The Girl in the Glass Case Page 6

  Simone scoffed, thinking about Zoya’s secret-mistress theory, which was stupid at best. It didn’t answer why Ramesh, or his mistress, would dress the boy in drag and display him in a case. Senior detective, my foot!

  Simone sighed, immediately regretting the thought. Zoya wasn’t the culprit here. Hussain was! She was getting blindsided by his behaviour and blaming Zoya unfairly.

  And just as suddenly, she got mad at herself for how she had behaved with Zoya, who was only trying to help. She didn’t deserve to be left stranded in the parking lot.

  Simone slammed a hand on the steering wheel as a gamut of emotions threatened to swamp her.

  ‘Get a grip!’ she lashed out at herself.

  Simone brought the Thar to a halt at the offices of the Directorate of Forensic Science Services. She shut her eyes and breathed in.

  Must stay strong. Stay focused. Be emotionless, she told herself.

  She opened her eyes and saw the reflection of her steely gaze in the rear-view mirror. She nodded and jumped out of the Thar.

  Simone walked into the reception, registered in the entry docket and took the elevator to the third floor.

  She had been here many times. The place always smelled like antiseptic liquid. Always the same routine. Dr D’Souza preferred meeting detectives in his office, rather than sending autopsy results over email or meeting them in his lab.

  She walked the length of a corridor and came to a stop outside his door. Simone knocked on the door twice.

  ‘Come in!’ said a gruff voice.

  Simone entered.

  Dr D’Souza looked up and removed his thick, black reading glasses.

  ‘Oh, Simone. Come in, come in!’ he softened his voice. It still sounded hoarse and forced, like he had a sore throat. He didn’t. It was a birth deformity in the larynx—Dr D’Souza had once told Simone.

  The office was small and square, with shelves lining the walls, replete with folders of every conceivable colour. It seemed more like a mini library of dossiers than a medical examiner’s office. Dr D’Souza sat hunched with his elbows on the table.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he offered.

  ‘Thank you.’ Simone sat down.

  ‘How are you doing, Simone?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Simone. She wanted to get to the point. Small talk made her uncomfortable. Or irate. Or nasty. Sometimes, like today, all of the above.

  ‘How’s your grandma?’ croaked Dr D’Souza.

  ‘Fine.’ Simone forced a smile.

  ‘And Simone . . .’ he paused, as if trying to find the right words, ‘. . . I was sorry to hear about your suspension. It was neither fair nor just. I understand how difficult it must have been for you and—’

  ‘Have you ever been suspended yourself?’ Simone interrupted him.

  Dr D’Souza fell silent for a moment. ‘Umm . . . no . . . I haven’t. But I know it takes someone resilient, a fighter like you, to come back strongly.’

  Simone gripped the edge of her chair, holding herself in place lest she give in to the urge to run away. She bobbed her head quite a few times. ‘You mentioned on the phone that the autopsy is complete?’ she said, changing the topic.

  Dr D’Souza looked at Simone for a moment. Then, with an understanding shake of the head, said, ‘Yes and no.’

  Simone was puzzled.

  He pushed the folder in front of him towards Simone and turned it around for her to read it.

  He said, ‘We finished the autopsy, yes. But did we find the cause of death? No.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Dr D’Souza sat back in his chair, massaging his forehead. ‘Let me try to explain. The deceased boy had no physical injuries, no internal haemorrhage, no organ failure. Which means no undue force was used. He wasn’t strangled—no marks on the throat or pinch marks on the nose. So, we thought the kid was poisoned. But the toxicology report came back negative. Nothing in the stomach, except the remains of a burger and Coca-Cola. We checked twice. Same result.’

  ‘What are you saying, doc?’

  ‘The kid had a heart attack. His heart simply stopped pumping. Poof! Just like that. If not for the way the kid was displayed in the glass case, you’d think he went to sleep and never woke up.’

  9

  Ranveer skewed his face sideways. He checked himself in the rear-view mirror of his swanky, red Mercedes-Benz SUV. He flicked a stray strand of his shoulder-length hair behind his ear. The charcoal black hair glowed in the dim light of the underground parking lot, thanks to the copious amounts of hair gel he had applied.

  It was date night. He felt giddy. The once-a-quarter ritual. Ranveer closed his fists to control the little shivers of excitement. He took a deep breath. It only made him more perceptive of the anxiety that gripped his body, mostly his loins.

  ‘Date night, baby!’ he exulted loudly, in an effort to let some of the exhilaration out of his system. It helped. A little.

  Ranveer looked outside the car window. The parking lot of DB City Mall was full. The evening traffic still streamed in with a few cars wandering about the parking lot hoping to find a vacant spot.

  His date was late. Five minutes and running.

  Ranveer took out his iPhone 11. He turned on the VPN set to Cayman Islands, opened the Internet browser and entered an IP address. It took him to a blank, white screen with a cursor blinking in the middle, asking for a password. He was always struck by the stark contrast of the white screen representing his favourite site on the dark web. A timer below the cursor was counting down from thirty seconds. He entered his twenty-character password. No haste. No stress.

  The page refreshed and took him to a site called G.B.T. A tagline at the top of the page read: ‘The sexy middle if you lose the L and Q’—a reference to the LGBTQ community. Below were graphic listings of gay, bi and trans men seeking lovers or one-night stands. Ranveer ignored the listings and opened his secure inbox. He entered a different password and all his previous messages showed up. His previous one-night stands with closeted transgender tourists on short trips to Bhopal. He liked to look at the old messages to re-live those nights of passion.

  Right on top was a message thread with his date tonight. Cleopatra, ‘she/her’—the pronouns she preferred. A fake name, naturally. No way would Indian parents name their boy Cleopatra. There were no new messages from Cleopatra. The last message, sent more than two hours ago, was a selfie of Cleopatra, pouting, her face caked with colourful cosmetics, her lush, red lips almost kissing the camera. A caption under the photo read: Getting ready! BTW . . . I’m naked right now! The flirty message aroused him. If he was excited about the date before, the message had ignited raw, uncontrollable passion.

  Ranveer had replied: FYI. I just got out of the shower. Two could play that game.

  Ranveer clenched and unclenched his fingers to calm the little shivers that were trying to gain control.

  ‘Dammit!’ he huffed.

  ‘Get a grip!’ he told himself. He felt the constant throbbing of the vein in his forehead.

  Suddenly, there was a knock on the passenger-side window. Ranveer looked up, surprised, the vein in his forehead pounding.

  It was Cleopatra. She was grinning. Her shimmery, silver chiffon gown’s V-neck, lined with fake diamonds, glittered despite the dim light. One could always trust a closeted, transgender woman to go all out on a date night in a different city—the few nights of freedom when he could be a woman without a care or judgement. Ranveer preferred it this way. The secrecy. The disguise.

  Ranveer smiled at Cleopatra and lowered the window.

  ‘Hi! Are you Ripple?’ Her voice was raspy, heavy, fake. Just like her get-up.

  For a moment Ranveer was confused but quickly remembered that Ripple was his chosen name for tonight’s date.

  ‘Yes, I am. Nice to meet you!’

  Ranveer unlocked the car door. Cleopatra gathered her flowing gown with one hand, the grab handle above the car window with the other and got into the SUV. Ranveer couldn’t help but
notice her matching six-inch silver pumps. His heart fluttered. The tremors in his hand returned. He was already fantasizing about adding those pumps to his collection.

  Cleopatra slammed the door shut. Blinked her long, fake eyelashes at Ranveer and said, ‘Shall we?’

  Ranveer nodded, locking the car, and started the engine.

  Cleopatra was his. Forever.

  10

  ‘How about some music?’ Ranveer turned on the car radio without waiting for an answer from Cleopatra. A Punjabi song filled the car with its peppy beats. Ranveer wasn’t a fan of Punjabi music. Or Bollywood music. Hard, headbanging rock—that was his jam. But, for now, anything to shut Cleopatra up, he thought. He was getting tired of her constant raspy blabbering. Cleopatra was going out of her way to hide her masculine voice. The more she tried, the more her voice grated on his ears, like a buzz saw cutting through hardwood—jarring, pesky and screechy. He didn’t mind the over-the-top dressing. He liked it actually. But the pretentious feminine voice annoyed him. He would have picked up a woman if he had wanted to be with one.

  Well, he had been with a woman until she left him. His wife. Ex-wife. The woman he loved. The woman who had crushed him.

  Ranveer tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

  ‘Oh my!’ Cleopatra squeaked.

  Ranveer was jerked out of his reverie, the memory of his ex-wife dissolving into indecipherable fragments—exactly the way she had left him last year.

  ‘That’s terrible! Did you hear that?’ Cleopatra asked him.

  The Punjabi song had stopped. The radio jockey was speaking in a hushed, pained voice.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘The news. Did you hear the news on the radio? Someone murdered a little girl of five and encased her in a glass case dressed as a Barbie doll, like she was some sort of trophy to be displayed.’ Cleopatra patted her chest, as if trying to calm down her heart.

  Ranveer shrugged. Thousands died every day in this country. What was one more death?

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Ranveer.

  Cleopatra fanned her face by vigorously flapping her hand. ‘Sorry, I get a little paranoid sometimes,’ she said. ‘You see, I have a daughter of my own in Mumbai. Six years old. I’m just concerned about her. What would happen if a creep like the Doll Maker kidnaps her? I would die, you know. Just die!’ Her voice choked on the tears she was struggling to hold back.

  Ranveer narrowed his brow. ‘The Doll Maker?’

  Cleopatra gulped, nodding. Holding back emotions that were clearly ready to flow, she nodded again. ‘Yes. That’s what they are calling the killer.’

  Ranveer shook his head in dismay. That’s what the media does today! He was screaming in his head. He was annoyed. And, maybe, a little jealous. One murder, just one! And the media gives the killer a nickname. Nine years ago, when he first started, it took him three kills before the media even gave him coverage in a newspaper. Five kills before they christened him. The Clipper. That was what they had called him then. And had been calling him ever since.

  Ranveer sighed. ‘Relax,’ he told Cleopatra. ‘Nothing is going to happen to your daughter. The killer is here in Bhopal. Your daughter is safe in Mumbai.’

  Cleopatra sighed. ‘I guess you’re right.’ She forced a smile.

  Suddenly, Ranveer felt a hand on his shoulder. His arm spasmed instinctively. He flicked away Cleopatra’s loving caress.

  ‘What the—’ Cleopatra raised her arms in protest. Even her annoyance was exaggerated.

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry,’ said Ranveer. ‘I was startled. I don’t like anyone touching me without permission.’

  Cleopatra smiled with a flirty tilt of the head. ‘Okay, Ripple. How about . . .’ She shifted in her position.

  Ranveer took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at her.

  Cleopatra was biting her lower lip. Her eyelashes fluttered at him ‘. . . how about giving me permission to touch you here?’

  Ranveer felt her fingertips on his left knee. Slowly, teasingly, her fingertips started moving up his thigh. He stiffened, slowing the car a wee bit. He tried to calm himself down.

  She sidled closer to him. Her fingertips kept riding higher up his thigh before coming to a stop between his legs. She massaged him there with soft, calculated movements, till he knew she could feel his bulge.

  Cleopatra scooched over and whispered in his ear, ‘That, right there, I think, is permission granted.’

  He snorted. Glanced at her, his hands firm on the steering wheel.

  Cleopatra winked at him. Gave him a coy smile. And just as suddenly as it had started, she pulled her hand away.

  He was left wanting more.

  She sat back in her seat and said, ‘Just so you know . . . .’ She paused, bit her lower lip and gave him the same flirty, sidelong glance, ‘You have permission to rip off this dress tonight.’

  Ranveer’s eyes lit up. Little did she know that he planned to rip off more than the dress tonight.

  11

  ‘Hello,’ said Zoya, her voice groggy, her annoyance clear in her tone.

  ‘Umm . . .’ Simone had called Zoya, but was now suddenly stumped, unsure of what to say and where to begin. She adjusted the phone in her hand.

  ‘What do you want, Simone?’

  Simone decided the apology could wait. ‘Anything on Ramesh’s alibi?’ she blurted.

  Simone heard Zoya sigh on the phone.

  ‘For God’s sake, Simone. It’s midnight! I was sleeping. The case can wait till tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Fine!’ Simone raised her voice. ‘Go to sleep, partner.’ Simone drawled, like the last word was a slur. ‘I’ll be here at my desk the whole night, working the case, while you get your beauty sleep.’

  ‘Look,’ Zoya cleared her throat and said in a composed tone, ‘there really isn’t much to work with. Ramesh’s alibi checks out for the day his son was kidnapped. He was indeed doing a carpentry job at the pharmacy next door. The shop owner confirmed his presence.’

  ‘Then, how did his thumbprint get on the dead body?’

  ‘I don’t know, Simone. And I think I was wrong about the mistress. None of Ramesh’s friends or neighbours ever saw another woman since his wife died. He was a doting husband, apparently. Her death shattered him completely.’ Zoya let out an audible yawn. ‘Simone, I’m too tired to think right now. If you want to work through the night, be my guest, but I’m going to sleep.’

  ‘Fine. Goodnight.’ Simone disconnected the call.

  Her heart raced; her head throbbed. She had called to apologize. But she had a feeling that, somehow, she had made it worse.

  Day 2

  12

  Superintendent Irshad Hussain entered the crime wing at 6 a.m. A habit. Cultivated and followed for twenty years. It started even before he joined the police force as a brash, young constable.

  The office was empty. As expected. Most of the detectives trickled in by 9 a.m. Or later. In the past, he’d have cursed, berated or suspended the lazy bums for their lack of discipline. He was a taskmaster but something had happened a few years ago. He had changed. Not because he had become more understanding. But because a case had broken his conviction, his resolve. The one case he could not solve. The one killer who taunted him. Still.

  The Clipper. ‘The fucking coward,’ Irshad muttered loudly.

  He entered his office, closing the door behind him. He didn’t want prying eyes to invade his morning ritual. He eased into his swivel chair, opened a drawer and took out a hardbound folder. The original case file on the Clipper, each note, each annotation, each subtext written in Irshad’s handwriting. The file had Post-it notes protruding from the side, an indexing system that Irshad had devised. He was the lead detective on the case when the first murder happened nine years ago. He was the superintendent when the last murder happened three months ago. The body was never found. But like clockwork, once every quarter, he’d receive a ripped off . . .

  Irshad closed his eyes to burn away those
vicious and savage memories. It didn’t help.

  He opened his eyes and opened the bottom drawer. He knew what would help. It always did. He took out a half-empty bottle of Old Monk rum. His companion, his saviour, his mistress. The brown liquid sparkled in the morning light that dappled through the blinds.

  Irshad used to be a God-fearing teetotaller. A loyal husband, a caring father. Never missed a salat—five times a day he’d pray to Allah. Gave sadaqat or non-obligatory charity from his meagre salary every month. Then, something had snapped in his brain four years ago. He remembered the day most vividly even though he had ended up drunk, doped, beaten and half-naked in the gutter lining Bhopal’s red-light district.

  It was the five-year anniversary of the Clipper’s first kill. The killer had celebrated it in style. Five ‘gifts’ like five salat had arrived at Irshad’s desk during the day. Each gift similar. Each gift gruesome. He had opened them. Stared at them. Touched them. Despite the judgement and scorn in his colleagues’ eyes. He was convinced that it would help trigger the anger, the drive and the passion to bring the killer to justice. Instead, it had opened a door in his brain that he didn’t know existed. Curious, he had bolted through that door. And never looked back. Now he wasn’t sure whether he was trapped or just didn’t want to go back.

  Irshad unscrewed the bottle cap and took a swig. The liquid set his throat on fire. He swallowed hard. He put the bottle aside and opened the case file.

  The first page was a summary of the investigation so far, a page he himself updated after receiving the Clipper’s ‘gift’ every three months or so. Sure, Irshad was the superintendent and could have given the case to a bright, young detective like Zoya or Simone. But this was his case, his killer to find, his case to close. The investigation summary attributed forty kills to the Clipper over nine years—one murder for each of the thirty-six quarters and four extra kills that one quarter to ‘celebrate’ the five-year anniversary of the Clipper’s first kill. The modus operandi (MO) was the same for each kill. A male victim. No body found. A gift sent by the killer, wrapped in the day’s newspaper, to the investigating officer—Irshad. As if it was a game. And the killer only wanted to play with Irshad. No prints were found on the newspapers. They were always squeaky clean. As were the gifts inside. It was a dead end.