by Salil Desai
“Yes, obviously we had to get her for formal identification. She identified his watch and the phone.”
“What impression do you have of Fernandes’ wife?” Saralkar asked.
“Well, you know we did have some suspicions initially whether she was involved in her husband’s murder or not, conspiring with Sodhi and Bhupathi,” Hegde said with a shrug. “There were some stray rumours picked up by informants that she and Sodhi had been lovers, but we couldn’t get any proof. In fact, we kept watch on her and also put her mobile on tracking for some time but there was nothing suspicious. The only impression I got was she viscerally hated her husband and had no interest in pursuing the case. Why do you ask?”
“Just to get a clear picture,” Saralkar said, downplaying the point. “Did she tell you her husband carried a gun for self defence, even that evening?”
“Yes,” Hegde nodded. “But we didn’t find the gun with the body. So either Sodhi took it with him or disposed it off elsewhere.”
“But they didn’t shoot Fernandes with his own gun?”
“No, Bhupathi said Sodhi strangled him.”
“Was that confirmed when his remains were examined?”
“The examination of the skeleton and remains was inconclusive except for the confirmation that the skeleton had been there for about five years and that the head had been sawed off. We matched the marks of the beheading with the blade heads of the tools found in Bhupathi’s car. The remains were much too deteriorated to determine anything more apart from the fact that it was the skeleton of a male in his thirties. But why do you doubt Bhupathi’s version?” Hegde asked in a slightly intrigued tone.
“No, no. I was wondering that since they had a weapon, so wouldn’t it have been simpler to shoot him in the head with it? Why strangle Fernandes, which is a much more arduous and terrifying way to kill, even for a murderer? The head has never been found and you only have the torso, so there’s no conclusive proof he was strangled. Isn’t it therefore much more likely that they actually shot him in the head?”
A touch of professional reserve and envy appeared in Hegde’s expression, though he tried to mask it with a smile. “Interesting theory! We’ll know for sure only when we find a bullet-ridden skull in Mercara. You should write crime novels, Saralkar, like an old retired colleague of ours does, sexing up real cases with all kinds of bizarre possibilities. The public loves it because they don’t know how boring and mundane most murders really are.”
Saralkar realized he had to be careful not to antagonise Inspector Hegde even subliminally by sounding superior to him. He was going to need cooperation from the officer in the future too. The Fernandes murder was not his case to solve.
“You are right, I have a weakness for theories,” he said with a self-deprecatory laugh. “Did you find any incriminating evidence against Sodhi and Bhupathi with Fernandes’ body?”
It brought Inspector Hegde back to his affable self. “Nothing against Bhupathi that heralded his presence but we found Sodhi’s nasal inhaler and hair band with the body.”
“Inhaler and hair band?” Saralkar asked, puzzled.
“Yes. Sodhi suffered from asthma so he always kept an inhaler. It probably slipped from his pocket while digging the grave or lowering Rahul Fernandes’ body into it. Sodhi also had punk-like long hair and a ponytail, with a fancy hair band, which was also found. His parents identified it.”
Saralkar nodded. “Pity you found the body so late. Otherwise you’d have been able to charge sheet Bhupathi and both of them wouldn’t have got away.”
“True. So you think it was Sodhi who killed Bhupathi and his second wife in Pune?” It was now Inspector Hegde’s turn to ask questions.
“It seems quite likely. Sodhi and Bhupathi were doing land deals together and Sodhi seems to also have been carrying on an affair with Bhupathi’s second wife, Anushka Doshi. But we don’t have a clue about his whereabouts as if he’s disappeared into the thin air. The guy seems to be a slippery customer,” Saralkar replied. “And now that their criminal history has been unearthed, my suspicions are even more strengthened that there has been foul play.”
Inspector Hegde nodded gravely. “The fact is even I know very little about Sodhi. The officer who had investigated the job recruitment racket case went on a CBI deputation to the central government in 2009. I spoke to him a couple of times. He told me Sodhi was an MBA dropout, a personable, charming fellow who was pathologically inclined to be a swindler. Flamboyant, unscrupulous, ready to do anything for quick money, manipulative, on the lookout for sexual conquests, all kinds of tendencies that fast forward the descent into crime.”
“Did he have any previous convictions for violent crime?”
“No. But the officer wasn’t surprised to hear about Sodhi’s involvement in Fernandes’ murder. He said Sodhi was a bit of a hot head. While he was in police custody during the job racket investigations, he got into frequent brawls with other prisoners and once even thrashed a convict badly. It’s only when his asthma worsened in jail, that he caused no further trouble,” Hegde replied.
“Sodhi’s parents are still in Bangalore, aren’t they?”
“Yes. Both are above seventy. The mother has been ill for a long time. We had kept a watch on both his and Bhupathi’s family for some time after the murder and keep checking on them intermittently to find out whether there has been any contact. Negative so far, but you never know.”
“I see. By the way, were you aware Bhupathi had been sending money to his family at least once in two years?” Saralkar asked.
“What? No! How did you find out?” Inspector Hegde said, glaring at Saralkar as if the latter had produced a rabbit from his hat by subterfuge.
“His first wife, Latha Bhupathi, told me about it after I informed her that Bhupathi had married again and was now dead. It’s possible Sodhi too was in touch with his parents then.”
Hegde sniffed, obviously not happy with the likelihood of such things having happened under his nose. “Can’t rule it out. Maybe I’ll send my men to shake up the old couple a bit.”
“No, I think I need to meet them anyway, so I’ll let you know if they admit to any contact with him,” Saralkar replied.
Inspector Hegde looked at him grudgingly. “Okay. Tell me if you require any help.”
Saralkar smiled and held out his hand. “Inspector Hegde, you’ve already been a great help. Thank you so much.”
Even as he spoke, Saralkar was puzzled by his own effusiveness. Could it be that in his middle age, he had inadvertently started learning the skills of how to win friends and influence people?
“Motkar, we’ve picked up your suspect, Hrithik Dhond,” PSI Sarode informed Motkar on the mobile. “When are you coming over?”
“Right away, Sarode. Thanks a lot.” Motkar replied.
“We found fifty thousand rupees on him,” Sarode said grimly. “Sure doesn’t look like honest earnings.”
“Oh! I’m on my way!” Motkar kept down the phone and wondered momentarily whether it would finally boil down to murder for money. He glanced at the post-mortem and viscera report he had been going through. Sanjay Doshi had met his death between ten and midnight. Death had been due to asphyxiation caused by hanging. There was a faint possibility he could have been strangulated, but if so, it was by rope and not by hand. There had been plenty of liquor in his system and just a slight likelihood that he had been taking or had been given sedatives through the day he died. The report of Anushka Doshi conclusively suggested death by strangulation. She had been choked with her dupatta, probably under heavy sedation. The acid had been thrown on her face moments after her death. There were no signs of torture or other injuries, but she had probably been gagged and bound for some hours prior to her death, which seemed a little odd. She too had died between ten and midnight.
PSI Motkar kept the report back neatly in the envelope and left his office. The drive to Kothrud police station took about fifteen minutes and as he mulled the post-mortem reports in his mind,
he couldn’t escape a feeling of mild disappointment. Clearly Anushka Doshi had been murdered, while the report did not unequivocally conclude strangulation in the case of her husband Sanjay Doshi. The conclusions seemed quite consistent with suicide by hanging although they left room for doubt that he could have been strangulated by rope.
So was it possible after all the investigation that Sanjay Doshi had killed his wife and then hung himself? That this was no double murder by Shaunak Sodhi or some other person as Saralkar had suspected? Yet there were just too many unanswered questions. With so much money in his locker why would Sanjay Doshi have killed himself claiming debtors were hounding him? If his wife was having an affair, why kill her and himself? Why not just leave her, take the money and go elsewhere, even abroad, since he had a new identity and a passport?
And where the hell was this Shaunak Sodhi? And if Shaunak had killed Doshi and his wife, why would he incriminate himself by putting his own name in the suicide note? Also why did he kill Anushka if he was having an affair with her and more importantly would have been in a position to gain control of the other properties through her? So was it possible that actually a third person was involved in the murder who knew the truth about Bhupathi and Sodhi’s past? Someone who also knew Shaunak Sodhi was having an affair with Anushka and about the land deals in which Sanjay Doshi and Shaunak Sodhi had been partners? Someone who had taken advantage of this knowledge to murder the Doshi couple and incriminate Sodhi? Some shadowy criminal associate to whom Saralkar’s investigations in Bangalore might hopefully lead! Or someone like Surekhabai and her son Hrithik, who had stumbled over their secrets and sordid history while working for them. Or perhaps even Somnath Gawli or one of the betting bookies or escort girls and other shady contacts of Sanjay Doshi, whom they had still not investigated.
PSI Motkar clicked his tongue, reined in his speculations, and shook his head. Lately, he realized, he had got into the habit of theorizing and conjecturing like his boss. He was not Saralkar, he warned himself. His strength lay in sturdy common sense and detailed police work, just as Saralkar’s lay in combining investigative professionalism with intuition and imagination.
Stepping into the Kothrud police chowky, Motkar’s eyes fell on Surekhabai, who was seated in a corner in the shade of a tree, probably waiting to know the fate of her son. As soon as she saw Motkar, she hurried towards him. “Sahib, my son is innocent! He couldn’t have harmed Doshi madam and her husband. Whoever has named him is lying!” she started snivelling wretchedly. All her earlier contempt for Motkar had fallen by the wayside.
“We’ll see,” Motkar replied non-commitally. He went in, had a quick word with Sarode, and then entered the small interrogation cell where Hrithik Dhond was being held.
The strong reek of vomit and liquor hit him immediately. Hrithik Dhond, he guessed, had clearly been dragged out from his bed and taken into custody. Motkar, like most policemen, had trained himself early on in his career to remain unaffected by offensive sights, sounds, smells, and touches. Compared to the hideous looking individual cringing in the cell, the sketch almost appeared a gentlemanly depiction of the young man. But there was no doubt Hrithik Dhond bore a striking resemblance to the sketch.
Motkar could see that the potent combination of a terrible hangover, shock and fear of the arrest, and the anxiety of what would happen to him now was tearing Hrithik apart. It wouldn’t take long for him to confess his crimes, if any, or spill all that he knew.
“Why did you kill your mother’s employers, Sanjay and Anushka Doshi?” Motkar asked point-blank.
“That’s false, I didn’t kill them,” Hrithik Dhond replied morosely.
“Don’t lie! You were seen by witnesses.”
A flash of defiance flickered in Hrithik’s eyes. “Doing what?”
“Threatening the Doshi couple several times. Leaving their house,” PSI Motkar said in a raised voice, keeping the remark deliberately vague.
Hrithik Dhond winced. He looked away; unsteady, unsure of what to reply.
“That’s . . . that’s not true. I-I would just go to call my mother sometimes because she used to work there.”
“Ah! You used to go there to call your mother, is it? Why? Doesn’t she have a mobile?”
Hrithik Dhond passed his tongue over his dry lips. “She does but sometimes when there is no balance in either her or my mobile . . . then I have to.”
“Mm. So when was the last time you went to the Doshi house?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I see. Where were you last Saturday?”
“I never went to their house last Saturday,” Hrithik Dhond suddenly cried vehemently.
PSI Motkar smirked. “I asked you where you were. Anyway, prove to me that you didn’t go to the Doshi residence on Saturday.”
Hrithik Dhond was breathing heavily now and a cornered look was creeping into his eyes. “I-I was with friends on Saturday and Sunday.”
“Doing what?”
“We all had gone to Lonavala-Khandala for some partying and enjoyment.”
“Tell me the names of all these friends of yours,” Motkar demanded.
Hrithik Dhond hesitated. “Why? They have nothing to do with—”
“That means you are bluffing. You weren’t with friends in Lonavala. You were here in Pune at the Doshi residence.”
“No! No . . . I was in Lonavala.”
“Where?”
“At someone’s farmhouse.”
“Whose farmhouse?”
Hrithik Dhond lapsed into silence for a few seconds. Then he looked at Motkar and pleaded. “My head’s killing me. Can I have something to eat or drink? At least tea; I’m feeling dizzy, sahib.”
“Later. First answer my questions,” Motkar heard himself saying. It almost sounded like his boss was talking. “Where did all that cash come from?”
Hrithik Dhond massaged his head, as if it would fall apart any second if he didn’t. The dishevelled, thick hair, the hooked nose was making his face look like a grotesque mask. “I won it . . . at cards in Lonavala.”
“Ah, while playing at the mysterious farmhouse with your unnamed friends! Sure you didn’t loot it from the Doshis after murdering them?”
“Sahib, I swear I didn’t kill them. Please!” He clasped his hands together as if begging for mercy.
A couple of slaps and he would crumble, Motkar could see. But he resisted the temptation. “You are lying. You were seen and heard threatening them several times. You even accosted Sanjay Doshi outside the house on a few occasions and we know you had a strong motive to kill the couple.”
“What motive, sahib? I didn’t go anywhere near them,” Hrithik Dhond croaked.
“Are you going to continue this charade? You want the truth beaten out of you?” Motkar said raising his voice again. “Or do you want us to put your mother behind bars too? She’s waiting outside only. Should we take her into custody?”
The last shreds of Hrithik Dhond’s composure gave away and his facial muscles signalled surrender. “Sahib, why my mother, sahib? She’s old. Neither I nor she has done anything. Please don’t do this. She’s got nothing to do with this.”
“It’s got everything to do with her. Tell me the entire truth and we won’t arrest her. If not, both of you are going to spend the rest of your lives in jail,” Motkar said tightening the screws.
“For what?” Hrithik Dhond wailed. “Just because my mother cooked for them and I am her son?”
“I don’t want filmy dialogues, Hrithik. I want the truth. Why did you threaten the Doshis? Do you or do you not confess to killing them? If you did not murder them, then give me proof and witnesses that you were not here in Pune on Saturday. And finally, explain where you got all this money from, if you didn’t loot it from the Doshis?”
“But—”
“Otherwise don’t waste my precious time. If you don’t start talking, I’m going to hand you over to my constables, who love nothing better than spending quality time with goons like you. And Sarod
e sahib will also take Surekhabai into custody,” Motkar said with his voice tingling with warning bells.
Not even fifteen seconds elapsed before Hrithik Dhond’s tear ducts began overflowing and he started talking.
An air of melancholy was the defining feature of the house in which Shaunak Sodhi’s parents lived. Saralkar felt it keenly as if a heart-breaking sadness had seeped into the walls, the ceiling, the floor and laid permanent siege.
Sodhi’s father, for all his military bearing, seemed like a pale shadow of a once proud and happy man. Neatly turbaned and dressed, ramrod straight, radiating an old world dignity, what was missing was the spark of hope and happiness. His wife had not even bothered to keep up appearances. She wore a crumpled, sloppy salwar-kameez, as if nothing really mattered. Hegde had told Saralkar she had been hospitalized and was very ill. Maybe that was what had broken her more completely, compared to her husband.
Saralkar had not had the heart to refuse when Sodhi senior had asked him if he would like to have sherbet. He took a sip of the perfect lemonade the old man had quickly prepared and cleared his throat. “Has your son been in touch with you by any chance, in all these years?”
“The last time we talked to him was 7th November 2008,” the old man said precisely but simply, as if time had stopped for them ever since that date.
Saralkar stole a quick glance at Shaunak’s mother to see her reactions. She was staring down at her feet, her face blank.
“Isn’t that a little strange? Wouldn’t any son be worried about his parents?”
“He knew I would immediately inform the police or advise him to surrender,” the old man said, not with the pride of an upright man but with the humility of one who had started doubting lifelong principles.
“He hasn’t even contacted his mother?” Saralkar asked, addressing old Mrs. Sodhi. “Especially since you were hospitalized a few times?” But she didn’t show any sign of having heard him.
The old man turned to his wife. “Leela,” he said softly as if to gently rouse her from her reverie.
