Compass Box Killer (5 page)

The moon now shone down on Virkar, its cool, white light illuminating the contours of every corner of the boat around him, while simultaneously creating patches of darkness that hid all the ugly, rough edges. The crests and troughs that the Koli Queen ploughed through provided the gentle, rocking sensation that served as a salve to Virkar’s frayed nerves. Virkar took another swig of the amber beer—his second bottle—and tried to piece together the different strands of information he had been struggling to make sense of. He was, by now, quite sure that Nandu was no riffraff. He was a focused, intelligent and educated killer. Virkar was certain that Nandu was acting on his own, sans any accomplice as he had earlier believed. He set aside the empty bottle and watched the faraway city lights framing the shore. The light whirr of the boat’s engine powering it through the water was the only sound in the still night. Virkar scratched the heavy stubble on his face. Only a person with a background in chemistry or engineering could have extracted ricin from castor. It required first-hand knowledge of castor beans and their toxicity as well as familiarity with the technical process of chromatography. Apart from being clever, Nandu also seemed to be a very good actor—he was able to pull off the role of a lowly daily-wage worker with apparent ease.

Virkar had found out that castor was grown in abundance in Andhra Pradesh, Gujarat, Orissa and Karnataka. The last bit of information was particularly interesting, since the vadapaowala had mentioned Nandu’s Kannadiga origins. But what did a young man from Karnataka have against a police officer from Mumbai? Why Akurle?

Nandu’s age indicated that he was probably just out of college, as did the fact that he was leaving his notes in old, metal compass boxes as a signature. Was there any significance in his use of the boxes? Or was it just a coincidence?

There was definitely no coincidence in his use of blood to write his notes. It indicated the strength of purpose in his obviously disturbed psyche. The blood had been analyzed and found to be human and of a common type, not providing much of a clue.

And then there was Dr Prabhat Bhandari. A search had thrown up four people with this name with the title ‘doctor’ living in Mumbai. Virkar had questioned all four but none had any knowledge of a young man from Karnataka harbouring a grudge against them. Virkar had wanted to put all four of them up at one place, in a hotel or a guest house, under his personal twenty-four-hour surveillance, but his boss had vetoed the idea. Instead, he had been instructed to put each of the four under standard police protection of a single police constable, but Virkar feared that it wouldn’t be an adequate deterrent to the determined and devious Nandu. Besides, was Nandu his real name?

As the hours passed, the confusion in Virkar’s mind only seemed to be rising as the bottles of beer and the Jhinga Koliwada finally started having an effect on his body. Lethargy crept into his muscles as the cool breeze lulled him into a sleepy haze. He picked up the icebox and kept it on the floor of the boat where he had earlier discarded the empty beer bottles and plastic bags. He stretched out on the bench, knowing that he had just a few hours before the Koli Queen turned around and deposited him back on shore. The last thought that popped into Virkar’s mind was that Nandu’s physical description and linguistic disposition combined with his superior scientific ability indicated that they were looking for a science or engineering graduate in Mumbai with his origins somewhere on the Maharashtra-Karnataka border. This profile narrowed the suspect list down to about a few hundred thousand young men. Virkar laughed out loud at his own predicament.
Naseeb gandu toh kya karega Pandu!
he thought as he surrendered to his fatigue and drifted off to sleep.

T
he killer opened the cheap, imitation leather briefcase that he was carrying and fished out a crisp visiting card. The neatly printed lettering on the visiting card didn’t reveal his real name, but identified him as Sandesh Jejurikar (BPharm), Medical Representative, Kirti Pharmaceuticals. The killer handed it over to Police Constable Rane who had asked for it.

Rane, a sprightly man with thinning hair and shrewd, pea-sized eyes, had been instructed to closely monitor all visitors to one of the Dr Prabhat Bhandaris on Virkar’s list. This particular doctor had a clinic at Framjee House, an old office building in the Dhobi Talao area of Mumbai. Rane had been handpicked by Virkar for this duty because he had, on many an occasion, displayed a keen sense of spotting potential troublemakers among mobs during riots. Like Virkar, Rane had been recently transferred to the Crime Branch from the Riot Control Police sub-unit, and was keen to prove his worth at his new job. He was diligently checking the identification of each and every visitor to Framjee House and had been especially strict with people who even remotely matched the police suspect Nandu’s description.

Rane studied the slim, dark, bespectacled man standing in front of him. He vaguely matched the police artist’s sketch, but then so had many other young men who had walked in and out of the busy commercial building since early business hours.

Rane’s suspicion radar was on as he scrutinized the visiting card in his hand. ‘Please show me the identity card issued from your company as well,’ he asked, keeping his tone casual. The killer opened his briefcase again and rummaged around in it. A small amount of nervousness had crept into his voice when he said, ‘What’s the matter, havaldar saheb? Why all this security?’ Rane did not answer but waited patiently, watching the killer’s face while he attempted to locate the ID card. The policeman tensed and slowly pulled himself to his full height, getting ready for action. But the killer simply pulled out a stiff laminated card dangling from a thin metal chain. ‘Ah, here it is,’ he said, holding it up in the air like a prize. Taking his time, he first shut his briefcase, placed it on the ground, stretched his limbs and yawned. By the time he handed his ID card to Rane, the policeman was at the end of his patience. Rane’s sharp eyes quickly focused on the gawky, laminated picture of the annoying man in front of him, squinting at the ID number embossed on the card that bore the logo of Kirti Pharmaceuticals and a rubber-stamped company seal. It looked authentic enough.

Rane scratched his left ear; he was still not completely satisfied with it. He knew that this kind of a card could easily be generated at the thousands of Xerox/DTP/Lamination shops that dotted the city. Rane then said, ‘Show me what’s inside your briefcase.’ The killer slowly lifted the case and opened it, turning it towards the Rane while making his reluctance evident. Rane paid him no mind and poked about in the briefcase. He found samples of medicines, company invoices, a boxed mobile phone and a steel tiffin, which, when opened, released a cloud of the rancid fumes of a long-devoured spicy meal.

Rane was still not happy. He now decided to use his secret weapon: a three-stage test that he had used on all the other men he had found suspicious. First, he called the receptionist at the clinic and asked her whether Dr Bhandari was expecting a medical representative (MR) from Kirti Pharmaceuticals. The receptionist confirmed that the doctor was indeed expecting an MR named Sandesh Jejurikar. Then Rane asked the killer to dial the boardline number of the offices of Kirti Pharmaceuticals. As soon as the number rang, Rane took the phone from the killer’s hand and spoke to the receptionist, enquiring whether they had an employee called Sandesh Jejurikar. Satisfied at the positive response from the receptionist, Rane thanked her and handed the phone back to the killer. Rane smirked to himself and employed stage three of his test, his most devious move yet. ‘Where is your native place, Jejurikar?’ he asked in Marathi.

The killer looked a little taken aback by the suddenness of the question but replied in fluent Marathi, ‘I’m from Jejuri, in Pune district.’

The constable raised a sly eyebrow. ‘Jejuri? Isn’t that where the samadhi of Sant Dnyaneshwar is?’

The killer answered in all earnestness. ‘No, saheb, that is Alandi. Jejuri has the Khandoba Temple.’

Finally satisfied, Rane broke into a smile. ‘Chalo, you can go on inside. The next time you are in your village temple, don’t forget to say a little prayer for my wellbeing.’

The killer smiled back good-naturedly and nodded. ‘Thank you, saheb. I will definitely try to remember.’ He lifted his briefcase and headed up the wooden stairs to the clinic on the third floor.

As he walked up, the killer smiled to himself, happy in the knowledge that, once again, a policeman had been no match for him. He suppressed a laugh at how he had played mind games with Rane. He had deliberately stalled when asked to produce his ID card and he had also injected enough nervousness into his voice for it to get noticed. Nervousness was a common reaction of lay people when confronted by policemen; in fact, if he had not shown any sign of nervousness, the canny Rane would have picked this up as a suspicious sign. The killer wondered if he should have toyed with Rane a little longer, but then felt that it was for the better that he had not. He didn’t have much time left for the task he had to perform now.

The killer reached his destination on the third floor and pushed open the opaque glass door in front of him on which the doctor’s name was written in paint. As he walked into the small reception area of Dr Prabhat Bhandari’s clinic, the receptionist, a wiry woman with henna-streaked hair, raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Sandesh Jejurikar?’ The killer nodded. The receptionist gave him an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, they are doing some kind of security exercise down there.’ The killer just smiled back and shrugged.

The receptionist gestured towards a cabin. ‘Dr Bhandari is free now.’ The killer nodded his thanks, pushed open the cabin’s door and entered.

Inside, a grey-haired man with a French beard that made him look a little like the IT revolutionary, Sam Pitroda, looked up from a sheet he was scrutinizing. He smiled at his visitor. ‘Ah, you must be Jejurikar? So, what is this great promotional offer you told me about on the phone?’

T
he Bomb Detection and Disposal Squad of the Mumbai Police is a unique team of about 150 fearless men who continuously challenge death when they don their bomb suits, and with little else, go to work on something that can—literally—blow up in their faces. They do not have the safety of the sophisticated tools available to others in their profession around the world. In fact, theirs is a line of duty that depends on guts, keeping their wits intact…and sheer luck.

Today, while the bomb squad worked, the road across from Framjee House had been cleared and blocked and the entire area had been cordoned off for the fear of finding another explosive. Still, a pesky crowd of onlookers had gathered despite the police’s attempts at shooing them away. In fact, they were debating whether to lathi charge the crowd to disperse them but they had been given strict orders to exercise restraint by the police commissioner himself, who had passed by the site while on the way to his office nearby.

Virkar had been standing impatiently at the edge of the police cordon for the past hour, waiting for the bomb squad to finish its search. Earlier, he had spent almost two hours getting a complete update from Constable Rane, who had somehow also managed to cross-question Dr Bhandari’s hysterical receptionist. Virkar hadn’t liked the picture that had emerged. The suspect, Nandu, who had changed his identity to kill Dr Bhandari, was now going by the name Sandesh Jejurikar and had, in fact, far cleverer and deadlier intentions than Virkar could have ever imagined. The receptionist said that Jejurikar, posing as a pharmaceutical company’s sales representative, had entered Dr Bhandari’s room on the pretext of discussing a lucrative offer of receiving a free high-end mobile phone on the placement of an order with Kirti Pharmaceuticals. The receptionist added, in a querulous voice, that she knew about this because the man’s voice had been loud enough to be heard in the reception area.

Virkar had made a quick phone call to the CEO of Kirti Pharmaceuticals to confirm that such an offer had never existed. But there
was
an employee called Sandesh Jejurikar who had gone missing the day before. Virkar also found out that the physical description given by the CEO of his employee, Sandesh Jejurikar, didn’t match that of the young man who had entered Framjee House.

Now, while being jostled by a couple of thousand curious onlookers and the plethora of TV news reporters, Virkar was praying that luck would be on their side and no live explosive device would be found in Dr Prabhat Bhandari’s clinic.

As soon as he got the ‘all-clear’ signal from the chief of the bomb squad, Virkar rushed up to the third floor. He crossed his fingers, hoping against hope that he would not be welcomed with another cryptic message written in blood.