Bhendi Bazaar (10 page)

Vikram regretfully explained how unproductive the search had been in the attempt to find any relationship or anything in common between Lele and Suri. All eight of them looked at one another like time had stopped; only the sound of the nineteenth century Seth Thomas clock on the wall defied it. Rita recognised that the morale of the team was descending, which wasn't a good sign.

'Don't give up guys, we will get him.' She smiled wanly. Even she realised her motivational words sounded hollow like friable sandstone, and if anyone cared to question —
how? —
she would be at a loss in supporting the optimism. The servility of Indian bureaucracy stopped everyone from quizzing. 'Let us look at the case all over again: the crime scenes, the scene of crime photography, the forensic reports, the autopsies, and the other details. Sometimes when we get too close, we can lose focus, just like a camera. Inspectors Rajesh and Milind, take a PC each with you and go back to the crime scenes. Ferret about, look for anything. Inspector Mathur...' she turned to
chota
Mathur: 'Take a constable and go to Lele's office.' She switched officers to search what someone else had searched the first time around. Fresh eyes.

Rita walked back to her room imagining the life that the unfortunate Samir Suri would never live: the dreams he would never realise, like the vacation his wife spoke about, never see his child grow up, never see her first step, her first words, her first sports day at school.

Maybe the couple had planned to give her a sibling. What could Samir have possibly done so sinful to deserve the kind of death he received? Rita's brain edited her question with a reluctant smile: what could anyone have done so vile as to deserve a death like Adit Lele or Samir Suri? All the other files at her desk, she knew, would have to wait till the pressing need of the hour had been attended to. Which, alas, didn't seem to be happening anytime soon.

Homicide got priority over a club brawl. Or burglary. She made a coffee and sat down to ponder over the day's events, to rummage around the outback corners of her skull. No apparent motive suggested one of the axiomatic Ws — wine, women, wealth, vengeance; anyone with half a mind should have spelt vengeance with a "W". Jealousy? Could it lead to cold-blooded murders like these? It normally sired rage and manslaughter. Besides, how could one person be jealous of two men unknown to each other? Conversely, Lele and Suri being strangers to each other did not conclusively imply the killer couldn't have known them both. One didn't necessarily know all friends of friends. Had she missed anything that could come back to haunt her later? Thoughts straggled in her brain. Appeared, wandered, disappeared. The answer was beyond her ken for now, at least.

A tsunami of reporters started arriving at Crawford Market from 3:45 p.m.; they were ushered into the conference hall on the first floor. Cameras were focused, microphones tested, ink in pens checked. DCP Rita Ferreira turned up with Jatin and
takla
Mathur at five minutes past four when the crowd had started getting restive.

'At 4:20 a.m. yesterday morning, Mumbai Police Crime Branch was called in to investigate a murder at ITC Grand Maratha Sheraton. The victim, Mr Samir Suri, had only arrived in Mumbai the previous night on a business trip. We have a full team of detectives and uniformed police officers working on the case and I can assure you we will soon apprehend the murderer.' Rita opened the briefing and elaborated on the investigation in Delhi and Mumbai to reassure the scribes that everything was under control, but most didn't look convinced, which was unnerving. These women and men had enough ink to push Mumbai to the edge if any one of them ran a story on serial murders: "Serial killer on the loose in Mumbai" and the sale of diapers would hit the roof.

‘DCP Ferreira, does the police know who killed Samir Suri?’ The barrage of questions started.

'No. Not yet.'

‘Do you have a suspect?’ 'No comments.'

‘Is that a
no
?’

‘Is there a link between the murder in Versova two days before Mr Suri's murder?’ 'No comments.'

‘Is that a
yes
then?’

More questions ensued and Rita cautiously ignored or distracted them; some she declined to comment on because the crime squad itself didn't have answers to, others she circumvented as she was in no rush to report certain details. The throng of reporters looked dismayed, their stories remained incomplete. Had they expected to meet the killer in person at Crawford Market today? Under the guise of least disturbing, the police released only a few photographs of Samir Suri that didn't show the true nature of the felony. No photographs of Adit Lele's murder were passed on to the media; it didn’t require rocket science to spot the similarities. Some smart reporters reckoned the police wasn’t providing the complete truth, but they didn't have much choice. It was either this or nothing. After two hours, the scrum started depleting. And though they left after hushed whimpers, Rita knew the restive vultures weren't resting till they got their prey: the complete story.

Fortunately, the shirt and lingerie Rita had packed in her bag the day before was still on a hanger in her office. Unfortunately, Crawford Market, like many old buildings, was built solely for men; the single ladies’ shower room in the whole building was a testimony to that. Rita washed and put on the new lingerie and shirt. Holster in place, her blue corduroy jacket covering it, she paced to Joshi's office.

It was 6:31.

The doctor sat opposite Joshi, with his back facing the door. 'DCP Ferreira, this is Doctor —'

'Ashwin Mittal, when the… when did you become Ash Mattel?' Rita beamed an I- recognise-you smile, which was instantly reciprocated.

Ash Mattel was Mister Ugly personified. Bulky like a bull, dark-skinned, a receding hairline, broad nostrils and pockmarks. He was as ugly now as he was a decade earlier, Rita's photographic memory quickly rewound and played in Eastman colour. But his style, his warm personality, his clothes and manners dared the unappealing looks God had bestowed on him. Ash must have certainly practised hard to make all of it come together so brilliantly, so naturally. Strangely, there was something attractive about him.
Ugly-manly-attractive?

'It is a small world. How have you been?' Ash got up to acknowledge and shake hands. 'A thought had crossed my mind it could be you when I heard the name Rita Ferreira. But, police service and you, I let it pass.'

'Male chauvinism prevented you from accepting that?'

'Oh no, no, no. I expected you to be a corporate high-flyer.'

'Wrong profiling then?'

'I wouldn't say that. Both careers entail leading lots of men.' Copacetic response, Mr-Fucking-Smooth.

'You two know each other?' asked Joshi, who suddenly felt like an intruder.

'We went to college together, sir. Ashwin, Ash left college after first year. All anyone knew was that he had got admission into some college in London.'

'Cambridge.'

'That I know now.' Rita smiled.

'Good. Makes my life simple,' Joshi intervened. 'I have outlined the case to Dr Mattel... you can provide him all the details. Tea, anyone?'

Neither was interested.

'Thank you sir,’ Rita said and looked at Ash. 'Should we go to my room?'

'Sure.' Ash got up. 'Have a good evening Mr Joshi.'

TEN
2007

'So, how has it been?' Ash asked again as Rita steered him out of Joshi's office. The contentment on Joshi's face would have been apparent even to an orangutan — with Rita having known Ash from college days, it was one less chore for him; Rita could decide if a criminal profiler could be of any assistance here.

'Great. How have you been?'

They were now in Rita's office. 'Coffee?'

'Of course,' he responded.

'How time flies, it's been what, ten...eleven years?' ‘A little over ten.’

As it so happens sometimes, time — or the lack of it — causes the void. Friendships fade, not because people want associations to wane, but because other interests take precedence. Besides, there were no email addresses at the time they left college, which could have facilitated keeping in touch. Rita hadn't met Ash, seen him, or even thought about him in the past ten or more years. She didn't know he was in the city until now: Ash, her classmate at St Stephen's for one full year.

'You must have been equally surprised to see me?' Ash began. 'Surprised? I was shocked! And what's with the new name?'

'Well, Ashwin was a bit too long for Britain…had to spell it out every single time, so just shortened it to Ash. Microsoft Word told me I was misspelling Mittal every time, the correct spelling should have been Mattel from the beginning.’ Ash smiled. ‘You don't like it?'

'Would you change it if I said I didn't?'

'You can still call me Ashwin Mittal.'

'How long are you here for?'

'Four weeks, but the plan is to spend some time in Goa.' There was silence in the room, the kind of embarrassing quiet where two people struggle to carry the conversation forward. 'You still single?' Ash filled the hiatus.

'Yes. Loved, lost. You?'

'You've done better than me then. I've loved, married, divorced. 2:1.'

'No kids?'

'Thank God we didn't stretch our mistake that far.' He gave a forlorn smirk, and Rita comprehended it wasn't a good subject to carry on talking about. She didn’t need to know, and he didn't need to enquire either about the years after college, their partners, spouses or their sex lives. At any rate, both were mature enough to recognise this wasn't a blind date; this was a professional meeting at Mumbai Police HQ.

'Want to tell me about the case?' Ash segued into professional discourse.

Rita gave a succinct account of both murders, expounding the juxtaposition between the two incidents, the mysterious phone calls right before the murders, the MO, the lack of any clues. 'One of my colleagues was optimistic about getting some prints off the lipstick that the search team found under the bed, but —' Rita stopped mid-sentence.

'You're having a laugh. If you get any prints from anything at the crime scene, they would most certainly be someone else's. Serial killers are immaculate planners. They need to be. Part of the lust is in planning and the aftermath. Some even keep diaries, pictures, newspaper clippings, record news and minute details. Goading stimulates planning the next kill. From what you've told me so far, it is apparent you've got a maniac killer who is meticulous, extremely fastidious, has above average IQ, and who isn't leaving anything to chance. Yes, he could slip, but I wouldn't wager waiting for his blunder to apprehend him.'

'So, you are certain it's not just a coincidence that the two murders are so similar?'

'Similarities can, of course, be coincidental. The very fact that two men get murdered is the beginning of the similarity. The question is how many more similarities does it take for you to discount the coincidence factor and accept that it's orchestrated? No two murders are ever identical, though. Similar, yes, but not identical. These killers gather experience every time they strike and, sometimes, improvise. At other times, change their MO to please themselves. This killer attacked your second victim more aggressively, which is apparent. He is, like others, proving to be a sadist. He will try to inflict more pain, be more gruesome. He doesn't have to play by the rules, there isn't a regimented MO he has to follow. There might well be other factors that could have inadvertently made him alter his MO — some noise in the vicinity that made him attack more fiercely to finish off the job faster, maybe? Or another knife available at the second location, which he used as a weapon. Perhaps one of the incisions wasn't from the knife he carried? But there is a theme emerging in his MO, that's vital. This psycho doesn’t see himself anything less than an artiste in his twisted brain. And he’s got bolder in signing his art, signature art.'

'You mean…' Words didn't come out when Rita opened her mouth to speak.

'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 might 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.