from the time he first planned this trip to Mumbai. All telephone records, anyone visiting his office, everything...we need a lead. I want to know every little detail about this man. All past girlfriends, all friends, business associates and any business rivalries. Everyone who knew about his visit to Mumbai, I want a report on each one of them. Check all alibis, place plainclothes officers around their houses, record and report movements. If Delhi police suspects anyone of having a motive, however remote, to finish this guy, we need to know ASAP. Anyone hesitates in obliging, we should be informed rightaway.'

  'Yes ma'am.' Vikram scribbled again. 'I glanced through the call lists on his mobile phone before they took it away along with all his other personal effects to check for any latent prints. He had received two calls from the time he landed in Mumbai. Both from an unknown number. The first call lasted...' Vikram consulted his notes, 'one minute forty-seven second
s, and the second one merely thirty-one seconds—'

  'The second call, what time was this second call received?' Vikram looked at the pad again. 'At 9:57 last night.'

  Rita scanned her watch and did the maths. 'It's past six now. If Samir died more than seven hours ago, it should be between 10 and 11 last night. So, this call could, in fact, have been minutes before the killer arrived in this room...and Samir, we assume, was waiting for the visitor and opened the door, as there are no signs of struggle. You see where I'm heading with this, Vikram?'

  'It appears like watching the replay of Adit Lele's murder.'

  'Yes. The killer calls from an international or unknown number — both untraceable; he is known to the victims, who provide him access.'

  'But, if Samir was expecting the killer, why was he naked in bed?'

  'Was he gay?'

  'He was a married man.'

  'Bi?'

  Vikram didn’t say anything.

  'You know, that is what worries me too. Both men were naked like they were waiting for a fuck.' Rita was candid in her expression. Not sex, not woman. Fuck. 'Though everything else points out it should be a male: the MO, the forensic report from Lele's murder told us that the only other person who could have been with Lele in the hours immediately preceding or following his death was a male. In any case, if I had a gun, I could make anyone do anything I wanted, including making them strip. Don’t you think?'

  Vikram reflected on the surmise and nodded. 'What about the lipstick they found under the bed?'

  'I guess we'll have to wait till we get the list of all previous guests in this room from the hotel authorities and check each one of them.'

  'Sure ma'am.'

  'We'll get him, he has to leave some trace behind.'

  Well said Rita, wasn't it Edmond Locard's theory that professed, "everywhere you go, you take something with you, and you leave something behind?" That every contact left a trace? Then what about so many unresolved crimes around the world? If all killers left evidence behind, what was the hitch? Oh, and by the by, who was Jack the Ripper? Traces,

  Edmond and Rita, could be annihilated; they were always eradicable. The room was still neat. It had been cleaned up well. Purged. If there had been a struggle between the murderer and Samir, the room showed no signs. Evidence? No chance.

  An even larger horde of news-seekers had gathered in the last forty minutes. Some morsels of the gossip had surely been fed to the reporters; having tasted blood, more vultures had flocked in. Bigger names. Larger cameras. Television crews adjusted their lenses. Two identical murders in four days. It surely suggested a potential to make big news. Heck, this could make a money-spinning chronicle.

  As Rita and Vikram came out of the hotel, Rita noticed a bleary-eyed Anita Raizada. She might have apologised to Jatin, and may have befriended the young inspector who let his brain slip between his legs for an evening, but Rita was careful not to acknowledge her presence. She had no desire, or patience, to get entangled with the press at this point. Surely, the media would be informed, but later. Not now. The barrage started nevertheless.

  “Is it true, DCP Ferreira, that Adit Lele and Samir Suri were murdered by the same person?”

  “Why aren’t the police arresting the killer?”

  'You tell me where he is and I'll go and arrest him right away,' Rita retorted, gave a social smile and briskly walked to her Gypsy that had been brought to the portico by a uniformed PC. Vikram opened the door for her, then ran around and took the driving seat. They could hear the loud questions through the rolled-up windows as they drove out of the exit.

  -----------------------------------

  EIGHT

  2007

  Research was tedious work. No one joined the Crime Squad in police to go through realms of data, but someone had to. Collecting slices of information wasn't the most motivating task since one needed to glean thousands to get one profitable lead, and only if one was lucky.

  Grunge, it was called in police circles. Inspector Jatin Singh, the lowest ranking of the three detectives on the case, until now, was afforded the grand opportunity to lead the research for the two murders.

  On instructions from Rita, the Ops Room was relocated to a larger chamber to accommodate more officers. The case required more hands; the three detectives couldn’t even run down all alibis. Eleven new members were recruited to the task force: one Senior Inspector, two Inspectors, two Sub-Inspectors and six police constables. In keeping with the police procedures, the PCs and the uniformed officers would not be included in general briefing sessions, but they would get instructions from their respective team leaders. Only share what is absolutely necessary was the rubric: more the number of people that know details, the higher the risk of leaks. Why take a chance?

  The place was bustling with unrestrained energy. The room, a large hall with a high ceiling and windows overlooking the bona fide Crawford Market, had an outsized conference table with seating for twelve, and a dozen computer terminals live to provide updated data, info or communications. There was a little podium in the corner and four additional computer terminals in the walls, which could be accessed while standing, should there be a need for additional hands. All five new police officers were ready to launch. What? All tongues stopped wagging; the room sank into silence the moment Rita walked in. It was apparent that this was no longer a standard murder investigation. Mumbai, or perhaps India, was waking up to a crime that had primarily existed in the West. Or fiction. A serial killer.

  'I don't think I need to explain how nerve-wracking this case is,' Rita opened her briefing standing at the head of the table. She beckoned all to take their seats. Jatin had already arranged for the projector, and the scene of crime slides played behind her for all present to observe. 'We’ve had two murders in the last four days as all of you know by now, committed undoubtedly by the same killer.' She stopped and looked at the projection. Jatin played the two close-up frontal shots taken of the groins of Adit Lele and Samir Suri in quick succession; then, he stopped on each picture for ample time for the officers to absorb the juxtaposition. The resemblance was remarkable. Rita waited till most stopped looking at the slides and made notes on their pads or computers. 'I'm reasonably confident the same artiste has done both these slayings. I have spoken to the pathology department to emphasise the urgency. They've agreed to start the autopsy in an hour's time.' She glanced at the clock behind her: 11:53 a.m. 'Senior Inspector Nene, you may leave now for the autopsy suite. I'd like you to attend the post-mortem first hand, and return with all reports as soon as it's over. If there's anything important, please call.'

  Senior Inspector Rajesh Nene, a local from Mumbai, was one of the most experienced inspectors in the crime branch. Nene was forty-seven years young. He had forgone all promotions to stay in Mumbai, and as such knew all the trenches, the nuts and bolts of Mumbai. A full, curly, black-dyed mane sat on top of his five feet eleven frame that was rigidly straight. Like some other sceptics in the department, he wasn't amused when Rita took over as the Unit Head, but like most he had stomached the matriarch. With an informal gesture of a salute, to Rita and the rest, he marched out of the Ops Room.

  The tickets were booked. Two new members of the task force were instructed to leave for New Delhi by the afternoon flight to assist and supervise Delhi Police in its efforts to unravel everything about Samir Suri. Any leads would be helpful.

  'We need to agree on exactly how much detail we are going to release to the media.' Rita spelt out to the rest of them present: Vikram, Jatin, and two sub-inspectors Steven D'Souza and Milind Anand. 'We don't want mayhem, which it would certainly result in if we release the scene of crime photographs. And, we also run the risk of loonies calling up to confess to the murders if we provide more details than required at this stage.'

  Nods. Silence. Agreement.

  'I have updated Mr Joshi and he reckons we should continue the search without causing any disruption in the city, which I think is the right approach. We are responsib
le for their security, and we should ensure there is no panic.'

  Nods again.

  More tasks were allocated. Jatin, relieved of research, was to liaise with the Forensics; Steven was allocated to keep abreast of developments in Juhu Police overlooking the murder at ITC Grand Maratha, and also to closely co-ordinate with the info still being collected from the first murder at Versova; Milind was in charge of the Ops Room, all coordination, all messages, and to maintain a chronology of investigation and all further research.

  Rinika, Samir Suri's widow, arrived at the Police Station at noon. She had been rushed from the airport to the mortuary for identification of the body before being driven to Juhu. Vikram had been intimated of the timing and hence, had arrived shortly afterwards. There were a few news reporters, but it wasn't anything compared to what Vikram has seen at the hotel in the morning. The SHO introduced Rinika and Vikram before leaving the room.

  Dishevelled and tearful, Rinika was a young and petite woman. One would have had to stretch the word pretty very cruelly to call her that, but she was well maintained. Straight black hair, wide eyes which were, presently, wet like the Mumbai monsoon. Vikram guessed she would be in her late twenties before he checked the papers. Twenty-eight. Not bad.

  'I am extremely sorry for your loss, Mrs Suri,' he said politely. 'Hmm...' Rinika wanted to say something but broke down yet again. 'Should I get you something? Tea, coffee?'

  'Water would be fine.'

  Vikram walked out of the room and asked a PC to get some water and tea.

  'As I was saying,' Vikram began after an appropriate pause when Rinika looked slightly composed. 'I can understand your loss Mrs Suri, and I can see how you feel, but we need to ask some questions.'