was genuine. She was the kind of girl who would say that she wasn’t afraid even if she was. Defiance against all odds – such was sure to be her nature.
‘Hey you!’ Rathod clicked his fingers and called out to the security guard. ‘Come here and escort this woman out.’
As the guard came running towards them, wondering how on earth the woman had managed to get inside and how deep a pile of shit he himself was in, Ananya turned to Rathod and shouted, ‘Why don’t you show me your ID, huh?’ Rathod stepped into the service elevator, locked its gate securely and took out a key that the head of security had given him. He inserted the key into a slot and turned it. The motor revved up and he hit a specific button. As the rickety lift went up, he couldn’t help but look down at the young girl once more, who continued to fume. ‘He is not a policeman, and don’t touch me with those hands,’ Rathod heard her say to the guard, who was trying his best to escort the stupid memsahib out decently.
The ride up seemed virtually endless, and every single time the rusty elevator creaked, Rathod felt he was about to be hurtled into an abyss. As the lift reached the top of the tower and came to a jolting stop, Rathod thanked his stars, unlatched the gate and stepped onto the metal gangway. He walked up to the circular platform carefully and looked around.
For a few minutes, he acclimatized himself to the dizzying height and the strong winds. Then he started scoping out the place. What a nightmare it would have been for the forensics team – with the rain and all! Though judging by the way the murder was committed, Rathod doubted if the killer would have left any prints. No, this man seemed quite methodical. Sick, perhaps, but definitely not a loony. In fact, from the way the letters were written, the specific words that were used, the excessive repetitions, he would think that the letters were deliberately crafted to give the impression that the killer was deranged.
For the next half hour or so, Rathod examined the place thoroughly, repeatedly referring to a few photographs that were taken after the body was discovered. At one spot diametrically opposite to where the body was found, he found a very tiny, almost unnoticeable piece of worn-out fabric lodged in a sharply jutting screw. He went on his knees and examined the fabric carefully for some time. At first glance, it looked black in colour, but on careful observation Rathod realized it was a piece of blue denim, which now looked black because it was wet and weathered. Very carefully, with the help of a pair of tweezers, he placed the piece of denim in a small celophane pouch and zipped it. He continued to scan the area carefully, stooping here, going down on his knees there, examining the walls of the central pillar and covering the area in sweeping concentric circles, gradually and systematically moving outwards till he reached the railing.
Finally, he sat down with his back against the railing on the eastern side and looked up at the antenna from which the corpse of Sukhdeo Saran had been found hanging. For several minutes, Rathod kept staring at the antenna, unperturbed by the rain. To someone watching him, it would almost seem like he wasconsciously soaking in the environment so that he could refer to it later. He had opened the windows of his mind to let the atmosphere of the place in – the sights, sounds, smells…even the touch of the rain lashing at his face. He absorbed everything like a sheet of blotting paper.
As he looked at the pole from which the body was hung, he visualized the hanging corpse swaying in the strong winds. ‘Just like a kite!’ he whispered to himself as he remembered Uday Singh’s words.
A frown appeared on his forehead. How did the killer hang the victim from that metallic pole up there? The pole was easily 30 feet higher than the circular walkway platform. And there was no way someone could have climbed it, because there was no
‘Hey you!’ Rathod clicked his fingers and called out to the security guard. ‘Come here and escort this woman out.’
As the guard came running towards them, wondering how on earth the woman had managed to get inside and how deep a pile of shit he himself was in, Ananya turned to Rathod and shouted, ‘Why don’t you show me your ID, huh?’ Rathod stepped into the service elevator, locked its gate securely and took out a key that the head of security had given him. He inserted the key into a slot and turned it. The motor revved up and he hit a specific button. As the rickety lift went up, he couldn’t help but look down at the young girl once more, who continued to fume. ‘He is not a policeman, and don’t touch me with those hands,’ Rathod heard her say to the guard, who was trying his best to escort the stupid memsahib out decently.
The ride up seemed virtually endless, and every single time the rusty elevator creaked, Rathod felt he was about to be hurtled into an abyss. As the lift reached the top of the tower and came to a jolting stop, Rathod thanked his stars, unlatched the gate and stepped onto the metal gangway. He walked up to the circular platform carefully and looked around.
For a few minutes, he acclimatized himself to the dizzying height and the strong winds. Then he started scoping out the place. What a nightmare it would have been for the forensics team – with the rain and all! Though judging by the way the murder was committed, Rathod doubted if the killer would have left any prints. No, this man seemed quite methodical. Sick, perhaps, but definitely not a loony. In fact, from the way the letters were written, the specific words that were used, the excessive repetitions, he would think that the letters were deliberately crafted to give the impression that the killer was deranged.
For the next half hour or so, Rathod examined the place thoroughly, repeatedly referring to a few photographs that were taken after the body was discovered. At one spot diametrically opposite to where the body was found, he found a very tiny, almost unnoticeable piece of worn-out fabric lodged in a sharply jutting screw. He went on his knees and examined the fabric carefully for some time. At first glance, it looked black in colour, but on careful observation Rathod realized it was a piece of blue denim, which now looked black because it was wet and weathered. Very carefully, with the help of a pair of tweezers, he placed the piece of denim in a small celophane pouch and zipped it. He continued to scan the area carefully, stooping here, going down on his knees there, examining the walls of the central pillar and covering the area in sweeping concentric circles, gradually and systematically moving outwards till he reached the railing.
Finally, he sat down with his back against the railing on the eastern side and looked up at the antenna from which the corpse of Sukhdeo Saran had been found hanging. For several minutes, Rathod kept staring at the antenna, unperturbed by the rain. To someone watching him, it would almost seem like he wasconsciously soaking in the environment so that he could refer to it later. He had opened the windows of his mind to let the atmosphere of the place in – the sights, sounds, smells…even the touch of the rain lashing at his face. He absorbed everything like a sheet of blotting paper.
As he looked at the pole from which the body was hung, he visualized the hanging corpse swaying in the strong winds. ‘Just like a kite!’ he whispered to himself as he remembered Uday Singh’s words.
A frown appeared on his forehead. How did the killer hang the victim from that metallic pole up there? The pole was easily 30 feet higher than the circular walkway platform. And there was no way someone could have climbed it, because there was no
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