Brutal (4 page)

W
ith nothing
else to do till Mrinal called back, Prakash decided to refuel himself at a nearby McDonalds. As he dug into his burger, he felt an awareness blooming inside him; a realization which he could no longer ignore – that he actually loved his job. It was hard for him to accept this at first, because of the trauma he had lived through. But with every passing moment he felt naturalized to it. What could he have been other than a journalist?
A salesman? No. A desk jockey? No.
Maybe, he was only meant to be a news hunter.

He remembered how he had started off as a fledgling reporter about twelve years ago. With no job at the end of his studies, he had to get into a small-time crime magazine which published true crime and sleazy stories. While his friends basked in the glory of more respectable jobs, he roamed around New Delhi’s underbelly chasing sex and murder stories. The average reader of his magazine wanted to peep into the bedrooms, penthouses and rave parties of ‘high class society’. Prakash gave them that and more. He became their angel, whetting their fantasies through
masala
filled tales of crimes of lust, passion, betrayals and adultery.

Without a doubt, it was a diversion from where he wanted to be in the world of journalism. But, he had no option. He needed the money to survive on his own. To become his own saviour. There was no family to go to. At least, that’s what he reminded himself of every morning. A long time ago, his father had left his cancer afflicted mother for a brand new wife. He could never forgive the man for so easily deserting a woman counting her last few breaths. After his mother’s death, his father brought him to his new home. Was it because of pity or a haunting sense of responsibility, he still wondered. But he could not bear the thought of living under the same roof with a woman he had cursed ever since his father had chosen her over his mother. He joined a boarding school, never to come back to his father’s home again. His education thereafter was paid in part through his scholarships and his mother’s savings, and then through unwanted contributions from his father.

Though his first job didn’t make his purse bulge, it did teach him a thing or two about the tough bitch journalism was. You could not survive this profession without a strong network of contacts in the media, the police, the political circles and then in the city’s sewers. More often than not, relationships with gamblers, document forgers, police informers, waiters and errand boys created the difference between a lukewarm and a sensational story.

He built his own network travelling across the city on his second-hand scooter, having booze and
chai-sutta
with the shadiest of characters. To his dismay, he found admirers of his sleazy writing at the unlikeliest places. With time, his gang of ‘Baker Street Irregulars’ became more and more efficient, giving him constant eyes on the street and new leads to pursue. Soon, Globe News spotted this talent in him and offered him a job that went on to create a star of him. Perhaps he had taken that freedom to dangerous heights, which led to his downfall.

His phone started ringing. It was Mrinal.

“This is quick, bro,” Prakash said.

“Yeah. I got some good info. Have sent you an email.”

“I can’t check mails here. Why don’t you tell me on phone?”

“You can’t be serious. You want all this verbally, while we talk?”

“Yeah. I can’t help it. I need the info now.”

“OK,” Mrinal sighed. “The man you are looking for is Varun Gupta. There have been six phone calls between Varun and Nitin – all within seven days of the massacre. Nitin’s location has changed for every call, but for Varun, all the calls have been made from Kishore Plaza on Chaddha Road.”

Bingo.

“Did you get hands on his address?”

“Yeah. But I have a feeling that it’s fake. The landmarks seem odd.”

“Fake?” Prakash said with surprise. “Why would the man fake his address?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that there is no such place in Allahabad.”

“OK, then. I am leaving for Kishore Plaza right now. Let’s hope I find this Varun Gupta there,” he said before hanging up.

Prakash took an auto-rickshaw for Chaddha Road. He asked a few people on the way for directions and reached Kishore Plaza in half an hour. It was a two-storied market complex with about 20-30 small shops. Prakash rapidly read their names –
Indus Garments, Leena Beauty Parlour, Tejas Fashions…

He went into the nearest shop on the ground floor. It was named Azam Stock Brokers.

“Yes Sir?” a middle-aged man asked him.

“I am looking for a guy called Varun Gupta. He probably works in some clinic nearby.”

“The only clinic nearby is a kilometre away. Aayush Eye Clinic”

It can’t be. 1 kilometre is too far away.

“Maybe he doesn’t work in a clinic. But do you know any guy named Varun Gupta?”

The man shook his head. “I think you should check with the owner of this plaza. His office is upstairs.”

Prakash went upstairs into a small office with a glass door. An old man was sitting on the chair in front of a desk. There were many thick files and receipt books on a rack behind the man. An old, crumpled issue of ‘Sex and Crime’ magazine was lying on his table. One of the subheadings on its cover read ‘Husband swapping – the new pastime of Alpha Women’.

He moved his eyes away. The article was written by him and he recalled it carried his photograph as well. It would be the height of embarrassment if the old man recognised him. He hemmed and hawed, and posed his query to the old man. Thankfully, the old man didn’t pay much attention to his face. Had it been the Hindi edition of the magazine (with the name Sex and Crime written on the cover in Devanagari script and blood splatter font), his photograph would have been on the front page– too conspicuous to ignore.

“Dr. Varun Gupta had started a psychiatry clinic in our plaza few months ago,” the old man said, poring over the pages of a thick binder. “His business didn’t take off well here. So, he shifted his shop in two months. But why are you asking about him?”

“Actually one of my friends was under his care. I wanted to consult him for a personal issue. Can I have his contact details, if you have?” Prakash asked, lying through his teeth.

“Yes. We always keep the address details of our tenants. Wait a minute.”

The old man turned a couple of pages, let out a breath and looked up.

“Write down the address.”

Brilliant
.

O
riental Breeze is
one of the best restaurants in Allahabad, frequented only by the elite. It is built like a dimly lit bamboo forest with a stream passing through it, and wooden tables in different alcoves. The parking lot of the restaurant would often be filled with Mercs and BMWs. But it was filled below capacity today.

Seema Sharma was still wondering why sub-inspector Jagan Pandey wanted to meet at such an expensive place. In and around Allahabad, the man was a valuable source of news for her channel. He had given Century News quite a few scoops and exclusives in the past. So, even if the fucker chose a five-star restaurant for common chitchat, the channel didn’t mind. She didn’t mind either as long as he wasn’t wasting her time. There was no such luck today, because he seemed intent to be wasting her time as well as spoiling her mood.

“I have never seen an ordinary man getting killed in this fashion. Don’t know what’s happening to this country,” Jagan said, stuffing a seven hundred buck chicken lollipop into his mouth. “If killers like these start poking their nose in justice delivery, I think we’ll soon become redundant.”

“So, you think it’s an open and shut case. Nitin commits a horrific crime and some ‘vigilante’ group takes him out, using a top-notch assassin. That’s hilariously simple,” she scoffed, making evident the irony in her statement.

She expected more than this rubbish from an ‘inside source’ in Allahabad Police. It had always been a give and take relationship between the police and the media
.
But in this case, it seemed to be one-way traffic. He had been tipped off multiple times by Century News journos about shit coming his way and clues his team had missed during their investigations. But in return, there was not much her channel was getting.
Same shitty information that every news channel gets, not even with an internal source!

Jagan wiped the masala sticking to his goatee. Chewing between his words, he said, “I am sad to say that the truth is what it seems to be. There is hardly any internal story. Mujahid-e-Bashariyat has taken the responsibility for this attack. I guess they have a class sharpshooter in their ranks. Police is looking for the whereabouts of this outfit. No clues yet.”

“What about the ballistics report?”

“Detailed report is yet to come. The primary analysis points to a .50 BMG bullet, commonly used by snipers around the world. It was fired from the roof of Destiny Towers at a distance of about 1086 meters. The best kill in the world till date has been around 2.5 kilometers in the Afghan war.”

“That doesn’t help much. Any clues… scratch marks?”

“We found a few scratch marks on the roof where he placed the rifle barrel and tripod. But, I can say with confidence that we are not going to get much from that.”

“But aren’t sniper rifles long? How come nobody noticed him entering and leaving the building with such a weapon or kit in his hands?”

“To add, the kit would be very heavy too,” Jagan said, nodding. “Only the security guard at the apartment can answer this question. Alas, he doesn’t remember much because the killer had tranquilized him.”

Give me something, damnit.
“What about a possibility that the weapon was already in the building… and that someone living in or commonly known around the apartment might be involved?”

“It’s quite possible. But let me be very frank with you. Powers above me want this case to be closed. Nitin was a monster who deserved to get killed. And people are happy that he’s gone. A lot of government money is saved. There are other burning issues this country is facing where our manpower is needed. So, I don’t think you will find any eye-opening disclosures from police in this case.”

“Then why the hell are we wasting each other’s time at such an expensive restaurant. We could have met for tea on the street outside. I thought you had called me to give me some juicy info off the record.”

She dug her fingernails into her palms. Was there going to be any revelation in this case at all?
Bloody Indian police. Do we have the largest number of unsolved cases in the world?

“I have called you for something else. And it is off the record. We are not going to work on this case for more than two or three days. Don’t take us seriously, if we look busy on this case. Because we aren’t. It’s a show we are putting up in front of the courts and the media. So, let me tell you one thing. And this will be the last thing I am going to tell you about this case. If you come to me tomorrow and ask for further info, I will not be able to help you. OK?”

“OK. Carry on.”

“Just to get a grip on Nitin Tomar’s personality, we wanted to know who his friends were… who he talked to… what he talked about and all that. So, I brought in a guy from our cyber investigation cell. This guy was able to get into his Gmail and Facebook accounts.”

“And did you find anything useful?”

“I am not sure. We couldn’t infer much from his Facebook account. He was a pretty offline kind of person. Then we checked his Gmail account. Here, too, his “Inbox” and “Sent Mails” folders did not contain anything of interest. But we found a couple of peculiar mails in his “Junk” folder. He had never read them because the mails never came to his Inbox. Both of the mails consisted of one line each and were sent from a weird looking email ID. Maybe, that’s why they went into the junk folder as spam.”

“And what were those lines?” Seema asked.
Cut the crap. Come to the point.

“The first mail was sent about five days before the killings. It said, ‘You are in danger. Reply and we can talk.’ The subject line was simply ‘Hiii’. The second mail came only one day before the killings with the same subject line. It said, ‘Reply immediately. You are in real real danger.’ No mail after the massacre.”

“This is surprising. Did the sender have a name?” Seema frowned.
This is getting interesting.

“‘Reply Immediately’ – that’s what he had mentioned as his name.”

“Was your cyber guy able to track this email ID?”

“No. He was with me only for a few days. He has been reassigned now.”

“So, what is your take on this?”

“Well, from one angle, these mails can be spam mails. Everybody gets them. I get so many ‘Reply immediately’ mails saying ‘you have won millions of pounds’. They are junk and that’s why they go to the junk folder. But every once in a while some genuine mails also find their way to the folder. . If you ask for my personal opinion, getting such mails so close to the massacre can’t be a coincidence.”

“But the real question is – ‘How are these mails related to what Nitin did?’ Was Nitin in danger, or were the small children in danger from Nitin?”

“That’s why I am telling you all this. I will soon be off this case. From a policeman’s perspective, Nitin has got the punishment, which we would have given him anyway. But, there is a mystery to this case, which is making me uneasy and curious. See if you can get some insights from whatever I have shared with you,” Jagan said, looking straight into Seema’s eyes. He seemed to regret that he had to leave this case unsolved.

He gave a printout to Seema.

“This is the printout of the mails. I have also written the login names and passwords of Nitin’s accounts.”

“Thanks Jagan
ji
. Let me first digest the information you have provided, because it raises a lot of weird questions. For example, ‘Did somebody know that Nitin was about to kill someone?’ or ‘Did someone know that Nitin was about to get killed himself?’ There is a lot of confusion.”

“I agree. And you’ll be surprised to know that I am pretty scared of whoever killed Nitin. Scared to the core,” Jagan said with a grim face, as Seema stood up and started to move.

Just when she had crossed a few tables, he called her name. She turned.

“Be safe, Seema Madam!” he said, glancing at her the same way the inmates look at a fellow prisoner being taken to the gallows. As if the warnings in the mails were intended for her.