Bhendi Bazaar

by Vish Dhamija

  'We've received more information regarding Fernando,' Vikram announced when he came into Rita’s office at noon.

  ‘Anything we should know?’

  ‘Nothing major. The only new news is that Mr Fernando owned a car that the local police cannot find. Registration number MH02 —‘

  ‘A red Maruti 800 by any chance?’ ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Jesus Christ. Really? I was only hazarding a guess. Remember the car that was spotted by witnesses on the night I got the call from this killer for the first time? A red Maruti.’

  Rita’s words sank in. Sometimes one doesn't seek something, but when one finds it, it makes one think. Vikram thought for a minute to ingest the implication. ‘You mean—’

  ‘I took a guess, seems it was the same car, which confirms that whoever killed Fernando took the car. Maybe then, maybe later…so if we ever traced the car down, it would be tracked back to a dead man, not the killer. Very shrewd bastard.’

  ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘This car is surely in the killer’s possession, he might not use it on a daily basis, but my guess is he uses it to travel when he kills. Put out a notification to all Mumbai police stations to be on the alert and report immediately if they spot this car.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Vikram pulled out his notebook to jot down the instructions.

  ‘Also, there should be cameras in ITC Grand Maratha — check if this car was ever on camera in their car park, you know the dates to focus on. And, if this car was spotted at the domestic airport last night.’ Vikram kept nodding, scribbling. ‘And if it has been picked up by any police cameras all over the city…if this car is still in the possession of our suspect, it should make our search easier.’

  Inspector Jatin Singh called to update Rita on Anita Raizada’s ongoing squalid saga. He had called Anita’s office, and then her mobile for a date — to update her of the current investigation as agreed — but she refused to see him on Friday or before that, due to Narang’s filthy demand.

  ‘Jatin, we cannot do anything till she files a complaint, an FIR. She has to help herself if she needs us to intervene.’ that.’

  ‘I know that ma’am, but she refuses to. I‘ll try when I see her next, but…’ ‘But?’

  ‘Narang will have his way with her on Friday and she’s refused to see me before

  Wasn’t life complicated enough that Rita, now, had to look after a besotted inspector? ‘Keep trying, it’s only Wednesday. I am sure she will agree to see you. Let’s talk Friday morning if nothing else works out by then.’

  ‘Thanks ma’am.’

  People who’ve lived through them, best tell old tales. As time passes and stories are narrated. They spread. Someone whispers. Someone hears incorrectly or passes it incorrectly.

  Sometimes, a good soul changes it deliberately to make it more believable. But it was all there — the legend and legacy of Bir Desai was too big to stay concealed. Who else but Nene — who’d been in Mumbai Police for decades — could know where the bodies might have been buried? ‘Bir Desai & Co. folded up over two years ago,’ Nene updated everyone present in the Operations Room. ‘The last person in command of the mob was a guy called Raaj who shifted operations due to growing heat from Mumbai Police. He, however, kept most businesses here but moved his base to Dubai. The details are in the file.’ He pointed at a dossier on the table.

  Rita grabbed the file and walked to her office.

  Bir Desai’s son Jay Desai was Viviane’s paramour; Jay Desai Junior was their son.

  With all illegitimate businesses listed — firearms, illicit alcohol, hired-killings — it was obvious where Jay Desai Junior got access to the Glock and Chloral Hydrate. And the copious supply of Dubai SIM cards.

  Nene was right. Jay Desai had passed on the leadership of Desai & Co. to Raaj in

  2005.

  Then, Jay Desai vanished. Just vanished. No explanation. No reason. Nothing. No one knew where he went. It was no business of police if an adult, compos mentis — with no obvious mental problems — went missing unless there were grounds to believe there's been some fatality or if the missing person was accused of any crime, and in Jay Desai's case there was neither till now. And, as he had no apparent kith or kin, no one even reported him missing. It was two years since.

  Rita studied past solved — and cold — cases of serial murders yet again. Quite often the idea of picking up a victim, the modus operandi or some element might have, subconsciously, been lifted from it. Hours of studying turned up nothing. Jay Desai wasn’t a copycat killer in any sense of the word. No theory explained it. This case, if ever solved, would make a good case study.

  What next? Rather than fostering further headless speculation, Rita called the Ops Room to confirm if the uniformed police force in the city had started ferreting around for the car.

  ‘The car was picked up by ITC Grand Sheraton cameras on one occasion, ma’am,’ Vikram reported back.

  That was enough.

  It would be naïve to assume it was coincidence. Rita was convinced that Jay Desai was the murderer and that he drove the missing red Maruti. Alas, all circumstantial evidence pointed towards a man they couldn't find. One of the most intensive manhunts in the history of Mumbai Police had been a dismal failure and it persistently hurt like a bleeding blister under their feet. But Rita's grit didn’t falter. She was as determined now as she had been since that first call at 3 a.m. in June.

  The cause célèbre was living up to its name. The media dug deep to glean info; newspaper sales shot up, news viewership rose dramatically, even advertising rates during special news bulletins commanded a premium. A mass hysteria was being bred: a maniac killer at large with an already defunct Mumbai Police failing miserably.

  Despite the pressure from media, public and the bigwigs of the political world, the police were unsuccessful in picking up any more scents on the day.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  2007

  This Thursday morning was not unlike any other of the fifty-one in the year. The sun was diligently doing its shift, the traffic had started early; even the street vendors had recommenced their businesses in Bandra. Rita, having spent another traumatic night engrossed in the puzzle that consumed her, got up late. She was fully aware that her driver, on instructions from Nene, would have slept the night in the Gypsy below, with another policeman watching the place from a distance. That annoyed her. She, as the chief of the investigation, couldn’t provide that security to those who actually required it.

  ‘Let’s visit Sewri cemetery…let’s see Viviane’s grave,’ she called Vikram.

  Why, he wanted to ask, but the words that came out of his mouth were: ‘Yes ma’am.’

  'I'll be down in thirty minutes.’

  Searching for Viviane’s grave in the cemetery was time consuming, but not difficult.

  It took Rita and Vikram over two hours to find it. One look at it and it was evident that someone tended to Viviane’s grave. There was a wreath left there; not fresh, but not stale old either. Someone unquestionably visited her grave.

  Jay Desai?

  Vikram saw the point. ‘Is this what you wanted to confirm?’ ‘Doesn’t it tell you something?’

  ‘Her son?’

  ‘Can you think of anyone else?’ Vikram’s countenance confirmed Rita’s premise. ‘We need to find Jay Desai.’

  Staring at the grave, Rita’s eyes narrowed on the brownish tinge in some letters of Viviane Casey that were inscribed on the grave. She knelt down to take a closer look. It was obvious someone had filled the letters V, I, V, I and A — the first five — with colour. Only C in Casey carried the same brownish colour. She moved her finger slightly over 'V' and brought it near her nose to sniff to verify what she speculated; the gloopy brown stuff was coagulated blood. The flagitious killer had made…some kind of ormolu of blood to inlay in certain alphabets. Why only some? ‘Vikram, call in the Forensics to collect trace evidence, it’s blood,’ she said in disgust.

  Vikram moved
a few feet away to make the calls. ‘I called the local police too,' he declared on his return.

  ‘Thanks. To maintain crime scene integrity, we can’t leave this site unattended now.’

  ‘But, why did he fill only certain letters?’

  Logic was failing to provide any answers. Conjectures and thoughts traversed, paused, exited without leaving anything behind. Not even footprints. Rita looked up in frustration, but the sky didn't provide answers to anyone, and it wasn’t making an exception for her. ‘No idea. It could well be that rain has completely washed off the blood from other letters or perhaps — and that’s a bigger probability — he is feeding his ghoulish appetite in some way. Vikram, this killer is sick.’ Rita turned around. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she whispered to herself.

  The two detectives looked around to see if they could find anything that could give them some other clues, anything inadvertently left behind by the killer.

  “Remember, he is getting slick at killing, but he is prone to making a mistake if he does something different…” Hadn’t Ash pointed that out?

  But maybe, visiting the grave wasn’t out of the routine?

  The local police arrived, the Forensics followed right behind.

  ‘I want all the blood analysed ASAP,’ Rita instructed before leaving the site.

  ‘DCP Ferreira?’ a male voice asked when Rita picked up the phone in her office later that afternoon.

  ‘Speaking. Who is it?’

  ‘Jay Desai. You went to my mother’s grave…I thought let me save you the trouble of speculating any more.’

  ‘Oh, so you’ve decided to reveal your identity.’ Rita was aware the office lines always had a call-trace on. Standard procedure.

  ‘I know that you know that much by now, DCP. It must be really frustrating for you guys to know who the killer is, why is he killing those fucking scums, but still not being able to get to him. I am quite confident you will never reach him.’

  Why was he talking in third person?

  ‘Why use the voice scrambler then, why disguise your true voice?’ Rita could visualise Jay Desai sniggering with opprobrious, obstinate confidence.

  ‘You don’t think I am stupid enough to give myself away.’

  ‘There is no such thing as everlasting impunity. No one is immune from being apprehended by the police, Jay Desai. How do you think you’ll escape, ever thought about that?

  ‘I am not used to planning exit strategies DCP. I did not get into this to run away. I am here for a purpose, to do some cleansing, to clean Mumbai of the filthy fucking beasts that ruin innocent lives. Something, actually, your police forces should be doing. You should be grateful to me.’ The voice was arrogant and provoking.

  ‘When did you visit your mother’s grave last time?’

  ‘You sound like you are gathering facts to write an article on me on Wikipedia now. I can provide you that satisfaction only if you can catch me. She is my mother and I can visit her anytime I want. I don’t need to inform you or seek your permission.’

  Rita noted that Jay Desai mentioned is rather than was. In his warped mind, he visited his mother, not her tomb. ‘What is it that you’ve called me for then?’

  ‘Ah…forgot about that. What are you doing tomorrow night?’ ‘Why? Are you planning to take me out for dinner?’

  ‘Only if you let me stay in your apartment after dinner…like Dr Mattel.’

  A moment of silence hung between them. Rita shouldn't have been aghast that Jay Desai knew about Ash and her, but it was still a jolt. ‘I have to compliment you on your information source,' she responded calmly.

  ‘Wish I could say the same for you DCP.'

  'Now that Margaret is gone —'

  'Just because you chased Margaret away, I hope you haven’t relaxed thinking that I cannot find other bastards to exterminate.’ The intrepidity was shocking, the voice warning; it had switched to a serious tone now.

  ‘Is that what you called to tell me?’

  ‘Well the reason I called you is, unlike last time when I only gave you a few hours warning before I carved out Dina Patel in Andheri, I wanted to give you more than a twenty- four hour notice before I send someone else to hell.’ It was a forewarning. No guilt. No shame or fright. No sadness or amusement. No sound of any apparent motive. No shrewdness or distress. Just a statement that univocally also said take-it or leave-it in the same breath.

  ‘You aren’t doing me favours, and you know that very well Jay Desai. You’re saving your own skin because on that occasion we had traced the call to the area where you had called from and put it on alert, so you want to avoid a big reception this time.’

  ‘Whatever you think DCP, though your high alert couldn’t stop Patel from making his final journey, did it?’

  ‘Don’t do it Jay Desai…’

  ‘Why don’t you stop me, DCP?’ ‘What you’re doing won’t —’ ‘Goodbye DCP.’

  The call was traced to yet another unregistered mobile phone located at Churchgate. But, twenty-fucking-four hours later the killer could be anywhere in Mumbai. Rita requested Jatin to check the Immigration records: a few days before and after the murders. Perhaps Jay Desai was so confident he could never be caught because he only flew into the country to kill? There was a possibility he did that, but there was an even bigger possibility that he travelled under an alias.

  Police had still not been able to track down Fernando’s stolen car, which was a bummer. Jay Desai had started the clock. There were still far too many unknowns that got Rita anxious. Only knowing that the killer would strike the next day cracked nothing.

  Who would he kill, and where?

  Jatin retuned like a soldier who had lost a battle. Jay Desai hadn’t flown in and out of Mumbai as speculated, not as Jay Desai at any rate.

  Despite the rising pressure from Crawford Market — including a personal call from ACP Joshi’s office — the Forensics hadn’t run enough tests to give out the blood analysis reports to the police. They, however, promised to work all through the night to provide the same by the morning.

  ‘Even if we find out that it is the killer’s blood, we do not have anything to match it with. How does it make us any wiser?’ Jatin questioned.

  ‘You may be right Jatin, but my fear is that it isn’t the killer’s blood.’

  ‘Whose could it be then?’

  ‘Let’s wait for the report tomorrow morning.’

  Rita, though she hadn’t mentioned whom she thought the blood could belong to, insinuated and relayed her apprehension. Apart from Fernando — his death had been comparatively archaic — there had been six murders and there were six alphabets on

  Viviane’s grave that had contained residue of blood. Was there no end to coincidences, a terminus ad quem?

  Working through the night with trace evidence collected at Viviane’s grave, the forensic team delivered as promised. Rita had goosebumps reading the report; the results were as forbidding as the detectives had deduced. All the six letters on Viviane's grave had been garnished with blood from a victim. The killer had carried his victim's blood to Viviane's grave, like he was endeavouring to cleanse her by performing some kind of a purification ritual. Everyone in the room looked at each other, no words were uttered; the depravity of the killer was more than disconcerting.

  Son. Crusader. Nemesis. Irrespective of why he did it — a filial valediction to his mother, a campaign against one of the most offensive professions in the world, or honest revenge — Jay Desai was, in the eyes of the law, a killer. It might have been instigated by miserable memories and begun as retaliation, but it was now decadence; infilling his mother's inscribed name on her grave with blood of those he killed, mocking the police by calling Rita, and using devious gadgets to masquerade his voice couldn’t have been described as anything else.

  Or Jay Desai could be disabused of all crimes if he was insane, which his defence lawyer would plead in any case, were he ever brought to trial. Despite his confession, even the Boston Strangler's defence had tried
getting a 'not guilty by reason of insanity' verdict, which, gratefully, the judge had ruled inadmissible. Why wouldn't Jay Desai's defence not use the same tactics, but expect, of course, a different result?

  The much-anticipated good news came in at last: at noon.

  The car — by now legendary in police circles — the red Maruti belonging to late Mr Fernando had been traced on the outskirts of Mumbai, forty kilometres north-west of Mumbai: parked deep in the thick mangroves near Panvel Creek near a makeshift one-room hut-like structure contrived to conceal. A constable on his beat, to scout for druggies in the high vegetation area, came across the car. He looked around to find no one, and hence called the local police station to see if the registration details on the car matched any stolen ones. It was the car they had been looking for; licence plates, faded by harsh Mumbai sun, were still recognisable.

  The instructions from Crawford Market were clear: "Watch. Do not advance."

  Scene of crime crew, the Forensics had all been radioed to discreetly surround the area and wait till the detectives arrived. Local police was instructed to stay vigilant, to retain the suspect if he left the hut, ask about the ownership of the car. They had been warned to approach suspect with great caution as he could well be armed.

  Vikram was not in office, and waiting for him seemed a daft idea; Rita left with Jatin who drove her Gypsy. 'Any news of Anita?' Rita lowered the radio to start a conversation, as her driver appeared sullen.

  'No. She didn't take my advice. She won't file a formal complaint. Wants to handle her problem her way...'

  'And that way is...?'

  'Don't know. Last I spoke to her was yesterday afternoon. Since then she's switched off her mobile. I caught her on MSN Messenger late last night — around ten — but she logged out abruptly without saying bye. I tried again this morning, but the phone's still off.'

  'I assume you've left messages.' Nod. Yes.

  'And it's Friday today,' Rita resumed the conversation. 'I hope she doesn't do anything stupid...'