by Vish Dhamija
'You have a slightly tricky killer here. I can tell because in most cases the signature is typically absent in the first few crimes, then barely perceptible, but prominent in later killings. But in this case, it was detectable in the first kill.' Ash gathered he was getting too close to the case at hand, without having set the general scene of what degenerate serial killers were capable of. He consciously decided to keep the discussion general. Rita could bring him back to the case when she was ready, he reckoned. 'Signature could be anything from MO, how he gets to the victim, how he selects, to something he leaves at the scene or takes away. Very few are known to take body parts of victims as trophies — though that's not new — and the missing piece becomes the signature. Signature is, usually, specific to a degenerate though you'd find the signature might get copied, as someone might fake it to put another corpse into the account of the existing serial killer; if the serial killer gets nailed, who’s going to believe him if he cries he only killed ten, not eleven? The signature is left to taunt you, tantalise you, for you to identify that it's his work. And it's the signature that, eventually, might give him away.’
Rita looked agape.
‘Remember one thing, most serial killers want to be caught, but don’t assume that they will make it easy for you. Unless, he becomes stupid due to intoxication or boldness inspired by it,' Ash uttered with a deadpan face and shut up to give Rita a chance to digest all that he had explicated.
Rita had read some of this on the web, but she let Ash carry on.
'All serial killers seek attention; it's a narcissistic addiction. Whatever you do, don't give him a moniker. I am confident he'd love to be called something like The Mumbai Ripper or The Mumbai Dahlia. These people thrive on attention. At this moment, I can guarantee, your killer must be sitting somewhere Googling his name every hour to see how many pages spring up. If you read the police archaeological files, it's been proven that many serial killers are known to visit the site of their misdeeds to admire their work. Vanity. A few have been apprehended because of being there. But that doesn't deter them, like a death sentence doesn't. It’s conceited daredevilry. I admire the way you have managed not to give away much to the media so far. But if you let media totally dry out, he will risk making contact with someone — some crime reporter or someone in your police department — to seek attention, to find glory. And, that is where he is prone to making a mistake. Remember, he is getting slick at killing, but his skills might fall short when he makes contact — like giving away a postmark on a letter, fingerprints, handwriting, voice, tone, accent...something might provide a clue. Is it possible for you to take a press injunction for a while?'
Rita reflected on Ash's advice. One could stop the police from giving a name to the killer, but how does one stop the media? Press injunctions might work in the UK, but there wasn't any such legal provision in India. Moreover, powerful people who couldn’t be stopped controlled the media here. The silence hung in the room for a while, like trapped cigar smoke.
'And your surmise is…?' Rita finally opened a window.
'As a criminal profiler who is working on this case, from the outside, the murders don't look like a coincidence, believe me.'
'And you’ve been referring to the killer as him, how can you be so sure it's a male?'
'Course it's a male, a hundred-and-ten per cent. It's not a female psyche working here.'
Ash affirmed the belief Mumbai Police had held so far. 'Can there be two of them acting together?'
'Oh yes, Leonard Lake and Charles Ng, the Hillside Stranglers in the US. The theory that these men or women work alone was a fallacy, proven wrong by the man and woman team infamous for the Moors Murders in the UK. There is nothing typical about serial killers, Rita. They are maniacs. If they have had a difficult childhood, been raped or somehow made an association of death with sex...any perversion can lead to this. The MO is a telltale sign, but, again, some are known to alter their coup de grâce to dodge the police. They have a prolific imagination.’
'So our suspect could well have committed these two murders in collusion with someone?'
Ash nodded. 'A woman?'
'You cannot rule out anything, not at this stage Rita. However, what's different in this case is that your killer seems to be targeting just men, while all recorded cases of serial killers so far show a tendency to target either women or, both, men and women. But, maybe, because it's early days...'
Rita looked open-mouthed at Ash at the mention of early days. Was the killer going to get fiercer? More savage? She wanted to close her eyes and purge the images Ash had just painted. Even though the air-conditioner had been on in the room since the morning,
Mumbai's sweltering heat was getting to her. She stood up, took off her jacket and flung it on an empty chair.
'You're not shooting me?' Ash remarked seeing the gun in Rita's holster. 'Not yet.'
Both smiled. Both understood that humour was critical to steel one's nerves; wit shielded grimness of this nature from getting to the conscience, lest sleeping at nights could be impossible. And, she knew, what Ash was about to unleash further wasn't going to be romantic either.
'Before I go any further,' Ash began, 'I want you to know that I am a mere criminal profiler, so whatever I say is a probability. Reading human minds cannot be an exact science. There could be a-thousand-and-one reactions if you subjected a thousand and one humans to the same conditions. So what I predict is actually that: a prediction, not gospel truth.'
Rita grinned. 'Now could you please conclude your statutory warnings and give me a profile, Mr Smarty Mattel? Remember you are not here on duty so don't bother with the legalities. We aren't going to sue you, so please don’t try to get out of it on the basis of some technicality. Would you like some more coffee?'
'Nah. How about dinner? It'll be time for dinner soon. Where are you taking your guest for dinner? Least I expect is a date for the free advice I dispense?'
'And hopefully, your date ends at dinner.'
'If you insist.'
'What kind of food would my guest like to eat this evening?'
'Indian, of course. What's the question?'
'Ever been to Bombay Brassiere?' Ash shook his head. No.
'I'll ask someone to book a table.'
Rita called out to someone and asked for reservation for eight-thirty. 'We've got an hour now,' she said, keeping the phone down.
'I saw you looked concerned when I mentioned it could be early days. It's quite easy to see through your killer...' Rita gave a nod to confirm Ash was on the right course for she didn't wish to speak and break the thread. He understood and carried on. 'No one gets up one fine day and starts killing; it's almost certainly some longstanding pent-up score they retaliate against. Of course, there is some tipping point that sparks the planning, and the route to revenge — the killing, but that isolated instance isn't the beginning of their persecution. That, if anything, is the beginning of their tormentors' devastation. At least in the maniac’s mind.
Actual events could unfold later, much later. You still with me?' Ash looked at Rita again who acquiesced with yet another nod. 'Though serial killers and rapists are known to take belongings of their victims as souvenirs — it's a kind of ritual, a certificate for sick heads — as I mentioned, taking away body parts is a different affair. It signifies that your suspect lives alone or has a large detached storeroom or garage, which is highly unlikely in Mumbai, unless he's a multi-millionaire. Maybe a basement? Or an apartment, house, a deserted farm that his family has no knowledge of, and which has unrestricted access and exit without the neighbours getting in the way or being alerted at his visiting the place at odd hours? Also, if he has a family, then he has a job that allows him to leave home at odd hours. Maybe works night shifts? Taking away a body part in the second, known, act signifies it’s a new offender who is still building his Modus Operandi. My reasoning tells me he is either young, or has just started or just been released from somewhere to have resumed the killings. He mi
ght have killed before, but two murders in such a short span seems killing has now developed into a dominant focus in his life. He doesn't steal, doesn't fuck — you found no sperm at either location, but destroys genitalia. Mind you, to me, it seems like there could be a reason.'
'It's strange to think even crooked, evil crime like this could actually have a reason.' Rita looked skyward and rolled her eyes in disgust.
'Stranger things have happened; facts that have truly been stranger than fiction, and that is not a cliché...'
'Any example?'
'9/11. Too strange to even be fiction. Would anyone have believed it if it hadn't occurred? Nothing is ever likely about a murder. Even the sheer act is an unlikely event, is it not? Things don't make sense only when you do not have the complete picture or the other person's perspective. Everything else should make sense.'
Mr Smooth was turning out to be a real brain. He definitely made sense. Each word he uttered was calculated, weighed before it left his eloquent tongue.
'I see what you mean. You've become smart in the last decade or so, I have to admit.'
'You mean smart-er; the butcher doesn't need to be a genius, he just has to be smarter than the lamb to survive. I've been in the profession long enough to learn a few tricks, that's all.' He passed an I-know-it-all smile. His attempted modesty was subtly draped in vanity, the one that prompts the listener to react and compliment further, but Rita braked hard to stop her from sliding.
'I am sorry to have missed telling you something. When I visited the first crime scene, there was a faint floral scent lingering in the room despite the overpowering smell of cordite, my trusted inspector confirmed it too. Our first impression was that it could be a woman, but we didn't think it was likely. Then we found this lipstick on the second crime scene, which, though, could have nothing to do with our killer whatsoever.'
'Never disregard your first impressions; it's nature's way of telling you something.
That's how all other animals survive. They survive on their instincts, their first impressions. If you get any further pointers like that…' Ash puckered his lips, the eyes looked towards the ceiling as if an idea had just flashed. 'Is it possible for me to join you at the next crime scene?'
'You mean you are sure he's going to strike again?'
'Oh, I have no doubts he will; he will kill again. Very shortly. You should use your resources to establish if he knew the two victims or did he just select them on some random basis? Settling some past score — present wound or primordial? Or is he plain psycho? Is it passion killing or premeditated? Ad-lib place selection or is it preselected? If there is but one killer, there has to be a link, a pattern, some reason. Why these two men in particular, and not their neighbours? Think about it.'
‘We’ve searched and found the victims had nothing to do with each other, no connection whatsoever. They probably never met —’
‘You don’t find the connection, you don’t find a pattern; you don’t find the pattern, you don’t catch this killer. Ever. He isn’t someone you’d just catch in the act.’
'It could be just random...'
'A random killer kills at random but, like chaos theory, you should find a pattern — a similarity in victims, situations, times...something.' Ash sounded confident.
Rita was at a near complete loss. It was unsettling to know they were two murders down and hadn't picked up any trail yet. They were still looking for no one. And everyone. She remembered sitting for hours trying to solve the first puzzle her dad had bought for her when she was five or six. When she was on the verge of tears, her father had told her to leave the pieces that don't fit in for now. “Eventually, they will,” he had said. The pieces in this mystery weren't fitting in either, but she knew that eventually they would. When? The challenge was to fit these pieces together before...before the third…she kiboshed the next deliberation raising its ugly head in her mind. ‘Dinner?’ She looked at the clock. ‘Sure.’
‘You’ve got a car?’
‘I make it a point to drive every time I am in India to hone my Indian driving skills.’
The wide smile on the face of the maitre d' at Bombay Brassiere divulged that he knew Rita, and knew well who she was, despite her mufti. As they waited for dinner, Rita looked nonplussed; the murders were still dominating her mind, her hands inadvertently playing with the knife and fork that lay on the table.
‘You need to detach from the case, Rita.’
‘I know. Could you picture this guy…I mean with all the experience you have, could you mentally draw what he does, what he looks like…anything that can help?’
‘Who knows? The Boston Strangler, DeSalvo, had an abusive, alcoholic father. He didn't get much formal education and had a stint in the army. He reigned because the police had no description. Ted Bundy was actually a well-educated man who ran his own business and even served for Washington State Crime Commission. To keep going, whenever he could be identified, he moved locations, cities, and states. He was caught, and escaped, but he couldn't stop. You know why? It’s a perverse craving that doesn't just go away, it doesn't,
Rita. Once a killer goes down this path, it is inconceivable to get back to normal life. It's a cul-de-sac — the twisted mind, the love of killing, the passion doesn’t allow you to.
Circumstances don't permit either. There was one thing, however, that was common in the two killers I just mentioned.'
'Sexual control?’ Rita chipped in.
'That too, but what I was trying to point towards was their charm.'
'Charm?'
‘Both were extremely charming characters. Your killer seems charming too; if he can make other men accept him into their rooms, then drink whatever he gives them…but I reckon this killer is a loner, lives alone if he took the organ, which should make your task easier. He is, most likely, living with some form of sexual inadequacy, has above average intelligence, which is apparent from the planning and the execution. He is unquestionably a sadist; he causes bodily harm, mutilates, dismembers. What puzzles me is that one of the vital ingredients — sex — is missing. He cannot wipe off signs of sexual activity if there’s been any.’ Ash raised both his brows to indicate the waiter was close enough now, and that they should stop talking.
‘Bon appétit.’
‘One last thing about the case before we move on to talk about something better, these murders don’t look like crimes of passion; they aren’t chance murders, and it surely isn’t a scrambled brain contriving them.’
Rita shook her head in resignation, her eyes still full of questions.
‘Don't let routine throttle your intelligence, don't let logic overpower creativity. Think like you've never thought before to come up with an answer you cannot imagine or cannot believe. Think like him. What would you do, now, if you were him?’
The dinner was over. The business discussion had concluded.
‘Tell me something Ash, how do you remember me from college days?’ ‘I could ask you the same question.’
‘You were easy to remember — you were the only one who left after one year. But for you to remember the whole class…?’
‘Who said I remember the whole class? I remember you. Vividly.’
‘Why me?’
‘You were the only girl in the class who wore a bikini at the pool.’
‘What?’
‘You were hot. I mean you still are…’ Ash corrected himself.
‘If I remember correctly, you were hot back then too…in a different way.’ So, they had liked each other back in college.
‘Why didn’t you tell me then?’ asked Ash.
‘I didn’t want you to try to get me into your bed.’
‘Why are you telling it to me now?’ Ash had an expectant smile on this face. ‘Maybe…just maybe I want you to get into my bed.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous Ash, I am joking.’
‘Are you saying what I think you're saying? I mean are you really turning me down?'
'I am saying just that. Keep your hands off me…’ Rita laughed. It was good to find an old friend she could joke with.
Ash drove her to Bandra. She offered him a coffee, but he declined. He had to be up early next morning for a guest lecture at some medical college.
‘Are you turning me down?’ she bantered.
‘No. I am saving you for a better day. Don’t forget to check if you can take me along to the next crime scene.’
There was something strange in her apartment. Had she forgotten to switch off her bedroom light when she had left this morning? Easy mistake to make, she reckoned, but it was something else. She had experienced this before: the case, the murderer was getting under her skin.
She changed, took a shower. It was only eleven. She had made Jim a promise that she’d see him tonight; she kept it. Pouring a small one in a glass, she put on Dylan and sat down on the floor cushions to relax. The mind was edgy, the case was bothering her, but her mind had picked up another fear today: would she never be able to get over Karan? She pulled out the drawer to look at old photographs. Holding on to photographs was only a euphemism for trying to hold on to time, a bygone time. Most events happened only once in an individual's life, and her mind was crying out deafeningly. Karan was gone. Forever.
Replay, even if she could manage it, would never provide the same feeling. There was a reason why Frank Sinatra never sang the same song twice in the exact same way. “No two recordings were ever the same,” she remembered her dad telling her once. Move on Rita. How long can you live on hope?
ELEVEN
1985
Reagan and Gorbachev were to meet for the first time a year later, but the meeting wasn't expected to be cataclysmic, and it wouldn’t disappoint the cynics. A round of discussions between the Americans and Soviets didn’t mean peace would break out or the Cold War would end. Those who knew Viviane back in Moscow and thought that she had successfully escaped to the UK, along with Margaret and Deborah, would have envied her for living the dream, while she, unfailingly, deplored her mistaken fantasy of escaping to the western world; it had been a wrong turn from the Red to the red-light, she and Margaret often discussed.