3 and a Half Murders: An Inspector Saralkar Mystery

by Salil Desai

  When his father, the IG, comes, he looks at the scribble the other way round and it appears to be ‘NO17’. Saralkar chuckled to himself. While the entire audience knows that Prabhakar’s scribble is actually not NO17 but the word LION, read upside down, it takes the father and the son’s lookalike the better part of the film to figure this out and bring the villain to book.

  The next moment Saralkar’s chuckle froze on his lips as a jaw-dropping realization hit him. He didn’t need to see Kalicharan further. He knew exactly what had flashed through his brain that day, when he’d woken up from his snooze in the train. He felt in awe of his subconscious mind. It was as if a far sharper and agile Saralkar existed in there. The Saralkar of flesh and bone and conscious thought was just a slothful, mentally tardy, dull version, who had failed to see a clue that had been staring him in his face all this while.

  But first, it was time to confirm on paper the realization that was echoing around in his head and flickering in his mind’s eyes. He reached for a paper and quickly wrote down the letters of both names carefully.

  SHAUNAK SODHI

  ANUSHKA DOSHI

  He stared at them repeatedly as if one of the letters would simply not match. Yes, there was no doubt any longer! Shaunak Sodhi and Anushka Doshi were perfect anagrams! Someone had deliberately constructed the name Anushka Doshi by re-arranging the letters of Shaunak Sodhi’s name. And Saralkar’s brains had seen what his eyes hadn’t. The question was what did it signify? Why had Krishna Bhupathi, an absconding criminal, chosen to give his second wife a name that was an anagram of his partner-in-crime, Shaunak Sodhi? And if Anushka Doshi was not the real name of his second wife, what was her real name and identity? Moreover, again the question to which he seemed to come back was—where was Shaunak Sodhi? Had he been parading as Akhandanath all these years, as Saralkar had surmised?

  Saralkar’s head spun with incomprehension as he tried to make sense of the stunning fact that had just emerged. Of one thing he was certain, that he had probably stumbled upon the single most complexion-altering element of the case. All the facts, information, and material they had gathered about the case needed to be looked at again, this time through the anagram lens—like watching a 3D movie through 3D goggles finally, without which the images so far had just been a double visioned blur. Hopefully the images would now come into better, sharper focus.

  Motkar waited deep inside the stage wings. He had truly begun experiencing what was known as stage fright; the symptoms were all there. A hot clamminess bathed his entire body coupled with a numbing stillness of the mind. He couldn’t remember a single dialogue of his, leave alone the entry cue and his opening lines. The only functioning part of his brain seemed to echo just one message:You are going to make a fool of yourself.

  The co-actors around him also appeared to be suffering from some degree of stage fright, although many had assured him that once on stage, everything would be all right and his mind and body would function on autopilot. He had been far from convinced but there was nothing he could really do about it, except hope that they were right.

  The atmosphere in the wings was subdued, because the performance didn’t look to be engaging the audience much. The acting was dull and listless for the most part, with even the humorous lines falling flat as the lead actors fumbled on a couple of dialogues. All in all the portents were not too good, Motkar thought. His wife and kid were sitting in the audience and to make matters worse, so was his boss.

  Mechanically, he knew his entry was due in the next few minutes but he felt like dead weight, as if his astral body was expected to go on stage instead of him. The vibration of his cell phone in the trouser pocket distracted him. He drew it out to take a look. It was a text message from Saralkar. Immediately Motkar felt better, assuming it was a thoughtful ‘Best of Luck’ message.

  It took him a few seconds to realize that this was not the case. He read the message a couple of times but his brain was slow to absorb it:‘Shaunak Sodhi and Anushka Doshi are anagrams’, his boss had written. It continued:‘How dumb of us not to decode this earlier.’

  It took yet another reading for the significance of the message to penetrate Motkar’s befuddled mind. For a moment he couldn’t decide what flabbergasted him more—the sensational revelation or the fact that his boss had chosen to send him this message in the middle of the performance, when he ought to have known Motkar would be grappling with stage fright and nervousness.

  “Motkar,” someone hissed into his ear. “It’s time for your entry after the next two dialogues.”

  The words acted upon Motkar like a thermal shock, sending a nervous tingling down his body. He pushed the mobile into his pocket, cursed his boss for making his state of mind even more incoherent, and walked on to the stage on cue, convinced that the thudding of his heart would reach the audience’s ears, even if his dialogues failed him.

  Saralkar fidgeted in his seat. The play being enacted in front of him now could only be characterized as insufferably shoddy, with no redeeming feature so far. Every minute of the performance had been sheer agony.

  What made it worse was the unstoppable buzz in his brain, ever since the Shaunak Sodhi-Anushka Doshi anagram had electrified his grey cells. There had been no blinding illumination so far but that didn’t stop his mind from sparking one thought after another, which made it impossible to sit still. That restlessness was also what had prompted him to send a text to Motkar rather unthinkingly a few moments ago. It was only after he’d pressed send that he’d wondered if it had been the right time to communicate with his colleague and whether it would unsettle him.

  “That’s Motkar, isn’t it?” Jyoti whispered, with a gentle tap on his hand.

  Saralkar scanned the actors on the stage with any real interest for the first time. “Yes,” he replied, watching his subordinate move uncertainly into position and give the distinct impression of having forgotten his lines.

  The senior inspector held his breath, almost wanting to stand up and cheer lustily for Motkar, like spectators did when their favourite batsman walked out to bat. Finally, Motkar mouthed his first dialogue—his voice diffident and just a little too loud. Saralkar breathed easy and grunted with relief. Oddly enough, he felt something approaching a corny sense of pride watching Motkar perform.

  It was one of those ghastly (in Saralkar’s view) experimental plays about husband-wife relationships with a fantasy element. Motkar was playing the role of one of the mutual friends of a couple with serious differences in their married life. The mutual friends try to explore various ways to save the marriage, until finally one of the friends, a scientist, gives the couple a twenty-four-hour tablet each, so that the husband and wife swap places, one becoming the other. It is this exchange of bodies and souls and the leading of each other’s life for twenty-four hours that brings them back from the brink of separation. Suddenly Saralkar was intrigued.

  “You seemed to be spellbound by Motkar’s acting,” Jyoti said as they made their way out of the auditorium later.

  Saralkar gave a pre-occupied grunt. “Motkar can’t act for nuts, thank God!”

  But he was glad he’d come for the play. For the second time in the day, fiction had given him an idea—a very weird idea!

  “Don’t you want to go backstage and compliment Motkar?” Jyoti chided him.

  “For his lousy performance? I’m not going to fake appreciation, Jyoti.”

  “Come on, you’re his boss. He’ll feel good!”

  Saralkar grumbled but allowed her to lead him along. Ideas, as he well knew, always increased the odds of cracking a case, even if they came from experimental plays. If nothing else he at least needed to be grateful to Motkar for dragging him to watch the performance.

  “Sir, Akhandanath has been nabbed,” Motkar’s voice said over the phone.

  Saralkar glanced at his watch. It was 7.15 a.m. The call had woken him up. Motkar sounded remarkably free from any sort of ‘performance’ hangover—nothing to suggest he had just finished actin
g in a play the previous evening.

  “Where? When?” Saralkar managed to ask.

  “At a small lodge in Shirdi where he was holed up for a few days, sir. Apparently Akhandanath’s epileptic. He collapsed, just as he was checking out. A local constable who happened to come for a routine round at the lodge was present when it happened. He thought he recognized the man as our fugitive. After Akhandanath was revived, the constable questioned him and found his answers vague and suspicious. Akhandanath also had no identity proof and pretended he had memory loss. The constable decided something was fishy and detained him,” Motkar explained. “Two of their constables were anyway coming to Pune today so they are bringing Akhandanath along. They’ve started from Shirdi and should be here by 10.30 a.m.”

  Saralkar felt elated. It felt good to get up to good news. “Looks like we’re finally closing in, Motkar! Our lucky breaks are coming thick and fast. What did you think of the names tangle?”

  “It really startled me, sir,” Motkar replied, then added in a mild, disapproving tone, “almost derailed my entry in yesterday’s play.”

  “Ah! I know, I shouldn’t have sent you the text then,” Saralkar made a rare acknowledgement of his mistake. “I guess I was just excited.”

  “What does it mean, sir? I have been thinking and thinking. Why should they choose to use an anagram?”

  Saralkar cleared his throat. “Well, the faint outlines of some theories have begun tossing around in my mind, but I am still not quite sure what it’s all leading up to. For the moment let’s concentrate on establishing if Akhandanath is Shaunak Sodhi. Maybe then we’ll have answers by evening.”

  “Yes, sir,” Motkar said. “And thanks for coming to the play.”

  “Oh well,” Saralkar said but did not admit to him that the play too had given him a kinky theory.

  “May I ask you something, sir?”

  “Sure.”

  “Was the performance okay?”

  “Didn’t my wife tell you yesterday night when we came backstage?” Saralkar parried.

  “Yes . . . but what did you think of it, sir?” Motkar persisted.

  Saralkar stood at the crossroads—to hurt or to fake? He drew upon all the diplomacy he could squeeze out of himself. “Not bad, but you are a much better cop than an actor . . .”

  He paused, wondering if he’d managed to soften the blow.

  There was an awkward silence, indicating clearly that Motkar was probably disappointed. “Thanks, sir,” he finally mumbled. “I hope to be a far better cop on this case from today.”

  Saralkar grunted in response. “See you at ten.” He disconnected, wondering if he could laze around for a few more minutes. Jyoti was already up. Astonishingly, last night they’d made love again. Twice in three days—something of a record in recent times when once a week or two weeks had become the norm.

  That it made him far less grumpy couldn’t be denied. And then his wife spoilt it all the next moment, by bringing him tea and asking, “When are you going for the health check-up and tests?”

  Not only had Akhandanath got rid of his facial hair but had also gone completely bald in a bid to avoid recognition as a fugitive. It would probably have worked if it hadn’t been for the epileptic fit. His choice of Shirdi too had been clever, because the town had a huge floating population due to the lakhs of visitors who flocked there to the famous Sai Baba temple from all over the country, every single day of the year.

  “Sai Baba favoured us, Akhandanath, not you,” Saralkar said as he regarded the sullen, well-built man in front of him, who refused to make eye contact as if somehow that would save him answering questions. “Why did you flee that day?”

  There was no answer. Saralkar repeated the question, in a louder, harsher voice.

  This time Akhandanath’s body twitched as if bracing for a blow. “I thought I was being trapped.”

  “What trap?”

  Again there was no answer. “Look, I’m not going to keep repeating the questions. PSI Motkar here already nurses a grudge and bruised ego because you gave him the slip. He can repeat the questions with his fists if you want that,” Saralkar said with matter-of-fact menace.

  Akhandanath’s hitherto averted gaze flickered briefly in Motkar’s direction. Motkar managed to appear suitably tough and hid the surprise triggered by his boss’s remark.

  “I-I thought the Baba had struck a deal with you to save his skin and make me the fall guy,” Akhandanath said.

  “Well, Rangdev certainly seemed eager to strike a deal. He’s laid a lot of things at your door, which he desperately wants us to believe.”

  “He’s a liar, a liar!”

  “So you tell us your side, then we’ll decide whom to believe,” Saralkar said with expert vagueness.

  Akhandanath was silent. Saralkar could almost read his mind—how best to combine minimum fact with maximum untruth and provide a well-diluted version of his involvement.

  As PSI Motkar took a step ahead, Akhandanath promptly spoke, clearly discomfited by the possibility of third degree. “Sir, my job was only to channelize the ashram’s donation money for the betting activities that Sanjay Doshi arranged. This was done on Rangdev Baba’s orders. I don’t know anything else.”

  “Why did you kill the Doshis—husband and wife?”

  “I didn’t kill them, sir!” Akhandanath screeched vehemently. “I know nothing about it. Ask Rangdev Baba; he must’ve got them killed. I was just a minion handling the ashram’s activities, not a henchman.”

  His eyes darted at both Saralkar and Motkar briefly, then turned to face the wall as if prolonged eye contact might let the police read something in them that he didn’t wish to disclose.

  Motkar took over as Saralkar subtly gestured to him. “Why would Rangdev have got the Doshis killed? You knew Sanjay Doshi, you introduced him to Rangdev, you were involved in the illegal activities with the ashram funds, and you ran away! That’s a clear sign of guilt,” Motkar said belligerently. He had to admit he’d begun relishing the tough cop role. “After all, Akhandanath, you have killed before, haven’t you? In Bangalore?”

  Fear knocked out anguish from Akhandanath’s face. It was as if he had stopped breathing, his whole demeanour, becoming taut, finally giving way to little ripples of trembling. “It’s a lie. I didn’t kill anyone earlier and I haven’t killed Doshi or his wife now,” he managed to say.

  “Who are you bluffing? We know exactly who you are.”

  Akhandanath looked at Motkar with a kind of defiant fearfulness. “Who?”

  Motkar gave a smirk. “Your name is not Akhandanath. You are a fugitive from the law.” He paused for effect and regarded the paleness slowly suffusing Akhandanath’s face. “You are Shaunak Sodhi.”

  “No! No.”

  “You and Krishna Bhupathi, alias Sanjay Doshi, murdered your third partner Rahul Fernandes in Bangalore seven years ago and fled. Bhupathi assumed the identity of Sanjay Doshi and you became Akhandanath to evade the law successfully for so many years. And now you’ve killed your partner Bhupathi as well.”

  Akhandanath’s eyes were now wide with alarm and he was no longer avoiding eye contact. “That’s not true. I’m not Sodhi. I did not kill Bhupathi nor did I kill their partner you are talking about. This is absurd! How can you say I am Sodhi, sir?”

  He looked at both officers—scared, angry and desperate. Both Saralkar and Motkar responded with silence, watching him intently.

  Akhandanath turned to Saralkar. “Sir, I’m Akhandanath. Who told you all these lies? Was it Rangdev? That bastard! I’m not Shaunak Sodhi, I’m no murderer.”

  Right from the moment they had started interrogating him, Saralkar had begun getting the uneasy feeling that his hunch about Akhandanath being Sodhi was flawed. No doubt there was more than a fleeting physical resemblance between them, but his instinct now told him he’d been mistaken. As a police officer desperate to crack the case, low on real clues and high on theory, he’d perhaps made the mistake of seeing a resemblance and a connectio
n that probably did not quite exist in reality. It happened to policemen—a strong hunch which they mistook for the truth. It was time to test if he’d just imagined a breakthrough. He’d already sent Akhandanath’s fingerprints for matching with Sodhi’s.

  “If you want us to believe you are not Shaunak Sodhi, then tell us exactly who you are. Tell me about your past. Tell me why you were a jailbird. Tell me what crimes you are running from. Tell me how you know Bhupathi,” Saralkar fired questions at him.

  Akhandanath swallowed, as if lubricating his throat and mouth to facilitate a long answer. “My name is Shivappa Goud. I am an ex-convict . . . I served a five-year sentence for . . . for rape in Bangalore jail. That’s how I knew Bhupathi, when he was also there. First for the recruitment scam and then for the murder of his partner, before he got bail and absconded.”

  “Were you and Bhupathi cellmates or something?”

  “No, sir. But he was one of the few prisoners I had more than a nodding acquaintance with. I knew about the cases against him.”

  “Go on.”

  “Later I came to know he was absconding. After I finished serving my sentence, I left Karnataka to find employment and . . . some peace. I joined Rangdev’s disciples and soon became his aide, especially because I could organise minor illegalities for him,” Akhandanath said. “About seven to eight months ago, when Bhupathi showed up at the ashram, I recognized him. When I confronted him, he was fearful and I realized he was still a fugitive, living under a different name. Knowing his background, I asked him to help channelize all the ashram money into betting and deal in other shady activities for multiplying it, of course. He grudgingly agreed, scared that if he refused I’d inform the police.”