The Murder Suspect

by Rani Ramakrishnan

  She was different from the other cold, withdrawn prospects; she was self-assured, confident, and even rustically elegant. Barefoot, clad in a wrinkled standard jail-issue sari, and cuffed to the table, she sat as though she was in full control of the situation. Her soft, firm voice had no airs about what she knew and did not know.

  She had been running a day-care facility for preschool children before being jailed. Her family had discontinued her schooling when she reached puberty at thirteen. After that, she had stayed at home and learnt to cook, sew, and maintain a home. She had been married at eighteen and had a fourteen-year-old daughter. She told me she had killed her husband when he attacked her in a drunken rage. It had been self-defence, but murder was murder, and she was convicted.

  She had been locked up ten years ago in a different millennium when computers were a novelty and the internet almost unheard of. When I asked her why we should recruit her and invest in training her, she replied that she was the best employee I would get, ever.

  She had survived ten years in prison among the worst people, under the most stressful circumstances. She had a child living in a juvenile home because the rest of her family had been unwilling to bring up a murderer’s daughter. After her release, she had the daunting task of rebuilding her daughter’s life—the life of a child who barely knew her.

  This task, she candidly declared, was the real punishment for her crime. She asked me if anything I needed her to do would be tougher than winning the trust of a child separated from her ten years ago. She had a point. Any job we offered her would be easier than her challenges on the home front.

  That was how Alisha came to be an IndeGener. She joined our testing team and proved to be a quick learner. I think the years in jail had helped. She was an unconventional thinker and difficult to dodge. The demands of the testing job complemented her personality and past circumstances beautifully. She had been with us since, and few IndeGeners in her current team knew of her unsavoury past.

  Alisha could kill. Even she would admit that. Would she kill in cold blood? I didn’t know.

  Her daughter was now happily married, and these days Alisha was lonely. She was also experiencing something akin to a mid-life crisis. The only problem was that given her past, this crisis could take the form of anything, especially something undesirable.

  I had three complaints against her in my inbox, matters that were under investigation. Six months ago there had been a dozen, but that pile had diminished significantly, and I had hoped that perhaps she was past that reckless phase.

  The plummet began a few months after her daughter’s wedding. She picked a fight with Pandurang in front of a prestigious client. That day Piyush had smoothed out matters before a crisis of unimaginable proportions broke out. Since then, there had been a few instances when she had started fights, especially at company parties or social events.

  I had a chat with her, and she blamed her short fuse on her sudden loneliness. Her work continued to be impeccable, and I wanted to avoid a situation where we would be forced to let her go. I advised her to find a hobby—something that would channel her energies in the right direction, away from fights at the workplace.

  On our way to the resort, she had told me that she had heeded my advice. She looked cocky and sly when she said it. She did not elaborate, and I didn’t pry.

  Was murdering people a hobby? What was I to think? I racked my brains about the new pastime at which she had hinted. I knew in my gut that it would not be something simple like horse riding or clubbing. Having known Alisha all these years, I knew that for personal enjoyment she would prefer something closer to illegal than legal.

  My line of thought was not at all helpful. Each and every person who had been with us during the fateful weekend appeared to be a likely suspect.

  ◆◆◆

  I thought about Manav Prasad. He was not a suspect, I decided. He was an ace chartered accountant. Piyush had always called him his personal genie. Senthil, our chief financial officer, had brought him into the IndeGen family. The only problem with Manav Prasad was that we did not have a file on him. Nobody in HR had interviewed him either. I had never even laid eyes on his résumé.

  We had proof that he had completed his CA, but that was about all I was sure of with regard to his background. One day Piyush announced that he was bringing in someone to act as liaison with government bodies. The next day I met Manav Prasad with instructions to complete his joining formalities.

  In his employment application, he left all sections blank except education, name, date of birth, and PAN card. Piyush told me to mind my business and stay out of his hair when I enquired about the rest of the details. Snubbed, I did just that. But I often wondered if Manav had worked for the underworld before he joined us.

  For instance, his personality was in complete contrast to the results he achieved. He was unassuming in person and spoke only when addressed. Despite this, every official he dealt with cowered down before him in the most bizarre way. How did this docile man intimidate them?

  Yet, in spite of the secrecy surrounding him, I trusted him. Piyush approved of him, and I knew he would never trust anyone who could tarnish the company’s image. His love for IndeGen was too great. Perhaps because of this, or because Manav was a friend of sorts, I felt sure that he was not the murderer. My gut vouched for his honesty. I left the matter at that.

  ◆◆◆

  Remembering 1991 brought a smile to my lips for the first time that day. He always made me smile—even his name had that effect on me. He represented everything I wanted IndeGen to be.

  He was a modern young person whose mind worked at supersonic speed. Innovation ran in his veins, he had an egalitarian mindset, was brutally honest, lived life on his own terms, and accepted everyone at face value. He never questioned anyone’s personal choices and kept his professional relationships just that.

  ‘A first-generation robotoid’ was what Piyush had called him. According to Piyush, 1991 was so much in love with technology and machines that he secretly desired to be one himself. In fact, all his actions were proof that he wanted to be a machine: changing his name from Girish Ravat to 1991(the year the internet was born), his choice of unisex clothes, his extreme obsession with gadgets and new technologies. This was Piyush’s diagnosis.

  One of my interns had found his profile on a social network. The profile screamed to us that a part of our company was out there, away from us. While we were busy creating a culture of equality and non-discrimination, he was living it already. We scrambled to poach him and succeeded with some effort. It was a decision we never regretted.

  Could he kill? No, I decided promptly. Another name to strike off the list of potential suspects, I thought gladly. He had the brains to plot murder, but he lacked deceit. Nothing in him was even vaguely criminal; murder was a long way off. I was happy. I had three names off the list: Chirag, Manav, and 1991.

  ◆◆◆

  The ringing of the doorbell interrupted my thoughts. My drawing-room clock showed 3:30 a.m. The memory of another early morning summon was still fresh. Dread, fear, disbelief, anxiety... I was not sure what all I was feeling just then. The doorbell rang again. I had to answer it, I realised.

  Slowly, ignoring the hammering in my head that had somehow increased after hearing the buzzer, I dragged my feet to the door. The peephole revealed the face of Avinash Chaudhary.

  OMG, not again! What did he want now? My anger returned. This man was unlike any I had met to date. Men were courteous when they addressed me. This one treated me like trash. His attitude irked me and made me say things I would not normally say to a complete stranger. More than anything, I loathed this bizarre effect he had on me. I threw open the door, enraged at even the thought of another meeting with this obnoxious specimen.

  ‘What are you doing here at this time of the night? I am going to file a complaint against you for this harassment,’ I snapped at him.

  Without bothering to reply, he waved a piece of paper in my face. I gr
abbed it and read its contents. It was a search warrant for my house.

  I turned white. The realisation about all that was likely to happen dawned. My relationship with Piyush was about to become common knowledge. We had kept matters private all these years. Today, within minutes, strangers would know. How soon would it be before others who knew us would learn about it as well? What would the ramifications be? Damn Piyush for getting himself killed so inconveniently.

  With an insolent expression of boredom, Choudhary waited for me to step aside. His victorious stance made me feel defeated. I wanted to scratch that look off his face. Instead, I meekly ushered him inside. He walked in followed by his brigade—men and women peering at everything in my home as though they were on a treasure hunt. These people were looking forward to peeking into my private life, I observed with bitter resentment.

  Putting on a brave face and burying my discomfort, I followed them in. Choudhary stood surveying the living room. His face wore a disgusted expression. I followed his gaze; it had stopped at the empty boxes of ice cream. To my shock, an inadvertent giggle escaped me. I did not giggle, ever. It was too ‘girly’ for my personality, but here I was giggling like a silly teenager.

  This super-intelligent cop had assumed that I had purchased ice cream for a party. Well, he now knew that the party was for one person only: me. He caught my giggle and averted his face.

  Instructions flew and his squad scattered in all directions to carry out his orders. I began to follow a girl who was heading to my bedroom.

  ‘You can stay here, if you please,’ Choudhary barked at me.

  I sat down. He turned off the TV.

  ‘I was watching,’ I protested.

  ‘On mute?’

  ‘My eyes can’t hear,’ I retorted. He switched on the TV, and I found more of my new favourite snack—another box of ice cream—and settled down to watch. I ignored him and his team after that.

  The hammering in my head was worse, but now I was more concerned about the pair of eyes glaring at me. Avinash Choudhary’s stare made me feel as though I was running nude on a crowded street. I stubbornly ignored him and kept my eyes glued to the TV, trying to appear composed.

  ◆◆◆

  After a long time during which he spared no opportunity to intimidate me with his glowering face, he finally addressed me with a request to pose a few questions.

  ‘Does a search warrant include permission to question?’

  ‘I can take you to the headquarters for questioning if you would prefer that.’

  I sank deeper into my couch, thinking of ways to get this hound off my back. Around me, my room looked as messy and unclean as it had been before they arrived.

  ‘So you don’t clean up after yourself?’

  ‘Did you mistake us for housekeeping services?’

  I offered a sarcastic smirk in response and he continued, ‘Everything is as we found it. We have collected some evidence which we will take with us.’

  ‘Right,’ I said dismissively.

  ‘Questions?’ he asked again.

  ‘Oh hell! Ask what you want to know. It’s not like you’ll believe me, anyway.’

  ‘Do you live alone?’

  There was the dreaded question, slightly more discreet than I had expected! I felt faint. Still trying to look unaffected, I replied, ‘Do you see anyone else here?’

  ‘Answer the question, Nalini Bose. I ask the questions, remember?’

  He was angry. I was getting to him. I liked that, and the reckless maverick in me emerged from the shameful corner it had occupied since the CBI invaded my house. I lived on my own terms, and this hound’s opinions in the matter were inconsequential.

  ‘I live alone,’ I replied, mentally prepared for the barrage to follow.

  ‘Whose clothes are these?’ He pointed at some men’s clothing they had found in the closet.

  ‘If they are my size, they could be mine.’

  Piyush had loved my naughty side, but flippant remarks got under this man’s skin, I knew. I couldn’t wait to stoke that fire.

  ‘Stop being cheeky. Who is the owner of these clothes?’

  ‘A dead man.’

  ‘Does he have a name?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you like to tell me his name?’

  He sounded well and truly mad by now. What a liberating feeling! Much stronger than my fear of the scandalous truth on the verge of exposure. I scooped out another spoonful of ice cream, looked straight at his face and said, ‘Not particularly.’

  He lost his composure. His lean, square face turned red, making his pencil-thin moustache jump off his skin. The vein on his right forehead throbbed, and his sharp, narrow eyes blazed fire from under his bushy eyebrows. His nostrils quivered as his right hand banged on the table in front of him and hit a vase, which shattered into a million pieces.

  The noise was music to my ears. He was a worthy opponent, but I was ahead of him for now. I understood that Avinash Choudhary was human, and I could break him. The realisation gave me tremendous strength. For the first time that day, I tasted the flavour of the butterscotch ice cream in my mouth. It was a delicious victory.

  He lurched forward, and his hands caught hold of my collar, pulling me up effortlessly. I should have been shaking, but I felt indomitable and supreme despite everything.

  ‘Who will pay for my vase?’

  ‘Whose clothes are these?’

  ‘Are you allowed to break things while searching people’s homes?’

  ‘What is his name?’ he shouted louder.

  ‘I thought so. So I can complain about your behaviour.’

  ‘Tell me his name, Nalini.’

  ‘You are also manhandling me. That is definitely against the law,’ I retorted calmly.

  He let go of my collar abruptly. It must have dawned on him that he was roughing up a person of the opposite gender. ‘Why are you protecting him? Is he the murderer?’

  ‘I thought I was supposed to be the killer.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘You mean you still don’t know for sure! So this is also a fishing expedition.’

  ‘I want his name.’

  ‘I want some peace. This is the second time tonight you are invading my privacy in this inhuman manner. The police are supposed to protect the public, not harm them, but here the story is upside down. I am sure your team would like to go home and get some rest. They look human, and I am sure they have lives outside work. See, everyone here wants something but is anyone getting what they want?’

  ‘Nalini Bose, I am asking for the last time; whose clothes are these?’

  ‘Actually, you will keep asking the same question even if you tire of asking it. So don’t tell me it’s the last time.’

  ‘When you know I will persist until I get an answer, why are you stalling the inevitable?’

  ‘However did you get to where you are today with this crippling defect? You are a complete misfit in this profession. I can read you like a book and play you like a fiddle whereas these should be your abilities.’

  ‘I am telling you to answer me, damn it.’ The veins along his throat jutted out, and his jaw clenched. He was trying hard to rein in his temper and failing miserably.

  ‘I rest my case,’ I replied smugly. I had won, even if it was a temporary victory.

  ‘Cuff her. We will question her at the station,’ he barked.

  I held out both my hands for his associate to shackle me and replied in a honeyed tone, ‘I am sure that you have an arrest warrant with you. I need to see it first. But you already know that.’

  Chapter 13

  I sat there like that, waiting for his associate to handcuff me. Choudhary turned away to compose himself. His deputies stood around, confused and on edge. Perhaps this was the first time they had witnessed their boss being taken to the cleaners.

  I leaned back and waited for his response. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and drew a deep breath, inhaling the carcinogenic fumes as deeply as he could. His
action brought back memories of Piyush chiding me for my smoking habit.

  ‘What is this love you have for that whiff of disgusting smoke that it overshadows your love for me? I feel you can live without me but not without smoking.’

  I needed a cigarette. Then the irony struck me—his words had come true. He was dead, but here I was living and breathing, surviving without him. But without a cigarette, I felt like I might die.

  Piyush was always right, but this time I was determined to prove him wrong. I had stayed alive without smoking for three days; I could endure more if nobody constantly reminded me about it. All I wished was for this unwanted attention to go away and leave me alone with my feelings and thoughts and memories and... and loss.

  ‘Can you please not smoke in the house?’ I asked, my voice meek and docile.

  ‘Why? I know you smoke.’

  ‘I am trying to quit.’

  Hearing myself say those words brought tears to my eyes. For all these years Piyush had hounded me to quit, but he had to die to convince me. What a stupid, horrible way for things to turn out. Tears stung my eyes. I did not know if I was mourning Piyush or my decision to quit smoking, but my emotional state had the desired effect. He put out his cigarette.

  ‘Those are Piyush’s clothes. He is... was my boyfriend,’ I said calmly. I had to tell the truth someday, after all.

  He swung around and faced me then, his face expressionless. His widened eyes were the only proof that I had made an unexpected announcement. I had a picture or two of Piyush hanging in the house. Surely these sleuths had spotted them. Perhaps our long and famous friendship served as adequate explanation for their presence in my house.

  ‘Piyush Gokhle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You were seeing each other?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He is married.’

  ‘Was.’

  ‘Were he and Pakhi Gokhle separated?’

  ‘No. I mean “was” as in he is dead. He and I were lovers. Pakhi and he were married.’