Patang (14 page)

Rathod snorted. ‘You think Christ will forgive you for killing three people? Innocent or otherwise? How different do you think that makes you from any of them? They had their own reasons to kill, and so did you. You’re no different from them; you’re just a common murderer, and now that you’re done that’s exactly how everyone will treat you, including your Christ.’

Having said these words, Rathod rose from his chair and turned to leave. As he did, he hit his head on the overhead lamp, and it began to swing.

‘Correction…’ Tony said softly from behind Rathod. ‘
I’m not done!’

Rathod stopped in his tracks and turned around slowly.

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I’m not done. You think Anmol’s death is the only instance in which innocence has been trampled on in this city? No, sir. There are many, many others. There’s no way I’m done.’

Rathod laughed. ‘Well, good luck with that. Because in all likelihood, you’ll be hanging from a pole very soon, just like a kite.’

Tony Matthew laughed heartily and said, ‘That’s a good one!’

Rathod shook his head as he turned back towards the door. ‘And even if you were to plead insanity, you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars.’

As he was about to knock on the metallic door, he heard Tony’s voice from behind him.

‘You think you’ve won, Mr Rathod? By throwing me behind a few puny iron bars? Is that what you think?’

Rathod glanced back at Tony. As the lamp above the man’s head oscillated back and forth, he disappeared and reappeared by turns, in an eerie frolic of dark and light. And in that ominous atmosphere, his ice-cold yet calm voice was heard once more.
‘Listen to me carefully, Mr Rathod, because I’m only going to say this once. Your troubles are far from over, I guarantee that. In fact, they are just beginning, and you have very little time. Since you have been a worthy opponent, I believe it is only fair that I warn you and ask you to be prepared.’

‘Prepared?’ Rathod asked with a frown. ‘For what?’

Tony leaned forward with a smile. Rathod had never seen a look more sinister.

‘For the next murder.’

20

Three months had passed since Tony’s arrest. The rains had gone, and with them had washed away the story of the most controversial serial killings in the city.

In these three months, the media, both traditional and online, had endlessly dissected the case of the most notorious serial killer in the country. Debates ranged on whether Tony deserved a more humane treatment (it was argued that he was clearly mentally unstable) or whether he should get the noose. As is often the case with such issues, different sides were taken, conversations tended to digress to irrelevant topics, personal allegations were made, polls were conducted, memes and spoofs went viral, the Mumbai Police received both accolades and brickbats from various quarters, and retired uncles sitting in seedy tea shops sipped their tea and discussed that the killer should have been caught sooner. Then, gradually, other, more sensational news began to capture the attention of the masses and the media and, almost in an unnoticeable way, the story of Tony Matthew vanished from the minds of the public.

But within the confines of the judicial system, the case of
Anthony Matthew vs the State of Maharashtra raged on, with the defence attorney having a tough time because his client never uttered a word in court. The judge, an experienced man of great wisdom, stuck to the letter of the law and continued to give the accused the prescribed number of opportunities to present his defence and explain the reasons, if any, behind him murdering three people and attempting to kill a fourth. But Tony Matthew didn’t speak.

Meanwhile, Chandrakant Rathod had gone back to his old life, spending sleepless nights catching ATM robbers and underworld henchmen, while Commissioner Mule and Uday Singh had moved on to other things. Mule was heading towards his retirement, so he was quite busy. Crime in the city had by no means vanished, but one had to admit that crime rates had fallen to a large extent.

One afternoon at the Shantinagar Police Station, Rathod was helping a constable file his report on the burglar duo who had been robbing jewellery stores across the city and giving the police a lot of trouble. Rathod had caught them within a week.

The constable finished the report, labelled all the evidence and then turned to Rathod. ‘It’s always a pleasure to work with you, sir!’ he said, shaking Rathod’s hand.

Rathod smiled wearily.

‘Sorry you had to wait for a long time, sir – things have been really hectic around here since last night. I’m sure you’ve heard about the murder at the mill?’

Rathod shook his head no. He had a nasty headache and desperately needed some sleep. Thanks to the nightly stake-outs outside various jewellery stores, he hadn’t slept in days.

‘It’s a mess, sir! They know who the murderer is, though. The victim’s brother had been threatening him for quite some
time, it seems. Even wrote threatening letters to him. He’s a businessman. Filthy rich. Shady deals and underworld links, sir. Finally,
supari
killers finished him off.’

‘Where do I have to sign?’ Rathod asked, barely listening to the man.

‘Just a moment, sir, let me just staple these together, otherwise Bada Babu will yell again. “Tope, you’re good for nothing”, “Tope, you’re an imbecile”. Thirty years I’ve been in service, sir,
thirty years
. I’ve never taken a penny from anyone, and I know all the inside stories, sir…who’s doing what…and that’s it… here, right here…’

As Rathod signed the paper, the constable chatted on, ‘Horrible mess they made out of his brother, though. Imagine, sir…they beat him to death and left his dead body hanging from two poles in that old steel mill in Shantinagar – hands wide apart, feet tied together…broke his back, it seems.
Chee!
What has this world come to, eh? Just for a little money…one more here, sir…yes, right here…’

Rathod paused, his pen hovered in mid-air. The constable noticed a deep frown on his forehead. An image…just an image…flashed across Rathod’s mind – the victim, tied to two poles, hands apart, feet tied together. It reminded him of… something…something he had seen before…

‘Sir? You have to sign right there, on the dotted line,’ the constable said once again, breaking Rathod’s reverie.

‘When did this happen?’ Rathod asked.

‘What, the murder at the mill? Last night. The body was discovered this morning, and they are frantically looking for the brother. I’m telling you, sir, there’s no use looking for him…he must be halfway to Dubai by now.’

Rathod’s instincts were tingling. Something told him he
should see the body for himself, before it was sent for a post-mortem. On a hunch, he asked the officer-in-charge at the station, Mrinal Bhave – an old acquaintance indebted to him – to allow him access to the crime scene. Bhave gave him further details of the case. Apparently, the victim was one Imtiaz Raza, a businessman who had various commercial interests. He had lodged an FIR against his younger brother, Iliyas Raza, a few weeks ago for making threatening calls and sending abusive letters to him over a property dispute. Neither the calls nor the letters, however, could be traced back to the brother. Raza claimed that his brother had threatened to kill him and sought protection from the police, but due to the lack of concrete evidence, the police could only bring Iliyas Raza into the station for one night, give him a stern warning and let him go. If only they had known that he would resort to hiring contract killers to get rid of his brother!

By the time Rathod parked his car outside the mill’s compound, his headache had turned into a splitting one. Everything around him seemed extra bright, and even the faintest sounds seemed extremely loud. But he had a very bad feeling that there was something off about this murder, something the investigating officers had overlooked.

Jamunadas Steel Mill was old and abandoned, and the entire place was under lockdown because the owner’s grandson, who lived in Seattle, had plans to sell the machinery, most of which could be leveraged. The compound was huge, and it was evident from one look around it that in the past it had been a thriving industrial outfit. Most of the machinery was imported from Germany, and although there had been significant depreciation over the years, they would still command a decent sum. Grand old man Jamunadas Dhanrajani’s sole heir and grandson, who,
from a very young age, had shown more interest in music than in lifeless steel ingots, had stayed away from the family business and gone to the US, finally marrying his college sweetheart and settling down there to make a decent name for himself in the ad-jingles industry. The body had been found in the cooling unit of the mill, which was built across three floors. When Rathod reached the spot, two members of the forensics team were busy at work. Without disturbing them, Rathod watched the body from a distance.

Imtiaz Raza seemed to be in his mid-forties. He was dressed in a white Peshawari kurta-pyjama, and was of medium build, with a head full of thick, curly hair. His entire torso had lurched forward, looking like a horizontally inverted ‘C’, with his head hanging backwards from over his shoulders. His hands were outstretched and tied to two poles at opposite ends. Rathod never knew that a human being’s back could bend backwards to such an extent. It was obvious that the victim’s backbone had broken. His feet were tied together and fixed on to a short peg driven into the floor near his legs. Rathod didn’t dare to imagine what an incredible amount of pain the man must have gone through while he was being clubbed to death.

‘Nasty business!’

The voice startled Rathod. He hadn’t realized that someone was standing behind him. He looked around to find a uniformed police officer leaning against a pillar a few metres away and smiling softly. He was a young man, impeccably dressed in a clean, well-ironed uniform, roughly the same height as Rathod, with a serene face and lean build. His hair was gelled and drawn back neatly, his shoes were shiny and he looked smart and dapper. His eyes, although calm, had a twinkle of intelligence in them.

‘It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir!’ the officer said. ‘I’m a great admirer of your work.’

Rathod nodded politely but did not answer. He was very tired. The forensic officers packed their kits and went past them with a smile. Rathod smiled back briefly. He took a few steps towards the body and closely examined the area around the corpse.

The entire floor was covered with a thick layer of dust. Wherever Rathod stepped, he left his footprints.
The factory must have been shut down for decades
, he thought.

‘I’ve followed all your cases closely,’ the officer said enthusiastically, following him. ‘Especially the Professor one…I personally think that was your greatest feat, sir…but there is…’

‘Officer,’ Rathod interrupted him. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m working.’

‘Of course…I’m sorry, sir,’ the officer apologized sincerely.

Rathod hadn’t meant to be so curt with him but something had caught his attention. There was a broad pattern on the floor, almost like a conical shape, that had started from behind the body and expanded uniformly as it moved away from it. Rathod knelt down to examine the pattern more closely.

‘Looks like someone swept out the dust from that area, doesn’t it, sir?’ the officer asked.

Rathod was irritated at being disturbed again, but he realized that the officer was right. Indeed, the floor seemed to have been swept clean. There was not a speck of dust in that conical area. The entire thing seemed quite strange to Rathod.

From the corner of his eye, he noticed that the officer had walked up to him and was itching to say something. Rathod abhorred such people, who considered speaking more important than thinking. He rose to his feet and tried to walk away,
focussing on the possible reasons why someone would sweep the floor, that too only a part of it.

‘I was wondering why someone would leave such a pattern under the victim’s feet, that too with such precision,’ the officer said hesitantly.

Rathod was surprised to see that he was right once again. The floor had indeed been swept clean with almost geometric precision. As was his habit, Rathod started walking from one point of the crime scene to another, stopping and kneeling down several times to look at the floor, keeping his eyes and ears open, observing everything, soaking in the environment. Then, suddenly, he stopped. A thin flicker of light in the distance had caught his eye.
What was that?
He strained his eyes to catch the flicker from behind a mesh of machinery.

‘What’s your name?’ he swivelled around and asked the officer.

‘Aditya, sir. Inspector Aditya Mathur. I’m investigating this murder.’

‘Does this place have electricity?’

‘I think so…wait, let me check…’

Aditya sprung into action. He rushed to a wall that had a huge switchboard on it and turned on a couple of switches. Nothing happened.

‘Try the mains,’ Rathod called out.

Aditya clutched a large lever and tugged at it. With a loud metallic clang that echoed through the abandoned building, the lever came snapping down and one by one, a series of lights shone brightly. In the bright light, the dark alcove-like area on the wall behind Imtiaz Raza’s corpse was now illuminated, revealing a huge industrial cooling fan, almost 20 feet in diameter. Rathod and Aditya looked at it with a sense of awe
and wonder. Raza’s body – in fact, their own bodies – seemed tiny in front of the monster fan.

‘My God! Look at the size of that fan!’ Aditya murmered and looked at Rathod.

Rathod didn’t comment. Instead, he walked towards the fan and stood at the edge of the floor. The giant blades were a good 10 feet away from his position. He turned around to look at the scene of the crime again.

‘It was this fan that swept the dust off the floor,’ he remarked, thinking aloud.

‘But why switch on the fan?’ Aditya asked.

‘Well, obviously to kill the victim.’

‘You mean the victim was alive when he was brought here? Yes…that makes sense…why else would he be tied up?’

‘He was alive. He was tied to the poles and then the fan was switched on. Look at that sign over there.’