A Cut-Like Wound by Anita Nair Read Free Book Online Page B

it up and peered at the screen.
    It was SI Santosh. Gowda felt his mouth stretch in a grim line of its own volition. What now?
    Santosh could barely keep the excitement out of his voice as the words tumbled out. ‘Sir, I picked up the post-mortem report from the mortuary just now.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Shall I read it out to you, sir?’ Before Gowda could tell him to save it for the next morning, Santosh began, ‘Morethan eighty per cent of the body surface is burnt. The trunk and anterior abdominal wall are almost completely burnt. The line of redness, the blisters with serous fluid, the presence of acid mucopolysacharides and enzymes all indicate that he was alive when burnt. And, sir, the pathologist has also stated that either kerosene or petrol was used to start the fire since the burns had a sooty blackening and a very characteristic odour.’
    Gowda grunted impatiently. ‘We knew that’s what would show up. So what was the need to call me at this hour? Tell me, what has got you all worked up?’
    ‘Sir, around the neck there are ligature marks, but it is a cut-like wound extending into the jugular.’
    Gowda sat up. ‘And?’
    ‘Glass particles were found in the wound and under his fingernails. A manja-coated ligature was used. Again. And, sir, similar lacerations on the face like the one mentioned in the Horamavu homicide.’
    Gowda felt a prickling down his spine. A flaring of life. Perhaps it wasn’t over till it was over.

THURSDAY, 4 AUGUST
    Gowda rode his Royal Enfield Bullet to the station house earlier than usual. It wasn’t much of a place, but in the last five years he had grown attached to this rented building that stood in a quarter-acre plot on the outskirts of Neelagubbi village.
    Land had been earmarked for a permanent station house, tenders from building contractors had been invited, and one day it would eventually get built. But until then, this green-washed building with its small poky rooms and rented furniture was Gowda’s fiefdom.
    In the summer, when water dried up in the lake, a stench rose up from the slimy mud. And in the evenings, giant swarms of mosquitoes would descend on every living creature in the station house. Head Constable Gajendra would order a constable to fill a bandli with eucalyptus leaves and burn them so smoke would drive those ‘bloody bastards’ away.
    ‘We are all going to die of dengue fever,’ he would remark darkly every summer. ‘We should move from here, sir.’
    ‘It’s only mosquitoes,’ Gowda would murmur, swatting one against his arm.
    ‘Mosquitoes,’ Gajendra would retort, ‘do not care if you are a policeman or a pimp. They want blood to fill their bloody bellies. Like our corrupt politicians. No one is above or below their bloodsucking.’
    But once the rains fell, the swamp would turn into a lake beside which migratory birds descended to nest and breed. Gowda liked to walk to the edge of the fence that overlooked the lake and gaze at the expanse of water. Some evenings, he would ask for a chair to be brought to his favourite spot under a mango tree near the fence. He would sit there and gaze at the yellow and pink crocus lilies dotting the grassy verges along the lake’s edge, the green-winged teals and the common coot gliding past, the movement of the breeze as it passed through the clumps of bulrushes. It was the closest Gowda came to acknowledging the presence of content in his life.
    A clap of thunder. A drop of rain fell on Gowda’s face when he peered at the sky. In the dull grey light, the station house was even more bleak. When the monsoon was over, he would have it painted white, he told himself. Even if he had to call in a favour or two.
    By the time Gowda parked his bike, it was drizzling. He swore under his breath and rushed towards the station house, holding a hand over his head.
    ‘Sir, no one told me to pick you up. I was going to come at the usual time.’ PC David rushed to his side.
    Gowda waved him away. The post-mortem