Murder Milestone: An Inspector Saralkar Mystery

By Salil Desai

“ HAPPY HANGING!” Saralkar growled with all the spite in his system and stormed out of the cell. Weeks before serial killer Dharmesh Solanki is to be executed, he wickedly burdens Senior Inspector Saralkar with a macabre secret Saralkar would' ve been better off not knowing. Impelled to verify Solanki' s disturbing claim, Saralkar and PSI Motkar reopen the sixteen-year-old case, for which the senior inspector had won a police medal. And out tumble intriguing leads and shocking facts that had fallen through the cracks back then. Worse, only a motley group of elusive characters might form the shaky bridge to the murky truth— a missing ex-constable, a gluttonous witness who had narrowly escaped being murdered by Solanki, Solanki' s biographer, the serial killer' s own son, and the daughter of one of his victims. Meanwhile another dangerous murderer is busy prowling around for victims to notch up an impressive body count. In the midst of these crazy events, Saralkar' s marriage faces rough weather, while Motkar' s hands are full, investigating a trail of mysterious suicides. As the duo struggle to cope, personal tragedy strikes Saralkar and a tip-off propels Motkar into confronting an astonishingly diabolical psychopath on his own. Will Motkar prove up to the challenge? Will Saralkar recover his mojo in time? And will Saralkar and Motkar ever make sense of the complicated chain of murders and suicides and the dark secret of a despicable serial killer sentenced to death?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Aug 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9789390391691

Book preview

1

DHARMESH SOLANKI MERCY PLEA REJECTED

KILLER TO HANG WITHIN 4 WEEKS

The tea scalded the tip of Saralkar’s tongue as his eyes fell on the screaming headline. He cursed and winced in silence. How long had it been? Sixteen years? Seventeen? Trial Court, High Court, Supreme Court, review petition, mercy petition, curative petition, mercy plea . . . Punishment, finally, for Solanki’s gruesome crimes.

Saralkar felt an involuntary shudder run through his body, as if his brain had activated the button of that unpleasant memory.

‘Killing is therapeutic, Inspector.’ Saralkar could still remember Solanki’s exact words. ‘Try it . . .’ And then the killer of three women and five men had winked. ‘Believe me, I am not a psychopath. Not everyone who commits multiple murders is.’

Well, psychopath or not, Solanki was finally going to experience what it was like to be killed, more than two decades after his first known victim had perished at his hands.

Saralkar hazarded another sip and frowned with distaste when he realized that the thin layer that had formed on the surface of the hot tea had found its way into his mouth. First the scalding, then the slimy feel of the film on his tongue—his morning tea was ruined. The only satisfaction stemmed from the news item that Dharmesh Solanki was at long last about to be hanged.

But could he really call it satisfaction? One half of his mind examined what exactly his emotions were—a sense of closure, perhaps; a culmination. Not satisfaction, certainly. He would have been disgruntled if the President had accepted Solanki’s mercy plea and commuted his death sentence to life. But that didn’t mean he was happy or satisfied that Solanki would be hanged. Sometimes, he himself didn’t understand his complex mind.

Saralkar shook his head as if to clear away the thoughts and moodily contemplated whether to make a fresh cup of tea. Jyoti’s transfer to a school near Talegaon had changed everything. She’d leave early morning and come home late. When she left, he’d generally be asleep and when he’d return, she’d have collapsed after a hectic day. There would be his breakfast and a lunch box lying ready in the morning and his dinner waiting to be heated in the night. But morning tea, he’d have to make on his own—a prospect he did not relish at all. Life had become a series of sleepy, tentative conversations, punctuated by a Sunday, in which they grudgingly recuperated and snapped at each other.

His mobile rang then and Saralkar cast an ill-tempered glance at the number on the screen. It was Jyoti.

What? he said, growling into the mouthpiece.

Had your tea? Jyoti enquired. He could hear the distinctive rattle of the local train in motion in the background.

"Hrmph! Why don’t you make some and keep it in a thermos?"

But you don’t like thermos tea, she said with an encyclopaedic knowledge of husbandly contradictions that only a wife could store and retrieve at will.

Who told you?

As if I don’t know that! But if you want, I’ll keep tea in the thermos from tomorrow, Jyoti said, then don’t complain.

Saralkar bristled. Why don’t you just quit the stupid job instead?

And do what the whole day? Make tea for you? Jyoti gave it back.

Look, Jyoti— he began but his wife cut him off skilfully.

If you want to fight, come home early in the evening. I have got to go now . . . Bye.

She disconnected before he could get another word in, adding another unspent grumble to his reservoir of accumulated resentment.

He had been used to having Jyoti around for far too long now and taking her presence for granted at all times. He had never minded her job till now, because it hadn’t impeded on his routine.

Saralkar got up feeling unreasonably piqued. Something had suddenly been lost between Jyoti and him in the last six months. Something irretrievable. They had started quarrelling much more and it wasn’t any longer just their usual cantankerous banter. It ran deeper. Something that kept simmering because they made up far less. That’s because they only had time to fight these days. Making up required leisure.

PSI Motkar regarded the eager, excitable man in front of him.

Why don’t you believe me? the man demanded, his face twitching.

PSI Motkar couldn’t decide whether he felt pity or amusement. All right! Where is the body? he asked.

The look of consternation in the man’s eyes intensified. I told you I . . . I don’t remember. Why should that matter? I have confessed to the murder, haven’t I?

Yes, you have, Motkar replied patiently. But the police need proof of the murder you have committed.

Isn’t it your job to find proof? the man said incredulously. Aren’t you the Special Homicide Division? PSI Malusare of Sinhagad Road Police Chowky told me you would immediately arrest me if I came here and confessed.

Motkar mentally clicked his tongue. When the neatly dressed old gentleman had walked into his office ten minutes ago, he hadn’t for a minute suspected he would turn out to be a crank. I see. Let me speak to PSI Malusare, Motkar replied tentatively and began dialling Malusare’s number.

He could just as well have driven the man out, but perhaps something about the crank’s age and frail appearance made him adopt a gentler approach. The old man’s face lit up with eagerness, glad that he was being taken seriously.

Hullo Malusare, PSI Motkar here from Homicide. Got a minute?

Tell me, Motkar, PSI Malusare said, I was just going to call you for an update. We think we have zeroed in on the bastard who probably killed Mona Parab. It’s her cousin Vinay Sawant. We’ve just taken him into custody . . . Will give you a call once we finish interrogating him. Then you can come over—

That’s good work, Malusare, but I called for another reason. I have a person called Uddhav Dandekar in front of me. He says you sent him over to me, Motkar said, studying the keen expression on Dandekar’s face, like that of a mesmerized child.

Uddhav Dandekar! Oh, that crank! So sorry, Motkar, he’s turned up there . . . My fault! Malusare replied with an apologetic half-chuckle. He’s a harmless recluse who has the habit of confessing to every murder of a woman that appears in newspapers. We’ve tried everything—politeness, threats, keeping him waiting endlessly so that he stops wasting our time, but he’s incorrigible. So when he came to confess Mona Parab’s murder, I thought I’ll just try some new tactic to put him off and told him to write to the Homicide Division. Amazing that he came all the way to your office . . .

I see. Just wanted to check with you. See you later, Motkar concluded and disconnected.

He had met his share of cranks—poor, mentally deranged souls who either claimed to be murderers themselves, or insisted they knew the identity of some killer in their neighbourhood. Minds which were anchored to life only through such morbid, pathetic fantasies.

Well? I wasn’t lying, was I? About PSI Malusare asking me to meet you? Uddhav Dandekar asked ingratiatingly.

No, replied Motkar, wondering who the man in front of him had been, before something in life had unhinged him into thinking of himself as a murderer.

So are you going to arrest me now?

PSI Motkar shook his head. No, Mr Dandekar. Not right now.

But why not? Uddhav Dandekar asked bewildered and aghast. Are you going to let a serial murderer like me slip away?

Mr Dandekar, you did not murder Mona Parab. PSI Malusare just informed me they’ve arrested her real killer, Motkar said, in the hope that this would stymie the old man.

He hadn’t reckoned with the stubbornness of delusion. A look of utter disbelief and agitation danced in Uddhav Dandekar’s eyes. No . . . no . . . that can’t be! They’ve got the wrong man! I’ve done it. Me. You are sending an innocent guy to the gallows.

Who’s this? Saralkar’s voice startled Motkar, as the senior inspector walked into the room.

Motkar leapt out of his chair sheepishly. Good morning, sir, he said. I’ll just deal with this gentleman and join you in a minute.

But even as Saralkar nodded and started moving out of the cabin, Dandekar spoke, Sir, I’m Uddhav Dandekar. I’ve just come to surrender myself because I murdered a woman two days ago. But PSI Motkar is refusing to arrest me.

Saralkar threw him a glance then looked at Motkar and read his embarrassed, helpless expression. Ah! he said turning back to Dandekar, who was looking at him expectantly. Sure, we’ll definitely arrest you, Mr Dandekar . . . as soon as we can arrange for a warrant. You go home and wait until then.

Uddhav Dandekar’s poignant visage broke into a wrinkled, happy smile. Thank you, sir! I’ll . . . I’ll go home and wait. And just like that he melted away from their presence, leaving PSI Motkar feeling incredibly foolish for not having thought of the ploy himself. He grudgingly turned to Saralkar. He might well turn up again tomorrow, sir.

Well I can’t come to your rescue every time, Motkar, Saralkar said dismissively. Now, you plan to waste your time brooding on cranks who might or might not stalk you or deal with real cases?

The senior inspector turned on his heel and began walking to his room. It was just the kind of throwaway remark that got Motkar’s goat and sometimes, the PSI was this close to sticking out his tongue at Saralkar. However, as always, he let the moment pass and followed the senior inspector.

Sir, PSI Malusare informed me that they’ve taken Mona Parab’s cousin Vinay Sawant into custody. He says he’s confident the case is cracked. I’ll be going to Sinhagad Chowky once they are through with the preliminary interrogation.

Saralkar responded with his trademark grunt as if it was too mundane a murder for him to bother with. He slumped into his chair and threw a grumpy glance at his desk as if thoroughly weary with its contents, then transferred his gaze to Motkar.

That’s all? he asked.

There’s no major progress to report on other cases, sir, Motkar replied.

In addition to investigating tough and complex murder cases, the Pune Homicide Unit had also now been tasked with supervising routine murders and suicides, which were either open and shut cases or easy to crack. The local police stations did all the fieldwork and Saralkar and Motkar’s job was to supervise and advise—a task mostly carried out by PSI Motkar. Saralkar restricted himself to either being bored or nitpicking.

But he seemed distracted now as if something was bothering him. Motkar said nothing, merely watching him and waiting for the reason to surface, as it did in a moment.

You read the news? Saralkar asked.

Which news, sir? Motkar asked, cursing his luck that of all the days he hadn’t even glanced at the newspapers that morning.

Saralkar gave him an incredulous look. You missed the headline? Dharmesh Solanki’s mercy plea got rejected.

Oh! Motkar exclaimed with genuine regret. He mentally kicked himself again for having left home without even looking up the headlines. The truth was that the news was full of poisonous political statements and speeches these days, especially made by two bearded gentlemen he didn’t care for. He was sick and tired of reading the same stuff. But in the process he’d missed the opportunity of paying a genuine compliment to his boss. Hunting down Dharmesh Solanki was the case that had first established Saralkar’s reputation as a homicide investigator.

You must really be feeling gratified, sir. It’s been a long wait, Motkar said, his own heart surging with pride on behalf of his boss.

Saralkar shot back a curiously sullen and enigmatic glance at him. There’s nothing to rejoice that a killer I had caught is about to hang, Motkar, he said. If he’s remorseful, there’s nothing to be gained by hanging him and if he isn’t, then it’s too little too late. Twelve years after sentencing, almost an anti-climax.

Motkar wondered what to make of Saralkar’s words. Any normal officer would have been elated, perhaps would have even bragged that a murderer he had snared was finally being hanged. Instead Senior Inspector Saralkar seemed almost sad, cynically philosophical. Why couldn’t his boss be normal?

But, sir, won’t it bring peace to the families of the victims at least? Motkar protested mildly. Surely, they deserve it.

Will it bring the families peace? I don’t know, Motkar. Good if it does, Saralkar said and paused. When he spoke again, his tone was laced with a faint trace of derision. Almost ninety per cent of murderers held guilty of their crimes are sentenced to life imprisonment. Right? Only the rarest of rare are awarded capital punishment. Of these, most punishments get converted to life in higher courts, which means a mere handful of the thirty thousand murders committed in India every year lead to an actual hanging. So, if we are talking about closure or peace for victim families, what about the families of thousands of victims whose murderers received only life sentences? Did their loved ones die less easy deaths? Were they less valuable to their families, just because their murders happened not to fall in the rarest of rare categories?

Motkar was startled by the insight Saralkar had just provided. Why hadn’t he thought of it himself? The death penalty was an exception not the norm and hence families of most victims after long, never-ending trials had to lead lives with the knowledge that their loved one’s murderer had been convicted and punished, but would continue to be alive. The notion that only a death sentence would bring closure and peace was both fallacious and dangerous. The law wisely made no such proclamation and provided no such guarantee.

You are right, sir, although I do feel a murderer such as Solanki thoroughly deserves the moments of terror, leading up to the hanging, knowing he is about to be put to death, Motkar said.

A smirk zigzagged across Saralkar’s face. Knowing Solanki, I won’t be surprised if he experiences a frisson of excitement in anticipation of his own violent death.

Really, sir? He is perverted to that extent?

Saralkar grunted. Let’s just say Dharmesh Solanki was born to inflict and enjoy death. Killing gives him pleasure like nothing else. If the brain is understood purely as a chemically stimulated organ, then murder is what releases Solanki’s ecstasy hormones, Saralkar said with a kind of sharp, knowing bitterness. Anyway, you are right, Motkar. He’s better dead since no one’s going to make use of him as a subject of criminological and anthropological studies, at least here in our country.

You mean like a human guinea pig in some science laboratory, sir? Motkar asked, a trifle shocked by Saralkar’s assertion.

What do you take me for, Motkar? Dr Mengele? He frowned at his subordinate on whom the reference to Mengele, the infamous Nazi doctor who conducted horrendous medical experiments on Jews, was totally lost. "No, I mean using him for behavioural understanding, psychological profiling, testing criminological hypotheses . . . I daresay, even taking his help to solve certain complex cases. You know there was a wonderful movie, The Silence of the Lambs, in which this idea has been explored. A dangerous psychopath, who’s also a trained psychiatrist, helps a young FBI agent in understanding another serial killer’s mind and helps her trace him. Something like that."

Motkar nodded sceptically. But why would a murderer help the police, sir?

Before Saralkar could answer his mobile phone began buzzing. Saralkar glanced at the number and then waited as if he wanted a few more rings to pass.

Motkar guessed it was the CP or someone equally higher up calling. That would explain Saralkar’s studied inaction. The rings stopped and Saralkar looked up at Motkar, grinning wickedly. Do you also sometimes do that to me, Motkar?

Do what, sir?

Let the rings pass and not take my call? Saralkar asked leaning forward, looking Motkar in the eye, as if willing a criminal to confess.

No, sir, Motkar replied, trying his best to appear his sincerest. A man’s mind was nobody else’s business and even though he had thousands of times imagined ignoring his boss’s calls, he had never actually done it yet.

Saralkar’s cellphone began ringing again. The senior inspector chuckled. Looks like something really urgent. It’s not usual for the CP’s office to frantically call me twice in five minutes flat. Somebody really important has either got murdered or committed one.

He still let few more rings pass before taking the call and placing it on speaker mode. Saralkar here. What’s up, Deshmukh? he asked, addressing the CP’s secretary, on whom it usually fell to make the CP’s calls.

Whatever it is, Saralkar, I hope it makes your life miserable, Deshmukh shot back. Hang on, I’m connecting you to the CP now.

A few moments passed before the CP came online. Saralkar, rush to Yerawada Central jail. We’ve got a strange request from the Ministry of Home Affairs. Apparently, Dharmesh Solanki has requested to meet you before the execution, the CP spoke in a voice that didn’t sound happy.

Saralkar’s face registered mild surprise, his chin quickly pushing his lower lip up and then pulling it down again, even as Motkar was all agog.

Must we accept the request, sir? Can’t we turn it down?

That’s difficult, Saralkar. You don’t want to meet Solanki?

Can’t say I look forward to his company, sir.

Hmmm . . . Maybe he has something important to say. Some information to share. What’s the harm in meeting him? the CP said.

I would rather not, sir, unless it’s your order, Saralkar replied.

Surprise had now morphed into curiosity for Motkar. He wondered why his boss was reluctant to meet Solanki.

I can’t possibly inform the MHA that you didn’t want to meet him, Saralkar, the CP grumbled.

I could go on a long leave, sir . . . Unable to make it back to Pune in time. That would make it less awkward for you.

Nonsense! You want me to bluff the MHA? Won’t do that. I am afraid it’s an order. Go and meet the creep. Maybe it would be worth our while. Do it! the CP said, coming to a decision and ready to disconnect.

On the other hand, it could just be a ploy, sir, knowing Solanki. Perhaps it’s a last desperate bid to delay his hanging by feeding us some misinformation, Saralkar countered.

Nothing on earth is going to stop his execution even if he claims to know of an assassination attempt on some political leader, the CP replied dismissively. Just go and meet him, Saralkar. Is that clear?

Yes, sir, Saralkar said.

Deshmukh will send you the authorization. The phone disconnected as the CP rang off.

A prickly silence followed. Shouldn’t have taken the damn call even the second time, Saralkar grumbled.

You think Solanki has something up his sleeve, sir? Motkar asked.

Saralkar shrugged uneasily. Well, there’s certainly no sentimental reason for him wanting to meet me, Motkar.

He was silent for a few seconds as if struggling whether to articulate his thoughts and end up breathing life into them. Finally, he spoke. I just get a bad feeling he’s going to confess something . . . burden me with some macabre knowledge I would be better off not knowing, just so that I can’t be at peace. He paused and looked up at Motkar’s puzzled expression. It’s his way of punishing me, Motkar, for bringing him down. He’s avenging himself on me, the bastard!

2

No matter what other development took place around it over the years, Pune’s Yerawada locality would forever be known for two landmark institutions—the Central Jail and the Mental Hospital. Both these institutions had been around for too many generations for Yerawada to have a hope in hell to be synonymous with anything else.

Minutes away from the Pune Airport at Lohegaon, a Yerawada resident might as well have cursed his luck as to why their village got stuck with places of disrepute—a jail and mental hospital—while Lohegaon was chosen to build a respectable airport. Why couldn’t it have been the other way round?

Built by the British in 1872, Yerawada Central Jail had grown into Maharashtra state’s largest prison, housing over three thousand prisoners. During the freedom struggle, some of India’s most prominent freedom fighters, ranging from Gandhi, Nehru, Patel to Savarkar and Tilak had been incarcerated here. In fact, the prison had also been the venue of the famous Poona Pact between Gandhi and Ambedkar in 1932. Later, it was one of the few prisons that were equipped with facilities for executing the death penalty. There was a long list of notorious killers in the annals of Indian crime history who had been hanged at Yerawada over time. Among these dreaded names were Ajmal Kasab, the lone terrorist captured alive during the 26/11 Mumbai terror attacks, Jinda and Sukha, the assassins of retired Indian Army Chief General Arun Vaidya at the height of Punjab militancy and the criminal quartet of Jakkal, Sutar, Jagtap, and Shah who had terrorized Pune in the late seventies with the Joshi-Abhyankar serial murders.

Dharmesh Solanki’s rendezvous with death had also been fixed at Yerawada.

You don’t think he’s going to attack you or something, do you? the jail superintendent asked in a half-serious, half-jocular tone. Not that there’s a chance he can do that even if he tries.

His question irritated Saralkar. He gave a thin smile. No, but I just might, Saralkar replied, his face affable but his tone sounding as if he meant it.

It startled the jail superintendent and he looked searchingly for Saralkar’s thin smile to widen so as to confirm it was a harmless joke. When it didn’t happen, the jail superintendent himself smiled. Don’t be provoked if Solanki starts abusing, okay? Never seen such a request from a death convict before! And please don’t say anything that makes him go berserk. Executions are high-pressure situations anyway. Try not to make it worse for us.

A sharp retort hovered on Saralkar’s lips but his brain speed-edited it into a milder version before it left his mouth. I understand. I haven’t volunteered for this, you know. I have been ordered to. I can’t guarantee it’ll go smoothly . . . that’s not my lookout.

Even the milder reply wasn’t meant to please the jail superintendent and it didn’t. It was meant only to be matter-of-fact.

The jail superintendent struggled to articulate a suitably curt response since he could hardly cancel the meeting sanctioned by an authority far higher than him. Having failed to think of a business-like rejoinder, he shifted to belittlement. You owe Solanki much of your reputation, I guess. Wasn’t this the case that shot you to prominence?

Saralkar bristled. Owe? he said coldly. Yes, I am going to repay his debt by helping Solanki escape today.

Frostiness descended on the jail superintendent’s face but Saralkar didn’t give him a chance to extend the pointless, annoying conversation. Can I now meet him? What exactly are we waiting for? he asked pointedly.

Arrangements, the jail superintendent now sounded brusque. You can wait outside. My assistant will take you when everything’s ready.

Saralkar got up without a word and left the jail superintendent’s cabin. Pomposity and self-importance infected all government officials, but the police force added a particularly mean streak of its own. Not that Saralkar himself wasn’t guilty of it but it didn’t assume disproportionate levels in his case, he thought.

He knew his wait had just got longer but it was better than making silly shop talk with the jail superintendent.

Dharmesh Solanki had aged. The long years of incarceration had certainly taken a toll on his body. He looked frail and vulnerable—like any other harmless man with whom age had caught up. But bemused malice still played in his eyes, jostling with feral alertness. He had grown a huge, bushy moustache that dropped along both sides of his mouth and then curved up his jaws and cheek, thick and wide, to meet his sideburns.

What do you think of it? he asked, pulling at the luxuriant contours of his facial hair.

Impressive, Saralkar remarked, raising his eyebrows. You remind me of a Chambal dacoit of yore.

Dharmesh Solanki grinned with obvious pleasure. Even some of the teeth were gone, Saralkar noticed. If his hanging were to be delayed by a year, Solanki would most probably be needing dentures, he reckoned.

Growing it for posterity, Solanki confessed, stroking his moustache again. This is the image I want in search histories. I have a Wikipedia entry now, you know. I am going to ask the government to circulate my photos with this moustache after they hang me.

The vanity and deceptive amiability were still intact. Where were the homicidal signs? Aren’t you scared? Saralkar asked.

Of what? Being hanged? Solanki replied with a chuckle. Come on, it’s an honour. It’s a sign that I am an extraordinary murderer. How many killers get that glory! Most end up dying in their prison cells, or released into obscurity, their spirits broken, resembling nothing like the creatures they were when they committed their crimes.

His face was animated with a kind of real pride, which was bizarre only because it related to murder. Then Solanki suddenly looked philosophical. Besides, how much longer could I have lived? Pushing seventy now . . . Not a bad age to die. Not much suffering—seven seconds I am told—one for each decade . . . Not bad . . . not bad at all, he purred heartily, his eyes twinkling as if he were some jolly septuagenarian who’d achieved all he wanted in his life.

He grinned again. "Not even scared of meeting my maker, Inspector Saralkar. If my maker exists, it must be Yamraj, and he made me the way I am. What will he ask me? He should be mighty pleased with my work."

Saralkar nodded again. Lessons in crime psychology first-hand, from a human being gone rogue. No regrets at all? he probed.

This time Solanki looked at him steadily, soberly. Just one. You caught me five years too soon. I was in my prime. A few more years and a few more murders would have been just perfect. All that talent gone waste. They could have been my best, my most prolific years. Could have produced my masterpieces! You deprived me of that, Saralkar.

I take that as a compliment, given the probable lives that have been saved, Saralkar replied.

Well, I kind of hold that against you, Solanki said, his eyes deepening inexplicably and the animal inside peeping out briefly.

Saralkar felt a tightening in his stomach. He knew that look too well. I’m flattered, Solanki. So why did you want to meet me before your execution?

To request you to write the foreword to my autobiography, of course, Inspector Saralkar, Solanki replied promptly.

What? It was one of the few times Saralkar was truly taken aback.

Please, Inspector Saralkar, please. Solanki’s tone had suddenly become wheedling. "It would be so befitting . . . you are the one who caught me . . . who better than you to write a foreword to