Death of a Smile
Himali fascinated the neighbours. They watched her train the bougainvillaea to climb the lattice on the porch, and when the flowers blossomed, lo and behold! There was a floral wall. They marvelled at her obsession with plants and were wonderstruck by the thicket of a garden in the beachfront bungalow in Mahabalipuram. The Indian masts were deeply rooted and lined the compound wall, and swayed as the winds brought briny, warm moisture across the Bay of Bengal, along with the fishy smells of a fresh catch. The paan-betel leaf plant wound up the coconut palms, hanging from the pinnate leaves. More prying eyes could spot the hibiscus in colours of bright red, sunset orange, and lemon yellow. The potted oleander sat on niches like ornaments against the filigree wall.
‘Money can do anything,’ one portly neighbour sighed, looking at Himali from her terrace, ‘She loves her plants and is spending plenty on them!’ The neighbours nicknamed her Money Aunty, because she related to life in terms of creature comforts.
‘Yes,’ Hobo Princess nodded, stretching her endless knobbly limbs, hanging over the terrace wall like a sheet, peeking for a clearer view, and returning to the chair.
Hobo Princess, alias Priya, was thirty. Yet, she was happy to keep company with the older woman, Money Aunty, on her terrace and listen to the woman compare her sparse garden to Himali’s, ‘The green of money works better than that of hand!’ She espoused, examining her chubby fingers. ‘Himali’s husband died but left her rich.’ Money Aunty sighed, dreaming of a similar life, ‘She’s in her forties, na?’
‘Yes,’ Hobo Princess nodded again.
‘This used to be their weekend home,’ Money Uncle piped in. He had come up to the terrace. ‘I’ve seen their house in Chennai. It’s bigger.’
‘Oho!’ Money Aunty gauged her porcine husband. ‘When did you see their house in Chennai?’ She grew curious. ‘You never mentioned it before!’
Money Uncle shrugged. ‘Oh, I’ve often been to the hospital they own, which is right next to their house.’
‘How come?’ Money Aunty, asked.
‘On work!’ Money Uncle was a tad annoyed. ‘To demonstrate new medical equipment. That’s what I do, right? I earned a neat commission on his purchases.’
‘Aiyoh! Leave that! Was Chennai house nice, like this one? With a garden?’
‘Of course, a bigger garden. Dr Kumaran was also into research and doctors came from overseas to visit their hospital. The visiting doctors stayed at their house. Beautiful house, modern, and the bathrooms have shower cubicles and rolls of toilet paper.’ Money Uncle rolled his hands.
‘Aiyoh! They don’t wash?’ Money Aunty was aghast.
‘How would I know? I have only seen the toilet paper and soap dispenser.’
‘And how did you happen to see all that?’
‘Humm,’ Money Uncle recollected, ‘Two years ago, they organised a seminar. Many companies demoed medical equipment, but we were late,’ Money Uncle smiled, thinking delay had been a boon. ‘Since the doctor had invited the attendees to a dinner at their house, they let us demo there. We were able to because our equipment was a portable magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) machine. That’s when I saw the bathroom. It’s a year now, since Himali moved here,’ Money Uncle was craning his neck.
‘You keep track, na!’ Money, Aunty snapped but switched to a smile. ‘Who runs the hospital?’
‘Her daughter, Dr Rasika Kumaran.
The three of them stared again at the beach house. The aerial view of the verdant garden was like an emerald set around a semi-circle of light aquamarine stones, the sea.
‘Yeah, Himali knows how to live life,’ Hobo Princess said aloud. She liked the predictability of the woman. She had gone to Himali’s house many times, uninvited. She had attempted to start a conversation with her. ‘I love this moringa tree, you’ve painted. You love nature, yeah?’
Himali would smile and say, ‘Will you have tender coconut water?’ to veer and rush off to fetch it. But she wouldn’t return. Hobo Princess will wait and leave regretfully. Hobo Princess drew deep on the joint at this point and shut her eyes. Himali’s serene persona and her everlasting smile danced before her. She remembered the time the Tsunami had hit Mahabalipuram in 2004, and Himali had appeared calm even then. The garden was knotted, like uncombed hair, but within weeks, the green of her garden appeared coiffured, even if her visits were fortnightly in those days. Himali will then have been a young married woman and Hobo Princess, a child of nine years. She had watched this unfazed woman arrive in the Land Cruiser and spend half a day. There was a charm about the regularity in her habits, her visits, the exact time she would arrive, the music turned on for an hour soon after, and her preparation to leave by nightfall.
‘I’ve seen you go there often, you must know her well,’ Money Uncle snickered.
‘Yeah! I know her quite well,’ Hobo Princess returned from her thoughts and gave Money Uncle a look. He held hers in a duel.
‘You have been inside her house, na?’ Money Aunty asked, oblivious of the sparring.
‘Yeah, seen her paintings too,’ Hobo Princess dragged deep and let the smoke out, the musky, sweet smells which Money Aunty inhaled, wishing she were an artist too.
‘I can paint a little,’ she giggled.
‘The gate needs a coat. Paint that!’ Money Uncle chose his moment to tell his wife that she could never be Himali. That slanted message stung her. Money Aunty reacted by ballooning with an intake of breath. Her chest doubled in size, and she grew like a humungous tailing meteoroid, ready to hurl upon Money Uncle and bury him deep under. He recoiled and zigged away, holding one end of his lungi.
‘Humph!’ Money Aunty deflated and sat back on the rattan chair, filling it with her frame and indignity. ‘Stupid man!’ Her eyes bore into his back, watching him sprint down the stairs and into the house. She soon cheered up. ‘Introduce me to her, na? Since you know her so well.’ Money Aunty was pleading.
‘Of course,’ Hobo Princess rolled another joint. She pinched the tip and lit it. Money Aunty loved the secondary smoking; it made her heady. ‘You think she is cute, na?’ she giggled.
‘Yeah,’ Hobo Princess said, thinking, Himali was pretty, with thick, frond-like eyebrows over distant, brown eyes, sun-kissed skin, hair caressing the long, slender waist of the tall woman, features curved and shaped to make her look cute and her beautiful smile. Hobo Princess often wondered if Himali knew she was gorgeous. Nope! It did not show in her demeanour. She was so… oblivious and unattached! Finally, Hobo Princess found a description that fit Himali. Oblivious and unattached!
The neighbourhood knew when Himali was tending the garden in the evenings because the music would come on for an hour. She had placed speakers to lull the garden to sleep. Again, in the morning, an awakening chant would fill the neighbourhood. Her routine was infusing into that of the neighbours as well.
Uncle Lech, alias Murali, awoke early and waited for Himali to turn on the music so he could watch her in the garden, tending to the plants. Watch her talk to the plants: a specific pause, a few words, a slight nod, as if she were saying hello and goodbye, and then she would move to the next plant, always smiling; this routine took an hour of her mornings.
Uncle Lech was on his roof, slurping coffee, which the neighbours heard across two rooftops, the noisy, lustful sips. He watched Himali as she knotted her defiant hair, which would cascade down, ever so often, in the hour she spent in the garden, and she would ball it up in a bun each time. Hobo Princess, too, observed Himali from her balcony. Neighbours wondered if she more than admired Himali, love, perhaps? It was hard to tell because there was so much chatter about Himali. There were so many theories on how she spent her time and had come to stay at the beach house permanently. There were questions, too. Why did she not live in the Chennai house? And why did her daughter hardly visit her?
*
Dr. Kumaran, a neurosurgeon, had returned from the United Kingdom after completing his course study and two years of practice in 1997. He was eager to start his practice in Chennai, India. Himali’s parents were willing to set him up if he were to marry their daughter. The arranged marriage was conducted quickly. The doctor was thirty-two, and Himali was only eighteen; she agreed to her parents' wishes, not comprehending the implications of marriage.
Kumaran had barely met Himali before they married. Therefore, he was confused when he felt he held a child in his arms during the nuptials. He put it down to extreme shyness. Some days later, Himali seemed lost and confused about the daily chores. Even so, she remained quiet. Dr Kumaran eventually understood why. He scheduled a routine for her and encouraged Himali to pursue hobbies. She seemed comfortable amid plants; she spoke with them and was happy that they were mute. Himali thrived in their company, and she was growing into her person, imprinting her love for plants on canvas.
Kumaran concentrated on his practice and gained fame as a neurosurgeon within three years. He took care of Himali, and she loved everything about him. Kumaran figured any other woman would have asked for expensive trips abroad and accessories. But Himali was different. She was delighted by the bustle about him, though she watched it from a distance.
After five years in practice, Kumaran surprised Himali. He led her into a house with French windows, which opened into the garden from most rooms. Himali pirouetted, thrilled, surrounded by the plant world. Adjacent to this house, he built the hospital. In the following two years, he bought the beachfront home.
Life was coursing well, until their nineteenth year of marriage, when the doctor felt ill. He put it down to vertigo and consulted with his colleagues. The diagnosis came as a blinding hook punch.
‘Multiple sclerosis,’ his colleague pronounced and watched Kumaran nod, defeated. He was devastated that his body would grow weak, but his mind grew resilient. He had a battle on hand, and he would fight it! He got his colleagues to treat him. He spent eight years researching myelin.
Kumaran began preparing for the financial security of his family, especially Himali, when he was gone. He banked money in fixed deposits for her, so she got interest from it. Kumaran established a trust to ensure the effective functioning of the hospital, and the trustees elected Rasika as the chairperson.
Kumaran’s condition worsened, and he wanted to prepare Himali for a life without him. ‘You must live in the beach house. This house will generate a good rental income and provide a second source of income for you. Rasika can live in the apartment I bought for her.’
Himali had nodded. She saw that her husband was weak and slurred a bit. ‘In a few years, it’ll be the wheelchair for me. I don’t want that,’ the doctor explained to her that night. Her eyes had brimmed with tears. They both had cried.
‘Do you know your best quality?’ he had asked.
She had shaken her head.
‘Your smile,’ he had said. ‘Don’t ever let it die, even when I do.’
He had raised her lips to his, kissed her and whispered something into her ears. She had cried.
Kumaran died that night in his sleep. The cremation was on the following day. In twenty-four hours, Himali gulped regretfully that her husband had vanished from her life and their twenty-six years together had just melted into thin swirls of sandalwood incense smoke before his framed photograph.
She went to Mahabalipuram, their beach house, to live there as Kumaran had advised her. Rasika knew her mother held a deep admiration for her father. She idolised him beyond reason, and she was his wife before all else. Rasika had never mattered to Himali. Destiny had sequenced their life thus.
*
That morning, Himali chose a sari, as she did every day—a blue Chantilly lace. Kumaran had bought it for her from Paris when he had attended a conference there. She wore the sari and her smile, checked herself in the mirror, and went downstairs to the morning room. There, she studied the surveillance monitor, and she felt breached. All she wanted was privacy from prying neighbours. She grimaced, watching Uncle Lech, as Priya had nicknamed him, awaiting her entry into the garden. He was an accountant by profession, a retired widower. He was now flexing his spindly arms. Money Aunty was darting in and out of her rooftop between her morning chores, wiping her brow from the exertion. For an overweight lady, her curious enthusiasm was commendable; only Himali did not know how to receive all this attention. When Kumaran was alive, no one paid her any. It was her husband who drew it with his expertise. Himali had existed by his side.
‘There’s Priya, the Hobo Princess,’ Kamini, Himali’s in-house help, muttered, holding the tray out. ‘Hobo Princess. Do you know what that means?’ she asked in Tamil.
Himali took the coffee and said nothing. Hobo Princess often sought her, ‘Care to join me for a Jam session? Would you like to watch a concert? Himali turned away from those questions; she was not there yet. Kumaran was ingrained in her mind and, therefore, in her life. Besides, this girl was a little over her daughter’s age, and they had nothing in common!
The Hobo Princess wore her hair like an artist would, natural and free. Her curly hair was penumbral around her, casting shades and shadows over her face and keen eyes. Her casual attitude came with an ease of self-acceptance. But she was coming on strong, which made Himali uncomfortable. She set her thoughts aside and went into the garden.
An hour later, when Himali returned indoors, the doorbell rang. She knew who were at the door because her monitor told her everything. ‘Hello,’ she received them. Hobo Princess and Money Aunty walked in. Their gasps made it clear where their interests lay.
‘Beautiful!’ Money Aunty wheezed, studying the interiors, the natural pairing of wood with Mangalore tiles and the French windows, which allowed nature to surround every room in this six thousand square feet property.
‘Fabulous colour!’ Hobo Princess appraised Himali.
Himali liked being left alone. It was time to let them know that she knew how much they were prying, so she led them to the morning room, where she enjoyed her coffee and where the monitor streamed surveillance from seventeen cameras, including the one perched atop her roof, which provided an aerial view of the neighbourhood surrounding her house. ‘Please sit; I’ll get us tender coconut water,’ Himali said and left.
Money Aunty was agape, seeing the monitor. Aiyoh! Himali has seen me peeking and running out onto the terrace? Her ears burned, and she slumped back on the sofa. She felt her secrets were spilt. Hobo Princess did not care. She had known about the cameras. She had seen them from her window, through the binoculars, and when she had visited Himali.
Money Aunty soon recovered, ‘Strange, it’s been more than fifteen minutes, na? Does it take so long to get tender coconut water?’ It became even stranger when they saw Uncle Lech on the monitor. He opened the gate, slipped into the garden, and then disappeared. They were appalled.
‘What the hell is he doing here? That sneaky fellow!’ Money Aunty was livid. ‘Do you know the way there?’
Hobo Princess nodded, her curiosity piqued.
She led Money Aunty through the kitchen. Kamini was pouring the water from the tender coconuts into glasses. ‘Where are you going?’ Kamini looked anxious.
‘The garden,’ Hobo Princess said, hurrying out.
‘Don’t! Himali Amma won’t like that!’ Kamini was vehement, ‘Drink the coconut water first!’
‘Yeah, we’ll be back soon,’ Hobo Princess said, ignoring Kamini and urging Money Aunty into the garden.
The garden was a vast, verdant space, denser than they had spied from their rooftops and windows. Uncle Lech was nowhere. They couldn’t spot him. Unexpectedly, a throaty cry froze them. Hobo Princess was the first to recover, and she darted to where the scream had emanated from. Kamini was there already. She had glued herself against the French window with her arms spread eagle. Hobo Princess went closer. Himali lay on the floor. Uncle Lech crouched beside her, holding his head. Money Aunty ambled there as fast as she could. ‘What? Aiyoh!’ Money Aunty was petrified, watching the garden tiles stain with fresh blood. Hobo Princess dialled for help.
*
Himali’s murder shook the medical fraternity because Dr Kumaran's research had hit upon a new testing procedure that predicted genetic and mutated dispositions towards multiple sclerosis. Patenting that kit was in the process. The original research papers, which were with Himali, were missing after the murder. Rasika looked for it in places where her mother secured important and valuable things. The police conducted a thorough search while investigating the murder, but they too were unable to find the originals. Two eminent doctors who had co-authored the research and developed the kit feared that they could be the next target. They suspected a certain pharmaceutical mafia, which had made several attempts to acquire the research. There was so much at stake here. Therefore, the Chief Minister of Tamil Nadu came under pressure and requested the Commissioner of Police in Bangalore to send in their expert officer, Brij Raghavan, from the investigations team called the Bureau, to assist the jurisdictional police in Mahabalipuram.
*
Brij Raghavan arrived within a week of the murder. ‘Hmm,’ he studied the crime scene and headed inside the beach house where Himali had placed the surveillance monitor, and where the other investigators and their teams were present.
‘Blunt force trauma - cause of death,’ the post-mortem examiner, Dr D Naresh, pointed to the lines in his report.
‘How did Himali get on with her neighbours?’ Brij looked at the lead investigator, Inspector Kannan Pillai.
‘Himali kept to herself. No altercations with any of them.’
’Who would want to kill her? And why? Brij wondered.
‘No signs of a forced entry,’ Inspector Kannan Pillai made a mention.
‘Yeah! Entering the garden requires force!’ Brij threw his arms in the air.
‘Right,’ Kannan turned away.
Why would the perpetrator choose the garden to commit the crime when there were so many cameras, visibly placed there? Brij pondered. ‘What else?’ he asked.
‘Himali had an in-house helper, Kamini, who lived with her husband in the staff quarters. According to her, on the day of the crime, two ladies visited Himali, and one man had sneaked into the garden. His name is Mr V K Murali alias Lech Uncle.’ The Inspector donned a sardonic smile. ‘Himali did not have security at the gate like most beachfront houses do.’
‘Have you questioned Kamini’s husband?’ Brij asked.
‘Ravindran? No! No motive. They’ve worked for Himali for over twenty years, and she paid Kamini a fat salary, more than anyone in the area will pay. Why would they screw that up?’ The Inspector looked around, wondering what he had missed.
Brij watched the monitor keenly and mulled, ‘She had this place wired up neatly and yet!’
‘There were no impact stains on Lech Uncle.’ Kannan held out photos of the crime scene. ‘The perpetrator could not have killed her without getting blood on him.’
‘You’ve ruled out the two ladies who visited as well?’ Brij asked.
‘Yes!’ Kannan was annoyed with the interjection. Damn! He cursed, he did not like Brij and hated the Bureau guys; playing fiddle to them felt like shit! ‘Fuck!’ He swore under his breath.
‘Calm down! Brij said studying Kannan, the man looked as if he were about to burst a blood vessel. I’m on the case because those doctors who co-authored the research fear they could be the next target. I don’t want to be here!’
‘Fuck man! I don’t want you here!’ the Inspector muttered.
‘I’m gone once I evaluate the facts. Those are my instructions from the Bureau.’ Brij shook his head and wondered how he was to do that when the inspector was so fucking closed about info.
‘Let’s talk to Ravindran, shall we?’ Brij said, maintaining his calm, as he studied the crime scene photos.
‘He’s not a suspect!’ Kannan glowered.
Brij raised his eyebrow, holding his peace.
After a tentative pause, ‘Bring Ravindran!’ Kannan bit his order.
Kamini rushed in first, worried that the police wanted to question her husband. The woman was in her forties, slim, tall, and fit. Her husband stood a little behind her; he was old and bent. ‘My parents married me to a much older man!’ she rued. ‘Just like Amma,’
‘Where were you when the incident happened?’ Brij asked Ravindran in Tamil.
‘Aiyah, I was in the quarters.’
‘Why do you look wrecked and messy? Is something bothering you?’ Brij asked him.
‘I’m sad. Our Amma died. Thrashed on the head, Aiyah!’ His eyes filled with tears, and he let them spill unabated. ‘She was good to us, gave us quarters to live, and because I cannot work anymore, she gave me a monthly maintenance.’
‘Why did you stop working?’ Brij asked.
‘I have liver cancer. I used to be the gardener here. The doctors gave me six months, but I have lived beyond that. Amma paid for my treatment,’ he swayed a bit from his emotions, feeling low and distraught.
‘Why are you upset? Kamini placated her husband, Amma’s daughter is not going to abandon us.’ She was certain.
Ravindran nodded to himself, ignoring Kamini; his tears of gratitude and sorrow mixed. ‘Here,’ Brij handed out a small comb from his stroller, which he carried on outstation investigations. ‘Comb your hair and take care of yourself.’ Ravindran was stunned, like the others, yet he combed his hair. His right hand shook. The man was indeed frail! Brij dismissed Ravindran with a nod, and Kamini shushed him back to the quarters.
‘Satisfied?’ Kannan asked derisively.
The mobile rang, ‘Joseph…’ Brij moved away to take the call. Joseph Braganza worked at the Bureau. He was an astute techie who could gather information on anyone who was a person of interest, whether they were stealthy or influential. The Bureau worked as a team. ‘Thanks,’ Brij said after a few minutes and called off. ‘Can we bring in Santhanam.’
‘Who?’ Kannan gaped.
‘Santhanam, the guy who wired the cameras for this place.’ Brij was amused and shared the number on WhatsApp. Kannan tapped in the digits furiously. In that moment, Brij heard a phone ring outside the beach house. He became alert. ‘Disconnect and call again,’ Brij instructed the Inspector, walking toward the gate.
‘For what?’ the Inspector snapped, he’d had enough of Brij stepping on his toes.
‘Just do it.’ Brij said and kept walking. As before, a phone rang outside.
‘Brij threw a look at the Inspector, ‘That's why,’ he said.
By the gate, Brij spotted a wiry man in his late twenties with longish hair, loitering and staring at his ringing phone. Was he visiting or revisiting? Brij contemplated.
‘Santhanam?’ Brij called out.
The man jolted up, staggered. He nervously ran his hand over the sparse stubble of his chin and nodded.
‘In,’ Brij gestured with his head and led him to the other investigators.
‘When did you wire this place?’ Brij began right away.
‘Two years ago, Sir.’
‘Hmm, there are two significant amounts of money that Himali transferred to your account recently. What were they for?’
‘Additional wiring, Sir.’
‘Show me where you did the additional wiring.’ Brij took quick, long strides,
Santhanam scurried, pointing to the areas.
‘This does not add up,’ Brij told him. ‘What’s the additional wiring for? When there are no additional cameras. Were these loans you took from Mrs Kumaran?’
‘No, Sir,’ Santhanam shook his head.
‘Who is Manja? Your call records show frequent calls to him.’ Brij asked.
Santhanam paled. ‘He’s a building contractor…’ he mumbled.
‘Stop lying!’ Brij rasped. ‘Listen to me carefully! We’re running a parallel investigation. We have Manja in custody. He is a drug peddler. He confessed to supplying drugs to you. The police searched your shack and found the drugs.’
Santhanam folded. He crouched and began rocking back and forth, his nerves on edge.
Brij continued, ‘So, on the day of the crime, you did not expect Himali to have visitors, right?’
Santhanam looked up at Brij and gulped.
‘You panicked and struck Himali harder than you had planned to, when you heard approaching footsteps. You laid her down and vamoosed. You ran back to your shack. Pulled out your pen and notepad from your pocket. Bathed and got rid of the blood-stained clothes and the weapon, right?’ Brij asked with a half-smile. Santhanam gasped, wondering how Brij had arrived at the exact truth!
Brij slipped on gloves, came closer to Santhanam, bent forward and took the pen and notepad from his shirt pocket. He studied the articles, ‘Hmm,’ he smiled and bagged them.
‘You know the drill, right?” Brij turned to Kannan. ‘Arrest him for possession of drugs and grill him until he confesses to attacking Himali.’
‘Right,’
‘We need a confession, the evidence is only circumstantial,’ Brij emphasised, ‘We won’t be able to arrest Kamini until then.’
‘Yes,’ Kannan nodded.
‘And get the forensics to test these articles for latent blood trace and DNA identification.’ Brij handed the bagged articles to Kannan.
The crouched Santhanam fell to the ground in a foetal position. A constable dragged him into the police van.
‘Kannan, the surveillance tape did not capture the murder. Why do you think that is?’
‘Blindspot?’ Kannan’s eyes were orbs that he’d missed that point.
‘Yes. Three suspicious ones are relevant to the crime. One is where the first responders found Himali. The other is the entrance to the quarters where Kamini lives, and the third is this part of the garden. A person can reach the place of crime from the quarters, walking through this entire stretch,’ Brij demonstrated, ‘And out the same way. The suspect knew the cameras would not capture the attack or the perpetrator's identity. Initially, the blind spots were not with any intent to harm Himali, but because Santhanam and Kamini were having an affair, calls between them were frequent, and they wired it to suit their trysts. Of course, they finally came to use it. Kamini left Himali’s phone near the first blind spot, the crime site, to lure her there, which the police recovered. Mr V K Murali, alias Uncle Lech, saw Kamini place the phone there from his rooftop. He needed an excuse to enter the house and talk to Himali, so he snuck in to secure the phone and hand it to her, by his own admission, but unfortunately, he found her fallen to the ground and bleeding. Why Kamini would place the phone there to lure Himali back close to the spot, making it out like she had forgotten to collect it after she pruned the potted oleanders, answers itself, right?’
‘Right,’ Kannan agreed.
‘Now let’s study the build up to the crime.’
‘Okay,’ Kannan nodded keenly for once.
Rasika got wind of the two substantial payments made to Santhanam. She visited her mother and asked her about it. Kamini would have heard them talk.’ Right?
‘Right.’ Kannan agreed.
‘Kamini never thought Rasika would ever find out about the loans because Kamini could not have known the bank account was held jointly.’
‘Yes, that could be,’ Kannan nodded. ‘
‘Subsequently, a few weeks later, the cash on the premises, set aside for an emergency, went missing. Rasika arrived at the beach house and spoke to Himali about it and warned her to be careful. Rasika had never visited her mother before these incidents, and then suddenly twice!’ Brij emphasised.
‘Shit! Yes,’
‘And then,’ Brij continued, ‘A week before the assault, in the surveillance tapes, which captured the kitchen door and garden, Himali questions Kamini about something, and Kamini denies it. If you study that part, you’ll notice it was somewhat repetitive. Kamini looks scared. She never expected the placid Himali to get dynamic with questions, right? Watch.’ Brij played it on the monitor.
‘Yeah, I see that.’ The Inspector nodded.
‘It could be Santhanam’s addiction that landed him in debt, but I suspect it's more than that. We must investigate any other involvements he may have. He borrowed from Himali, and after Rasika’s warning, Kamini may have stolen the money from the house for him. It adds up, right?’
‘Yes!’ Kannan said, trying to keep pace.
‘The Bureau has traced the research papers. Dr Kumaran had kept them in safe custody with a scientist and a close friend at the Institute of Fundamental Research in Bangalore.’ Brij paused, looking at the notes on his phone. ‘So, this is the only angle we must work to make arrests and file charge sheets. The forensic report states no appearance of a struggle, blunt force trauma to the head, and lacerations on the parietal. The impression of the laceration appears to indicate (possibly) that a left-handed person applied the force. The attack was only to scare the victim and make it out like the missing money, too, could have been taken by this unidentified perpetrator. Neither Santanam nor his accomplice fled after the incident because the victim died a day later in the hospital, after which running would make it apparent.’
‘Santhanam is left-handed!’ The Inspector squared his shoulders.
‘Yes, the case is yours now to take forward.’
‘Sir,’ Kannan said, preparing to give his team orders.
‘I’ll email my report to the Commissioner.’ Brij informed Kannan, a little amused by the Inspector’s changed disposition.
‘Sir,’ The Inspector snapped a salute.
Brij nodded, clicked up the stroller handle, and left feeling sad. The surveillance tapes had captured Himali’s serene smile in the days she had lived. Now, that smile had died. Why would a learned person, knowing his wife’s condition, leave her at the mercy of the unscrupulous? Neither the doctor’s wealth nor the surveillance he had set up, had kept her safe! And Rasika had gone along! What the hell! The neighbours curiously watched Himali so much, and yet they discerned little!
It was so apparent that Himali’s thought process bordered on the spectrum; nowadays, psychiatrists categorise it by levels. Autism had made her a person who lived by rote. The idiotic perpetrators will not have known that, but Himali’s routine, automated, and regular habits made it easy for any perpetrator to know where she would be and when. The culprits had taken advantage of her situation and her passive nature and eventually killed her. ‘Damn!’ Brij cursed as he got into the awaiting vehicle.
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