The Case of the Man Who Died Laughing

Four

As soon as Rathinasabapathy had left, Elizabeth Rani called Puri over the intercom and suggested he turn on his TV.

“Apparently there’s some amazing video of the murder,” she said.

Action News! was indeed running exclusive footage taken by a French tourist that morning.

At exactly 6:37 AM, Edouard Lecomte had been riding in a tour bus toward the Presidential Palace. While filming out the window, his attention had been drawn to what looked like some kind of ‘exotic Hindu ritual’ being enacted by a small group of people on one of the lawns. Only later did he realize what he had captured: Dr. Jha’s murder.

The footage was unsteady and hazy thanks to the smog and the distance at which it had been shot. But it showed the goddess Kali, complete with four writhing arms and a hideous red tongue, floating three feet above the ground. She could be seen driving her sword through Dr. Jha and cackling wildly. Then came a bright flash. Evidently, this had startled the Frenchman, who had lowered his camera and could be heard muttering, “Putain de merde!”

The channel was playing the thirty or so seconds over and over again, slowing it down, enlarging key frames and drawing little circles around certain details. It proved beyond doubt that whoever or whatever had killed the Guru Buster had not hung from wires suspended from overhanging branches. The graceful manner in which ‘the apparition’ glided through the air suggested it was standing on neither stilts nor a box.

“Could it be someone wearing a jet pack?” postulated one of the Action News! TV anchors.

“You’d see evidence of that,” a science commentator answered. “There’d be an exhaust and the movement would be jerky. Those things are hard to control. I can’t explain what we’re seeing here.”

Puri, who watched the footage numerous times on the small set he kept in his office, agreed with this last assessment.

“Absolutely mind-blowing,” he kept muttering to himself.

A part of him wanted to believe that it was a genuine supernatural occurrence – that the goddess Kali really had materialized on earth. Believing in something fantastic, something inexplicable, was always easier than accepting the mundane truth. But Puri was certain that his eyes were being deceived, that a mere mortal had killed Dr. Jha, and he felt roused to the challenge of hunting down the murderer.

The video convinced him of one other thing: the general public would believe there had been a miracle.

The authorities had evidently come to the same conclusion.

Riot police armed with lathis, tear gas and water cannons had sealed off all the approach roads to Rajpath. And as Puri soon discovered, setting off in his Ambassador complete with new windscreen, this had brought gridlock to the British bungalow-lined streets of New Delhi. The many roundabouts, congested and chaotic at the best of times, were a logjam of cars and auto rickshaws playing a discordant symphony for horns.

After ninety minutes, the detective had only reached Safdarjung Road, and it was here that he decided to abandon his car. Having made arrangements with the incharge at the front desk of the Gymkhana Club to leave the Ambassador unattended in the car park (and passed up the opportunity to have some lunch – the special was kadi chaaval followed by moong daal halwa), he and Handbrake continued on foot.

Puri found the going hard. By now it was blisteringly hot and muggy and it was not long before he felt as if he were swimming in his safari suit. The unusually high curbs built by the Angrezi along their fastidiously laid-out avenues – presumably to deter bicyclists and motorcyclists from using the pavements – presented Puri with a formidable challenge thanks to the shortness of his left leg. Every time he had to cross the road or the entrance to one of the many bungalows, he needed a hand up.

For Handbrake the going was hardly easy either. While exposed to the full force of the midday sun, he had to walk alongside Boss, shielding him with a black umbrella. But of the two men, the driver reached the corner of Janpath and Maulana Azad Road (where police barriers prevented them from going any farther) in better shape and without complaint. Puri, on the other hand, looked close to fainting and had to rest in the shade of a tree for ten minutes in order to recover. Glugging down a bottle of chilled water purchased from a passing ice cream wallah, he bemoaned the fact that he could go no farther and thanked the heavens when Inspector Jagat Prakash Singh came to the rescue in his air-conditioned jeep.

“What took you so much of time?” asked the detective as he climbed inside the vehicle, leaving Handbrake outside, and sat panting in the cool air like an overheated dog. “It is hotter than hell out there.”

“Press conference, sir,” answered the inspector in his deep baritone.

Inspector Singh was a stern bear of a man, six foot two inches tall with enormous hands and size 14 feet. He was sitting on the backseat of his jeep (his driver was behind the wheel) with the top of his head touching the roof, his neck and spine bent like a bow and his knees pressed into the back of the seat in front of him. Although a Sikh, he kept his black beard trimmed. His hair, too, was short and he didn’t wear a turban.

But while Singh’s religious identity was liberal, his investigative style was conventional. A graduate of the Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel National Police Academy and the son and grandson of former officers, he had a good track record when it came to solving bank robberies, rapes, kidnappings, burglaries and crimes of passion where the clues were staring him in the face and the choice of suspects was few. But when dealing with more sophisticated crimes, like cunningly orchestrated, premeditated murders for example, the inspector often found himself stumped.

In such circumstances, he turned to Puri.

The detective had solved a number of Singh’s cases, and pointed him in the right direction on various others, but never taken credit for his work. This rankled him; Puri relished the glare of the cameras and the opportunity to impress everyone with his acumen and skills. And yet the currency he received in return for his anonymous assistance was invaluable. He could count on information and cooperation with his own cases. And it often helped having an ally in the department to keep the chief, who reviled him as a ‘filthy jasoos’, off his back.

There was not another man on the Delhi force with whom Puri would have entered into such an arrangement. Singh was incorruptible. It didn’t hurt that, being only thirty-four, he was suitably deferential as well. Nor that he was Punjabi and enjoyed a couple of stiff pegs at the end of a hard day’s work.

“So, Inspector, what progress you’ve made till date?” asked the detective, wiping his face with his handkerchief and drinking more water.

The Sikh splayed his enormous fingers across his knees, studying his hairy knuckles and wedding ring.

“Honestly? I can’t make head or tail of it,” he admitted. “I’m starting to believe something supernatural did occur. I mean that. People don’t just vanish into thin air, sir. Furthermore, no one saw anyone coming or going. Plus I’ve got four witnesses who swear they saw the goddess murder Dr. Jha. And then there’s that video. You’ve seen it?”

Puri nodded.

“It looks so… well, so real, sir. That face, the arms – the fact that she’s levitating. The murder occurred close to a tree and some of the branches overhang the spot. But I examined those branches myself and there’s no sign of any rope marks. The only thing I found was some holes drilled into the side of the tree trunk.”

“Inspector, believe me, I am one man who believes in miracles. Unlike Dr. Jha, I know such things can and do occur. But because gold exists, it does not mean there is not fool’s gold, also.”

Singh made a face. “Sorry, sir?”

“Not every strange occurrence is automatically a miracle,” the detective clarified. “Take that incident few years back when Ganesh statues started drinking milk. Millions believed something miraculous occurred. A kind of pandemonium there was nationwide. But it was all a total nonsense. Just some unscrupulous individuals took advantage of people’s beliefs and superstitions. Got them believing something had happened which had not. Word spread like wildfires. Same is true now. I guarantee you no miracle has taken place.”

“I’m sure you’re right, sir, but I’ve never come across anything like this.”

“What all does Delhi’s ‘top cop’ have to say on the matter?” As ever when Puri referred to the chief, his voice was loaded with sarcasm.

“You know him, sir. If it can’t be solved, don’t bother solving it. Concentrate on cases where we can get quick, easy results. That’s his credo. Had the victim been the twelve-year-old daughter of a doctor or engineer it would be different. But none of his superiors are pressuring him on this one.”

Puri drained his bottle of water; he was beginning to cool off.

“Swami-ji’s whereabouts early this morning are known, is it?” he asked.

“He was in Delhi, a guest of the health minister, Vikram Bhatt. The minister himself called the chief first thing this morning to let him know.”

“By God,” muttered Puri.

“Do you think Swami-ji could be behind all this?” asked Singh.

“Too early to tell, no? But certainly he claims miraculous powers, levitation being one only. It is said he can be in two places at once. He had motive, also, after making one promise on national TV of some kind of miracle in Delhi to prove his power.”

Singh looked worried.

“Something is wrong?” asked Puri, although he could guess what it was.

“The chief wants Maharaj Swami left alone. Hands off. He’s not to be investigated.”

The detective sighed.

“No surprise there, Inspector,” he said. “But if you are asking for my help – and seems you are – I can hardly be expected to do a proper and thorough investigation while ignoring the main suspect?”

“Sir, all I’m saying is that we have to tread carefully.”

“That much goes without saying, Inspector. Now let us not waste more of time sitting idle. Take me to the spot.”

The crime scene had been cordoned off with metal barricades. But from even the most cursory examination, Puri could tell they had been put in place far too late to serve any useful purpose. Dozens of discarded bidi and cigarette butts, gobs of paan spit and fresh piss stains on the nearby jamun tree, which stood approximately eight feet to the north of the spot where Dr. Jha had been slain, indicated the size of the crowd that had gathered at the scene before the police had taken charge.

Plenty of traces also pointed to the earlier presence of opportunistic vendors as well. They had set up pitches selling cold drinks (bottle tops littered the entire area), peanuts (there were shells as well) and Hindi newspapers (flyers for a 50 percent mid-season sale at Jessy’s Shoe Palace in Pahar Ganj lay everywhere). Someone had also been doing a roaring trade in incense sticks: dozens had been stuck into the ground and lit on the spot where the goddess was believed to have appeared.

“Quite a carnival scene it must have been, isn’t it?” said Puri as he stood inside the cordon wearing his tinted aviator sunglasses with Handbrake by his side, umbrella aloft.

Singh was the only other person in the immediate vicinity. He had sent away his subordinates on some pretext (in case one of them reported Puri’s visit to the chief) and the media had been penned into a position in front of India Gate. Between there and the crime scene, Rajpath dissolved into a rippling, liquid mirage. Cars along the road melted as if made of chocolate. Figures took on alien dimensions.

“Constables patrolling the area reached first, is it?” asked Puri.

“Yes, sir. Constable R.V. Dubey arrived ten minutes after the murder occurred.”

Puri made a note of his name as Singh continued: “By then there was already a crowd of one hundred plus – passing auto rickshaw drivers, schoolkids, some women who’d been doing yoga. Their numbers quickly grew.”

The inspector himself had not reached Rajpath until eight thirty. By that time, hundreds of people, including the entire Delhi media pack, had trampled the crime scene.

“Could be the murderer left his business card, but we’ll never know,” commented the detective drily.

Singh did not respond to this gibe. He knew all too well that the response time of the Delhi police force was abysmal. There was no point trying to defend it.

“You know where the members of this Laughing Club were standing?” asked Puri.

Singh took out his notebook and read out the names one by one, indicating where each man had been at the time of the murder. Puri plotted their positions on a page in his own notebook. He marked the spot where Dr. Jha had stood with an X; in the middle of the circle he drew a question mark.

“These other fellows: they were all present when you arrived?”

“No, sir, they’d been taken to the station to give statements. But I interviewed each of them personally. I’ll have the transcripts brought to your office. One of them, Shiv-raj Sharma, an archaeologist, says he didn’t see what happened because he dropped his glasses. But the others are all convinced they witnessed a paranormal event – although of course their descriptions vary. Mr. Ved Karat, a political speechwriter, described the goddess as being twenty feet high. Mr. Gupta, a High Court advocate, says her eyes ‘burned like coals’.”

“Witness accounts always differ, Inspector,” said Puri. “Eyes all work the same, but the mind… that is something altogether different, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir,” intoned Singh, who had learned to put up with Puri’s little lectures.

“I would be needing to do interrogation of all these gentlemen myself, also,” said the detective.

The inspector had already anticipated this and written their names and addresses down on a piece of paper. Without a word, he handed it to Puri.

“You know me better than I know myself, isn’t it?” He smiled before beginning a more thorough examination of the scene.

Singh stood nearby watching the detective’s actions closely as if he was trying to decipher some hidden method.

“Inspector, your boys’ boot prints are everywhere,” scolded Puri after a minute or so. “A three-legged dog was present, also. But there is nothing else here apart from one bloodstain.” He paused. “Anything is missing?”

His question anticipated key evidence having been removed from the scene by petty criminals. In the past, Puri had known pickpockets posing as doctors to rob corpses of wallets, wedding rings, even shoes. It was not unknown for constables to do the same.

“Sir, regretfully, the murder weapon itself is nowhere to be found,” answered Singh.

“Could be anyone stole it.”

“It’s possible, sir, but…” The inspector looked suddenly unsure of himself.

“Tell me,” prompted Puri.

“It’s ridiculous, I know, but Professor Pandey says he saw the sword disintegrate before his very eyes while still in the victim’s chest.”

“Disintegrate?”

“Into ash, sir.”

“You found any of this ash?”

“I found some gray dust next to the spot where Dr. Jha fell. I’ve sent it to the lab. The results won’t be back for a few days.”

Puri referred to his notebook again.

“This fellow Pandey was closest to the body. Could be why he saw the blade disintegrate and others didn’t.”

“But, sir, you told me you didn’t believe anything paranormal occurred!” objected Singh.

“Correct, Inspector. But it may be the blade did in fact disintegrate. A good detective keeps an open mind.”

By now, Puri was stooped over the bloodstain, the only indication of where Dr. Jha had fallen.

“Seems there was a good deal of blood,” he said. “How long the body lay here?”

“Five minutes at the most. Professor Pandey drove the victim to AIIMS, where he was declared ‘arrived dead’.”

Puri inquired about the wound.

“I saw it myself, sir, an inch to the left of the heart. The medical officer says he died quickly.”

“You released the body?”

“Yes, sir. The cremation will be later today.” Puri nodded. There was nothing unusual about this; funerals in India were usually held within hours of death.

“Do one thing, Inspector,” said the detective. “Go and stand behind the tree.”

Singh did as he was asked while Puri went and stood in each of the spots where the Laughing Club members had been.

“It is as I suspected,” he announced. “Anyone hiding behind the tree would have gone unseen. The trunk is too wide.”

“But surely they would have seen the murderer approaching,” said Singh as he reappeared.

“Not if they came directly from the south. From there the tree is providing more than adequate cover.”

“They?” asked Singh.

“There were at least two persons, no? One to do the actual deed, another to release the fog and make those flashes so as to distract the witnesses.”

“That makes sense, sir,” said Singh, sounding encouraged. “I suppose the second man hiding behind the tree could also have released some laughing gas – that would explain why the members all started laughing uncontrollably.”

“That is one possibility, Inspector. Why not check into how readily laughter gas is available? Who all is having access to it? No doubt there are small canisters available that are readily portable.” The two went quiet for a moment, both deep in thought. Then Singh asked: “Sir, do you have any theories about how the murderer levitated?”

“As of now, I am certain of one thing only,” replied Puri.

“And that is?”

“This is one of the most extraordinary crimes I have encountered during my long and distinguished career. Those behind it are master criminals. No doubt about it at all.” He paused. “But tell me, Inspector. These holes you mentioned earlier. They’re where exactly?”

Singh led the detective to the east side of the tree and pointed out four small holes bored into the bark at a height of about ten feet.

“Looks like they held some type of bracket,” suggested Puri on tiptoe.

“For holding up a winch perhaps?”

“A small one, possibly. But only time will tell.”

They made their way back across the lawn to the jeep.

“So you’re willing to take on the case, sir?” asked Singh, sounding hopeful.

“More than willing. But usual rules apply. I will update you on any and all major developments. Meantime I work alone.”

“But if there’s an arrest to be made…”

“Not to worry, Inspector, that is your department. When the time comes, I will be calling you, only.”

Singh was frowning again.

“Sir, one thing still worries me: Maharaj Swami. Some of the richest men in India bow down to touch his feet. Even the prime minister visited his ashram not long back. You should be careful.”

Puri smiled. “No need to worry about me, Inspector. Danger is my ally after all.”

Having called the Jha household and been given the time and place of the funeral, the detective traveled north along Ring Road, past the sheer, red sandstone walls of the Old City, the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan’s once magnificent capital. He passed the milky white audience hall, which once housed the Peacock Throne, and the octagonal tower of the Shahi Burj, the king of the world’s library.

Ten minutes later, the Ambassador pulled up at the entrance to Delhi’s principal cremation ground on the west bank of the Yamuna River.

To Puri, no other place served as such a powerful reminder of man’s mortality, the fact that for all of us there is but a single breath between this life and the next. Facing that reality was no bad thing. But the place held sad memories for him all the same. The first time he had come here had been as a five-year-old for the funeral of his great-grandmother; more recently, he had brought his beloved papa to be cremated.

Om Chander Puri had suffered a massive heart attack while out on his early morning walk. Less than twelve hours later, in accordance with Hindu custom, Puri and his brothers had carried their father’s body into the cremation ground on a stretcher and placed him in one of the forty or so shallow cremation pits that lay just a few feet apart under a blackened metal roof. A crowd of ‘near or dear’ had gathered round as a pandit had performed antim-samskara, the last rites, helping to bring the union of the soul, atma, with the Holy Spirit. Sprinkling Ganga water on the body, the priest had pulled back the cotton shroud to reveal Papa’s face, and a little honey and a small dollop of ghee had been poured into the mouth.

Slowly – carefully – Puri and his three brothers had piled pieces of wood on top of the body. Two bags of fragrant-smelling mulch had been scattered over the pyre to disguise the smell of burning flesh. And then Puri’s elder brother had applied a flame to the kindling.

Now the detective watched another family enacting the same timeless rituals in more or less the same spot where his father, and thousands of others since, had been cremated. The heat of a blaze burning nearby felt hot against his right cheek. Six other pits contained charred, smoldering hunks of wood and blackened bones. They would there remain undisturbed until the following morning, when the male relatives of the respective families would return to sift through the ashes by hand and retrieve the remains of their loved ones.

This was not where Dr. Jha was to be cremated, however. The Guru Buster, who had spent his adult life railing against religious ceremony (not to mention the precious wood that the traditional Hindu funeral demands), had left strict instructions for his body to be cremated, without fuss, in a gas incinerator.

Puri therefore turned away from the fire pits and walked the short distance to the nearby CNG (compressed natural gas) crematorium.

A more soulless structure could hardly have been imagined. Like something out of a Nazi death camp, it was built of cinder blocks and corrugated iron and there was a big, ugly chimney sticking out of the roof.

It was here that the city’s unclaimed and unidentified bodies were brought, along with the poorest of the poor. A no-frills funeral cost just 500 rupees and was devoid of aesthetics. A cavernous concourse housed six giant ovens replete with gauges, knobs and levers.

Puri arrived in time to see Dr. Jha’s body, which had been sewn into a shroud, carried onto the heavy metal trolley that fed oven number five. His widow, Ashima, who was some twelve years younger than her late husband, stood in front of it dressed in white. Her daughter had one arm around her. Both women were sobbing quietly. About seventy family members and friends were gathered around them.

The detective stood toward the back of the gathering, hands held respectfully in front of him, as one of Dr. Jha’s former colleagues from the Wireless Planning and Communications Wing, where the two had worked for some thirty years, read a touching tribute. It included a quote from Marx and an anecdote about how the deceased had once asked the Godman Sai Baba why he gave the gold chains he claimed to materialize out of thin air to the wealthy and not the poor.

This brought fond smiles to many faces.

And then Puri noticed a man standing in the shadow cast by oven number four. He was holding a video camera. Judging by the red light on the front of the device, he was recording Dr. Jha’s funeral.

It occurred to the detective that this individual might be working for a news channel, which would explain why he was standing at a distance, apparently trying to remain inconspicuous. But the camera he was holding was much smaller than the ones used by professional cameramen.

Curious, Puri began to inch to his right, hoping to get a look at the man’s face. But as he did so, everyone was asked to step back from the oven and the detective found himself hemmed in by his fellow mourners.

Two crematorium employees pushed the trolley inside the gaping mouth of the oven and the detective’s attention was drawn back to the proceedings.

A heavy metal door came down with a clang. Unceremoniously, the crematorium foreman turned a couple of knobs on the control panel, waited a couple of seconds and then pressed a red button. The oven trembled as the gas inside ignited.

The temperature gauge rose abruptly and settled on red.

A moment later, when Puri looked for the man with the video camera, he was gone.