Mumbaistan (12 page)

Just before Vakola Junction, Virkar turned to the right under the flyover and headed off the highway. A little further up the road, Virkar stopped the Bullet in front of a large, white, four-storey building. The sign outside said 'Directorate of Forensic Science Laboratories'.

Virkar parked outside and walked up to a side gate. He shook the sleeping watchman's shoulder. The watchman didn't stir. Virkar jumped over the side gate and walked into the main building. The indoors were dark, with just a narrow ray of light streaming in through a small corridor on the far right. The sign above the corridor pointed to the toxicology department. Virkar made his way towards the source of light and stood before the open door of a lab. He pushed the swivel door and stepped inside.

Inside, the sole occupant, Dr Girish Gite, a boyish man, beamed as Virkar approached him. He bent down and touched Virkar's feet. 'Arre, what are you doing?' Virkar stepped back, a little embarrassed.

Dr Gite replied, 'Just showing my respect, saheb. I haven't seen you for so many years'

Virkar returned his smile and hugged the young doctor. 'How are you, Giriya?' he enquired. 'I am okay, saheb, as you can see.' Dr Gite gestured towards his surroundings, still smiling.

Virkar's thoughts went back to the teenaged Giriya from Aheri village in Gadchiroli, the young boy who had performed exceedingly well in academics at school. So well that the local Naxalite dalam had identified him as a potential soldier for their militant cause. Giriya had, in fact, flirted with Naxalism, joining their Sangam Cultural Front and going from village to village performing street plays with coded messages of revolution. It was after one such performance that the young Sub-Inspector Virkar had arrested him. Virkar, however, was quick to understand that Giriya was just a young boy who needed an intellectual outlet. The sympathetic Virkar had recommended his application to the Nagpur Medical College. On securing his admission, Giriya and his family had declared their indebtedness to Virkar's kind act. Virkar simply asked them to spread Giriya's story among the nearby villages. The story had caught people's imagination and the local Naxalite sangam group had gradually lost its teeth. Virkar had been hailed as a policeman with a heart.

Dr Gite's serious tone cut through Virkar's thoughts. 'It is Tributame. An animal euthanasia drug generally used to put horses to sleep.'

Pulled out of his reverie, Virkar was a little confused at this information. Animal euthanasia...horses... I don't understand.'

Dr Gite explained, 'Euthanasia or mercy killing methods are designed to cause minimal pain and distress while putting animals to death. Dogs, and sometimes, larger animals, like horses, are almost always euthanized through intravenous injection.

'And what is this Tribut...but...' Virkar struggled.

Dr Gite replied, 'Tributame is basically a mixture of three drugs—embutramide, chloroquine phosphate and lidocaine— and has become popular because it causes death with even a lower volume of injection. Unconsciousness and cardiac arrest follow rapidly, one after the other. Usually within thirty seconds'

Virkar held up his hand to stop the information onslaught. Realization dawned on him. 'You mean to say Dr Jetha was killed by an animal poison?'

Dr Gite nodded in all seriousness. 'Yes. The killer obviously had access to veterinary drugs and knew how to use them.'

Virkar half-turned towards him. 'Will you share this information with others?'

Dr Gite replied with a straight face, 'If someone asks, yes. But then, nobody ever asks me anything...'

Virkar didn't say anything. He patted Giriya on his shoulder and walked away. As he neared the door, Dr Gite said, 'Hope you get him, saheb.'

Virkar nodded at Giriya, and exited the lab, shutting the door behind him.

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The rotund white-haired man in the rumpled grey safari suit was called 'Wagh Mama' by all and sundry. He was sitting with his customary morning cutting chai on a rickety wooden bench on the footpath next to Shyamlal's cart, outside the main gate of Johnson Medical College Hostel. This daily morning ritual had been repeated so many times over the years that the students who passed in and out of the gate did not as much as give Wagh Mama a second glance. Save for one ex-student, sitting in the Light of Persia restaurant across the street, gazing at him through uncertain eyes.

Porus's attentive eyes were following Wagh Mama's every action, but his thoughts were clouded with confusion. Wagh Mama was an institution by himself. He had been the head night watchman at Johnson College for years, some said forever. Every hosteller knew that if he or she needed to get in or out post curfew, Wagh Mama needed to be kept in good humour. Which was easy enough, as Wagh Mama was prone to paroxysms of laughter at the slightest hint of jocularity. Indeed, the old man was a stereotype of the good-natured watchman of the share-a-joke-bum-a-smoke variety. His popularity among the students was such that his morning tea, that he so enjoyed after his regular night duty, was funded by a special students' 'account' at Shyamlal's cart. Every student contributed
10 a month towards his morning cutting'.

After duty hours, Wagh Mama would head straight to Shyamlal's cart, quickly down the half-full chai 'gilass' and head for the bus stop to catch a bus to wherever he lived. No one knew any details of that part of his life, except for the fact that he had no family and lived alone. Watching him gulp down the chai, Porus couldn't bring himself to believe that this jolly old man was part of the kidney racket.

Saakshi had been insistent that he 'take care' of Wagh Mama, but Porus had balked at the task, not only because he wasn't really a hardened killer, but also because he had shared many a joke with Wagh Mama during his student days and had fond memories of the man.

In the midst of the conflicting emotions invading his mind, Porus noticed that Wagh Mama had got up from the bench and was helping a tired-looking man up from his seat. The man had obviously been recently discharged after treatment and was not fully fit yet. He was wearing a red T-shirt with a yellow 'Being Human' logo. Wagh Mama, in his usual, gregarious way, was also being human. Porus watched as he led the dazed man to the bus stop. A bus approached, Wagh Mama helped the man into it and followed him inside. 'He is a good Samaritan, not a kidney-stealing killer,' Porus thought as the bus left the stop for its onward journey.

Porus paid his bill and left the Light of Persia restaurant, cursing the situation he was in. Once again, he thought of heading towards a police station, but gave up the thought as soon as an image of Saakshi's angry face flashed in his mind. He knew he would be deprived of their soul-satisfying lovemaking sessions if he didn't think of a convincing excuse for not 'taking care' of Wagh Mama. By force of habit, Porus popped some gum into his mouth as he began to work on his story.

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Body Found in Drain

A decomposed and badly injured body of an unidentified man was found in a drain in Kandivli on Tuesday. Police suspect that the man is about 35 years old and had committed suicide. Sub-Inspector Sachin Ramteke told us, 'Around 5 p.m., a local resident informed us that a body had been spotted floating near a quarry in Vadarpada. The land, which is a prohibited area, belongs to the Mumbai Metropolitan Regional Development Authority. The drain is very deep and the spot is uninhabited. The nearest slums are about a kilometre away.'

The police have registered a case of accidental death. 'It appears that the victim might have jumped from the hill above the drain. The spot is inaccessible otherwise,' informed Ramteke.

Due to the advanced state of decomposition, identification of the body is difficult. However, the body has a recent surgical scar on the left side of his abdomen, extending from the back to the front, suggesting that the man had had a kidney related operation.

The police said the body was found in a red T-shirt with a yellow Being Human logo, black trousers, dirty white sports shoes and a brown leather belt. No wallet and no identification was found on the victim, but the police discovered a small 'chor' pocket in the man's pants. A fifty-rupee note, a small packet of tobacco and a passport-sized photograph (given above) were found in the chor pocket.

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Porus was cold. Not because of the weather, but because of the sensation that had crept down his spine. He had been staring at the Sunday paper for the past fifteen minutes. He was unable to tear away his eyes from the small passport-sized photograph printed above the innocuous crime report. Even though Porus had only had a fleeting glimpse of him, there was no mistaking that the photograph was of the same man he had seen Wagh Mama help into the bus.

Porus put down the paper. He had been mistaken. Saakshi had been right. Oh, how she had fought him when he had told her that Wagh Mama couldn't be a part of the operation. She had abused him to high heaven and nearly torn off his shirt in her agitated state of mind. She had only calmed down when he had promised that he would do something within the week. Although he had bought time from her, he had had no intentions of doing anything to Wagh Mama and had been looking for another excuse—until now, at least.

Now he was full of regret. He had committed the cardinal sin of letting emotions cloud his judgment. 'You fool! You could have saved this man's life. If only you had listened to Saakshi and not used your own, addled brain,' a voice inside his head screamed.

Porus got up from the coffee table in his living room and walked into his bedroom and. There he opened a small cupboard, which functioned as his private pharmacy. Bottles of pharmaceutical drugs were lined up in the cupboard. The different labels displayed a vast array of drugs for every occasion and purpose. He reached into the back and picked up two medium-sized brown bottles. He bent down and pulled out his black backpack, unzipped it and took out his medical kit. He walked into the living room with the medical kit and the bottles.

Sitting on the settee, he opened his medical kit, took out a fresh plastic syringe, broke open a pack of needles and screwed a needle onto the syringe. He filled the syringe with Pancuronium from one of the bottles, and then drew from the other bottle, marked Succinylcholine Chloride.

Soon after receiving the injection full of this lethal concoction, Wagh Mama would begin to feel numb and his breathing would become constricted, leading to his death.

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A sign painted on a rock outside Tulpulgonda, a small village deep inside the Bhamragarh forest in the remote Gadchiroli district of Maharashtra read 'Death to all Policemen. Virkar jumped out of his jeep, his police-issue automatic pistol drawn. The four other constables with him were ready with their cocked SLRs. They were searching for Bhimrao Khetmange, a man who had given wrong information to the police. Information that caused the death of sixteen policemen in a landmine blast. The huts in the village were empty, but the exodus from this village seemed to have happened recently. Virkar and the four armed constables searched the huts, one by one. Some scattered belongings were lying on the rough, dry ground between the huts. It looked as if the villagers had left because they feared an attack. Who from, was the moot question that Virkar had come to find an answer to.

As he reached an open area in the centre of the village, gunshots rang out. Two of the constables fell. Virkar and the other two took cover and returned fire. Taking advantage of the hilly, thick, forested area surrounding Tulpulgonda, the Naxals had taken up positions on the treetops bordering the village. They had constructed morchas at vantage points on the trees. The policemen had no place to hide, as they were surrounded from all sides. Virkar and the two constables retaliated as best they could, but Virkar realized that they were massively outnumbered and exposed on the lower ground. There were at least nine or ten Naxalite guerillas attacking them. Virkar felt death advancing towards him. But he was not ready to strike an acquaintance with it yet.

He asked the two constables to scream loudly, as if they were shot, and then all three of them lay silently. After almost fifteen minutes, they saw dark shadows in green fatigues emerging from the trees lining the village. Seven of them coming towards the village clearing, in attack formation. Three on the left, three on the right, the leader in the centre. Virkar motioned his constables to get ready, and on his command, they fired. Virkar took out the leader in the centre with one single shot to his head. The crossfire confused the Naxals, and the policemen had quickly managed to eliminate all seven. It had happened fast, but the few Naxals in the trees started firing indiscriminately, making it increasingly difficult to continue in the positions that Virkar and the two constables were maintaining. By then, the policemen were almost out of ammunition. There seemed to be no way out...

A mobile phone rang. Virkar woke up with a start. It was early morning, only a few hours after he had returned from the police station. He had spent the previous twenty-four hours trying to find a link between Dr Jetha and Tributame, and had come up with nothing. Irritated with himself, he had drowned the rest of the night in his favourite Godfather beer. Somewhere between the fourth and the fifth bottle, he had fallen asleep, only to have the one dream that he was trying his best to get away from. To purge from his system.