FIR

by Monabi Mitra

  On a marble-topped table beside the bed was a jumble of medicines. Sudip Pyne looked through them and found the usual combination of vitamin tablets, blood pressure medicine and anti-coagulant pills. There was also a half-empty bottle of water, which was chilled by the air-conditioning. Dr Pyne frowned and looked around for something he felt was missing, though he couldn’t put his finger on it. Then he stole a look at the dead man’s wife.

  She was sitting on a chair and looking straight ahead, beyond the form on the bed, at the darkness outside the window. Her hair fell prettily around her shoulders and on to a cotton nightdress with a delicate print of fish swimming amongst fluted shells. There were no paroxysms of grief, no sobs and flailing, only this wonderful composure.

  ‘Do you have your husband’s medical prescription?’

  ‘Prescription? I think there was one, with his reports and stuff …’ Nisha looked around her helplessly. At the same time, a young man who had been lurking around outside the room noiselessly glided in. Nisha asked him, ‘Buro, where is his medical file? The doctor wants to see his prescriptions.’

  Buro opened a wooden cupboard, extracted a file and a sheet of paper, and handed them to the doctor. Dr Pyne glanced through the paper, then looked through the rest of the file and finally looked up. It had taken him a minute or two to do so, during which time two other ladies entered the room. They stood in a circle around him, and Sudip Pyne’s uneasiness increased.

  ‘Your husband took Valium and Tramadol tablets too, I see. I can’t find those medicines on the table. Did he keep them elsewhere?’

  The helplessness in the beautiful eyes increased. ‘I don’t know, I was so busy this week and this evening. Buro, do you know where the other medicines are?’

  Buro went to the cupboard again, took out a leather pouch and handed it to the doctor. There were more vitamins, a strip of antacids, a headache balm and two skin rash creams, a bottle of Savlon and a wad of cotton wool, but no Tramadol or Valium.

  Dr Pyne turned back to Nisha Bose. ‘I suppose you don’t know whether he took the Tramadol medicines this evening or not?’

  She shook her head. For the first time now, the dead man’s wife looked familiar. He had seen her before at the nursing home, near Geo Sen’s chamber, being escorted in by the receptionist. He remembered the heads that turned to look at this woman who breathed life into the lugubrious surroundings of sickness and death.

  This was an extraordinary situation! Should he risk what he was about to do or let the matter rest? Dr Pyne frowned and dug at his thumbnail with his forefinger—a habit when he was worried. Geo Sen wouldn’t like it and there would be trouble enough later without incurring the wrath of his only potential mentor. The other doctors of his age would think him daft, and happily scheme to fill his post. His career might be in shambles. Dr Pyne looked around him once more, at the bereaved widow and her two friends, at the two servants waiting in the background, at the sleek opulent room, and decided. As a teenager he had furtively written verses celebrating the sweating millions and their fight against the fattened bourgeoisie, and the present situation seemed to bring out again all his latent class consciousness.

  Clearing his throat he announced, ‘I’m sorry, but I would like a further investigation. Your husband suffered from thrombosis and used blood thinners as well as the occasional sleeping tablets and painkillers. Any one of them could have made him drowsy and brought about his death. The fact that I can’t find these medicines might mean he took them. He could have died as a result of another stroke, it is true. But, he could also have died of an extra dose of medicine that dulled his responses and made him sluggish and clumsy. It’s probably nothing at all, but I’d like a further investigation.’

  All the while he had been talking, the lady had looked at him with a steady gaze, now she stirred. ‘What do you want, Doctor?’ There was no shock or anger at what he had just said. Her voice was cold and perfectly in command.

  ‘An autopsy.’

  ‘Why?’

  One of the friends rose from her chair and stood before the doctor with her hands on her hips. ‘Can’t you see that it’s a stroke? Robi’s had one before and no one had expected him to live then. He’s been bedridden for so long, he was just waiting to die.’ Since the friend was wearing lipstick and had dabbed on some perfume before coming to comfort a widow at her husband’s deathbed, Dr Pyne took an immediate dislike to her. The fact that she was wearing scarlet nail polish and that her hair was streaked blonde did nothing to improve her in the doctor’s estimation.

  ‘Let me deal with this, Nikki.’ Nisha Bose, never taking her eyes off Dr Pyne, cut in smoothly. ‘Why do you want all this?’ Though the face was devoid of any emotion the tone was definitely frostier.

  ‘Where are the Tramadol tablets? Where is the Valium? These are listed in the prescription, the usual pills any long-term patient would be expected to have. Don’t you see, he could have deliberately drugged himself. This could be an unnatural death, a suicide or even, I don’t know, a murder …’

  If Dr Pyne had hoped for effect, he couldn’t have been happier. The friends shouted in outrage, the servants shifted uneasily. Dr Pyne surveyed Nisha Bose narrowly and noted with relish that he had finally dented her armour. Her right hand flew to her throat and she looked stunned. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘Because …’ the doctor paused. He couldn’t tell her that it was instinct, an unformulated unease with the way the man had died. And it was even more inconceivable that he should say to a new widow that the death of her invalid husband was very convenient. He decided to become curt and mysterious. ‘I’m not sure whether he did actually have another stroke or whether he took something to end his life. The table seems to be full of a variety of medicines. You see, just as some people sometimes die before their time for no good reason, some continue to live long after their bodies are written off. I would like an investigation carried out on his organs, just to assure myself and you that there has been no accident.’

  ‘An accident! Are you implying suicide? I don’t believe it.’ The blonde friend spoke harshly. ‘You didn’t know Robi!’

  ‘It’s true,’ said the other friend. ‘You didn’t know him! You weren’t his regular doctor, how can you be so certain that his condition hadn’t deteriorated enough to cause a heart attack or another cerebral stroke?’

  ‘Nisha.’ The blonde friend bent over Nisha Bose, brought her mouth close to her ear and whispered something.

  Nisha Bose looked at her friend once, then nodded and rose. ‘All right, Doctor, I’ll do what you say.’

  Dr Pyne looked searchingly at her. ‘You’ll have to take the body to a hospital or inform the police.’

  ‘I know. We’ll take care of it.’

  The friend who had whispered into Nisha Bose’s ear came forward. ‘I know someone at Calcutta Hospital. He’ll manage something. You don’t worry. Sorry to have woken you up at night. What are your fees?’

  She was so eager to have him out of the way that Dr Pyne almost smiled. She must have underestimated both his courage and intelligence. He said, ‘I can accompany you to the hospital myself and get the formalities done.’

  ‘You don’t have to. Mr Chopra will do the needful.’

  Chopra, damn him! In his excitement Dr Pyne had forgotten the overbearing and arrogant Chopra, hospital administrator and friend to the rich and famous. What would Chopra say when he heard that Pyne had refused to give a death certificate and had insisted on a post-mortem? More importantly, what would he do once he found out?

  But Dr Pyne was too far gone to think logically or to care anymore. He was flushed and angry, and his rancour made him obstinate, as it always did. He wanted a postmortem and he would have it, even if he had to give up Chopra and Geo Sen and set up practice in some village of West Bengal.

  ‘I have my car and I know my way to the Ballygunge thana. I will inform them on my way home.’ Sudip Pyne then picked up his bag and swept majestically out of the room.

&
nbsp; The night stretched out long and desolate for the duty officer at the Ballygunge police station. It was 1 a.m. and the flow of cars carrying party-goers and late-night revellers had ebbed. The duty officer yawned, dug his nose, scratched his crotch and looked at the clock. He was thinking of applying for a three-day leave and wondering how to justify it when the sound of the constable outside arguing at the door alerted him.

  ‘Go back, it’s too late, come back in the morning,’ the constable said.

  ‘What is this, a police station or a restaurant?’ answered an agitated voice. ‘Of course I know it’s late. Do you think I’m here to have a good time?’

  A young man with a thin moustache and large, slightly bulging eyes entered, carrying a black bag and a stethoscope flung around his shoulders. Sudip Pyne, parking his car outside the police station and prior to locking it had, after some hesitation, decided to appear as official as possible. He would have saved himself some trouble had he taken the constable’s advice. The duty officer looked bored and was, indeed, completely unimpressed by the doctor’s story when it was finished. Any marks of injury? Signs of burglary? Any signs of violence? Were the cupboards open? What were the servants doing?

  Dr Pyne became increasingly restless. The duty officer began to regard Pyne with unrestrained curiosity and started a new line of questioning that increased the doctor’s discomfort. Who had called him in and how? The victim’s wife, perhaps? Did he know the victim personally? If the dead man had been a patient with cerebral thrombosis and confined to his wheelchair, why did the doctor suspect foul play?

  ‘Oh god, I don’t know! That’s why I’m here, to find out. Something has happened there, I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s not a case of natural death. They hadn’t expected a fuss, they had thought I’d take a cursory look, issue a death certificate and go back home. Why can’t you start an inquiry?’

  The duty officer looked pityingly at the doctor as he picked his front teeth with a thumbnail. ‘If I were to start inquiries every time a man suspects a potential murder, I’d be sitting under a mountain of unsolved First Information Reports. Go back and tell them you’re sorry, the more you think of it, the more you realize that the man did die of a stroke. In any case, they’ve probably got another doctor in by now to certify otherwise.’

  It was a long time since anyone had told Sudip Pyne to stop being an idiot. He had a good nose for his job, his clinical diagnoses were usually correct and the numbers outside his chamber were swelling every day. Though his colleagues were privately jealous and scoffed at his humourless attitude, they dared not speak out openly because of Geo Sen’s patronage. And here he was, being ticked off by this surly lout of a policeman. Bristling with rage, Dr Pyne returned to his car and sat at the wheel for some time, thinking. He had apprehended trouble from Chopra and even Geo Sen and had switched off his cell phone; now he remembered his mother and turned it on. Sudip Pyne sighed and scrolled his contacts for Chopra’s number, then he paused. Before Chopra came Chatterjee and a number flashed into view. Sudip Pyne hesitated. He remembered their last meeting. The circumstances had been difficult but even the grudging doctor had been forced to admit the other’s sincerity. Since Dr Pyne himself was a man of passion, he recognized and respected feeling and flair in another. If anyone in the police could give him a patient hearing and understand what he was trying to say, it would only be this man. Behind him, he heard the duty officer come out on to the veranda and exclaim, ‘He’s still here! Hey you, you’d better push off home.’

  Without further deliberation Dr Pyne dialled and waited.

  Bikram Chatterjee had gone to sleep an hour before midnight after a rather elaborate dinner of fish cutlets, crab curry and rice. Throughout the week Bikram maintained a Spartan kitchen, subsisting on bleak rotis and a mixed green mash while the cook, who also ate with him, writhed with envy at the smells of mutton curry that floated in from the kitchen next door. On Sunday mornings, the cook and Mistry, in a joint conspiracy, rushed to the bazaar and came back with all the things of which they had been dreaming all week. Since Bikram did not want to lose either Mistry or the cook, he relented and at dinner all three glutted themselves on fish and meat.

  Bikram lounged half-heartedly around the house for a while. He then sat on the veranda and watched the vehicles run up and down, the traffic thinner on a Sunday, but as untidy as ever. He and Shona hadn’t met this week and he was thinking of her. He hated an empty weekend because there was little police work to be done and nowhere to rush off to. On days like this, he would think of the future and the decision that had to be made. He continually put off the thought, primarily because it was too much effort to surrender the known for the unknown. By tacit arrangement, Shona never spoke of it either. By 11 p.m., Bikram had taken a cold shower, checked his email for messages, put his cell phone to charge and, with some relief at the passing of the weekend, gone to bed. The last thing he remembered before drifting off to sleep was the party at Nikki Kumar’s and his discomfort there, now blurred and distant after nine days. When the phone rang Bikram knew by instinct that he would have to summon Mistry and go. He had not, however, expected Dr Pyne. The person at the other end of the line seemed excited but diffident. He was taken aback to find that Bikram recognized him almost at once and seemed not at all surprised at being rung up at 1.30 a.m.

  Bikram listened patiently and then asked Dr Pyne where he was.

  ‘In my car outside the thana. But the duty officer’s checked on me once, oh god, he’s here again, what am I to do now, he doesn’t believe me at all.’

  ‘Wait in the car. He’ll call you in again presently.’

  It took Bikram forty-five minutes to reach the police station. Mistry, who had expected a peaceful Sunday, had gone to bed drunk, and they spent half an hour trying to rouse him and make him fit for duty. At the Ballygunge thana, the duty officer, still smarting from the humiliating turn of events, had given the doctor a seat, shuffled papers irritably and flung a set of keys at the constable ordering him to open the borobabu’s chamber quickly. Two minutes after Bikram entered, the officer-in-charge of the police station puffed in, an elderly man of about fifty-five, grey-haired and fat. The duty officer sighed resignedly and, rubbing his sleep-swollen eyes, prepared for a long haul.

  The officer-in-charge, Chuni Sarkar, had often been in trouble. A well-known real-estate crook was close to him and there were whispers of underhand deals. Sex rackets and gambling dens sprouted and flourished mysteriously wherever he went. He was therefore anxious to please Bikram.

  He saluted Bikram and listened intently to what Dr Pyne had to say, then cleared his throat. ‘If you permit, Sir, I can accompany the doctor to the house and do the needful. You needn’t trouble yourself.’

  This suited Bikram. By rights, the case, if there was one, was still with the local police station and, therefore, under Chuni Sarkar’s authority. He couldn’t walk into the Bose house without involving other cops such as those from the homicide squad. They hadn’t really established anything as yet.

  ‘Let me know if you need help,’ he said.

  He watched as the officer and Dr Pyne walked to their respective cars, then yawned and got into his own. Perhaps there would be time for sleep after all.

  The call came through on Bikram’s cell phone almost immediately after they had swung into the main road on the way back home. ‘Chuni speaking, Sir.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I think the doctor might be right. There’s vomit and froth on the dead body. Also, something’s definitely fishy here. The doctor insists that they’ve changed the bedcover.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The bedcover, Sir. He says that when he first examined the patient, I mean the dead man, there were some brown stains on the bedclothes. He remembers because the cover was pale, a pattern of blue leaves on white, hold on a moment, Sir, what did you say … blue flowers on white, it’s all the same isn’t it, don’t interrupt me unnecessarily, sorry Sir, what the doctor means is t
hat the stains have now disappeared and the flowers are purple.’

  ‘What does the family say?’

  ‘They say that it’s all wrong and the doctor is making up these details. Counter allegations, Sir. They pulled me aside and said that the doctor wanted a hefty fee on being called in so late and because they refused he’s out to frame them.’

  ‘Who’s the “they”?’

  ‘All kinds of people. It’s difficult to assess who is family and who’s not. There’s somebody who claims to be a close friend, a lady with yellow hair, not Bengali, who is doing all the talking, and a couple of others who seem to be family but are sitting quietly in a corner and not saying anything.’

  ‘Where’s the doctor now?’

  ‘Having a slanging match with someone called Chopra. Seems to be an executive officer of a well-known hospital. He called Pyne out as I was talking to you and they’re arguing in some inside room.’

  Bikram thought for a moment and said, ‘What’s the wife saying?’

  ‘Not much, except that perhaps a post-mortem is not really necessary.’

  ‘How does she look, shocked or strong?’

  ‘She’s very calm, Sir. The man had been ill for some time now, she might have been expecting his death. The room is full of all kinds of medicines. Apparently, Robi Bose took almost a dozen pills a day, including anxiety drugs, blood thinners, beta blockers and what not, but the doctor says there are many medicines listed on his prescription which are missing. We searched the room and made the servant turn out some cupboards but couldn’t find them.’

  ‘Did you suggest homicide?’

  ‘No, but she’s obviously had some ideas herself after she found the doctor had returned with me.’