4."Banjara Hills Murder Case"

After what felt like a long, tense drive, we finally pulled up in front of the house in Banjara Hills. The neighborhood was quiet, the kind of quiet that gets under your skin, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Mansoor Bhaiyya parked the car and killed the engine, but neither of us made a move to get out right away. The gravity of what we were about to face hung in the air like a heavy fog.

We stepped out of the car, and as we approached the entrance, the weight of the situation settled in. The house, once a home, now felt like something else entirely—a place where something terrible had happened, where life had been abruptly stolen away. Mansoor Bhaiyya glanced at me, his expression unreadable.

"This is your first time seeing a real dead body, right?" he asked, breaking the silence.

I met his gaze, keeping my face neutral. I couldn't exactly tell him about the things I'd seen before. So I just nodded. "Yeah, it's my first time."

He gave me a small, reassuring smile. "Don't worry. If it gets too much, just let me know. It's okay to feel a little uneasy."

I didn't reply, just nodded again. An officer handed him a pair of gloves, and he passed them to me. "You'll need these," he said, his tone gentle but firm.

The gloves felt cold and sterile as I pulled them on.

We walked through the house, the air thick with the tension of what had happened here. The once warm and lively home was now filled with the low murmurs of police officers and the sterile presence of forensic experts going about their grim work.

The air in the living room was thick with the metallic scent of blood. The room, once a place of comfort, now bore the eerie stillness of death. The soft afternoon light filtered through partially drawn curtains, casting long shadows across the carpet, where Dr. Mehra's lifeless body lay surrounded by a dark crimson pool.

The scene was grim, yet strangely calm. It felt as though time had slowed down, trapping us all in the moment of her final breath. My eyes moved around the room, taking in every detail, every possible clue that might tell us what had happened here.

We stepped carefully around the body, the somber quiet broken only by the low murmur of officers exchanging information. Mansoor Bhaiyya approached one of the officers, his expression a mixture of concern and professional focus. "Did you find anything?" he asked, his voice steady but with an edge of urgency.

The officer shook his head, frustration evident in his furrowed brow. "No, sir. It's almost as if the killer just walked in, did the job, and walked out without leaving a single trace. No fingerprints, no forced entry, nothing."

Mansoor Bhaiyya's jaw tightened as he nodded, his mind likely racing through the possibilities. Then, he turned to me, his gaze expectant. "Shivaay, anything?"

I could feel the eyes of the room shift towards me, but I stayed calm, letting the details settle in my mind before responding. The blood pattern, the way it spread across the carpet, suggested a deep wound, possibly a stabbing. But there was something off, something that didn't sit right with the narrative of a simple, quick attack.

Before I could speak, one of the officers, clearly puzzled by my presence, interrupted. "Sir, who is he?"

Mansoor Bhaiyya smiled lightly. "He's my little brother. He wants to be in the force one day, so I thought it'd be good for him to see how we handle a case like this."

The officer's skepticism softened, replaced by a nod of understanding. They didn't question it further, though I could still feel the weight of their gazes, expecting something from me.

I knelt down carefully, examining the scene more closely, my gloved fingers hovering just above the surface of the carpet, close enough to feel the texture, the dampness of the blood, without touching it.

Mansoor Bhaiyya watched me carefully as I pointed towards Dr. Aarti Mehra's lifeless body. My gaze lingered on the delicate red rose nestled in her hand, untouched by the surrounding blood. It was a small detail, but sometimes the smallest things spoke the loudest in a crime scene.

"Do you see that red rose in her hand?" I asked, my voice steady.

He glanced at the rose, squinting slightly as he focused on it. "Yes, I see it. What about it?"

I leaned in a little closer, careful not to disturb anything, and continued, "The flower is completely untouched by blood. Look closely—its petals are fresh, almost too perfect, as if it had just been picked. It wasn't there when she was stabbed. The murderer placed it in her hand afterward."

Mansoor Bhaiyya's eyes widened slightly, a sign that he was connecting the dots. "You're right," he murmured, nodding slowly. "It doesn't belong to the scene. Someone placed it there deliberately."

As I stood up, I inhaled deeply, trying to catch the scent that had been nagging at me since we entered the room. It was faint, almost hidden beneath the overpowering smell of blood, but it was there—a rich, exotic fragrance that didn't belong. I turned to Mansoor Bhaiyya, a serious expression on my face.

"Did you notice the smell in here? It's faint, but rich and exotic. It's not the usual floral fragrance you'd find in most perfumes. This one is different, expensive. The kind of perfume that only the very wealthy use on special occasions."

Mansoor Bhaiyya's brows furrowed as he considered my words. "Couldn't it be Dr. Aarti's? She was a renowned cardiologist, after all. It wouldn't be surprising for her to own expensive perfumes."

I shook my head, confident in my assessment. "No, this isn't a perfume used by women. It's more masculine, bold. The kind of scent that lingers in the air long after someone has left the room. I'd bet anything that this belongs to a man."

I took one last glance around the living room, the space almost unsettling in its normalcy. Whoever had done this hadn't been in a hurry. Every detail seemed deliberate, almost as if they were mocking us with their calm precision.

I walked towards the kitchen, where something caught my eye—a half-empty glass of wine sat on the counter next to an uncorked bottle. Two glasses, one used, the other untouched. It was a simple scene, yet it screamed at me with possibilities. I studied the untouched glass, the crimson liquid still clinging to the sides. Why would someone pour a drink and not touch it? The question nagged at me, pulling at loose threads in my mind.

Leaving the kitchen, I returned to the living room, where Mansoor Bhaiyya was waiting, his expression a mix of expectation and concern.

"Did you find anything?" he asked, his voice steady, but with a hint of urgency.

"There are two glasses in the kitchen," I said, my mind racing as I pieced together the implications. "One has been used, and the other is untouched. Why would someone pour a drink and not touch it? It could mean a few things. Maybe the killer poured it for themselves but changed their mind, or maybe—"

I paused, considering the weight of my next words. "Maybe it was meant for Dr. Mehra, but she never got the chance to drink it."

Mansoor Bhaiyya's eyes sharpened at the suggestion. "So, the killer might have been someone she trusted enough to share a drink with," he murmured, his gaze shifting to the scene of the crime. "Someone who wasn't just a stranger, but someone who could walk into her home, pour a glass of wine, and feel comfortable enough to take their time."

I nodded. "Exactly. It's not just about the murder itself. It's about the relationship between Dr. Mehra and the killer. The rose, the perfume, the wine—it all suggests a level of intimacy, maybe even obsession. Did Dr. Mehra have a boyfriend?"

Mansoor Bhaiyya's expression shifted, his brows knitting together as he processed my words. "As far as we've investigated, no, she didn't have a boyfriend," he replied, his tone cautious. "But why are you asking?"

I looked down at the red rose, untouched by the blood that stained the carpet around Dr. Aarti Mehra's lifeless body. Everything about the scene was too carefully orchestrated, too intimate. "The one who killed her is someone she knew," I began, my voice steady as I connected the dots in my mind. "That's why you didn't find any signs of forced entry. The rose, the wine... they're not just random details. They're messages."

I pointed towards the photograph on the table, a silver frame that held a smiling image of Dr. Mehra. "Look at the photograph on the table," I said, walking over to it. I picked up the photo, turning it around to reveal the inscription on the back. "When I was looking around earlier, I found this." I held it up for him to see, the words etched into the back in delicate, almost loving script: 'To Aarti, with love. - V.'

Mansoor Bhaiyya's eyes narrowed as he read the inscription, his jaw tightening. "Who is V? A colleague? A friend? Or a lover?" I questioned, each word hanging in the air between us. "This murder isn't random. It's personal. It's related to love, or at least a twisted version of it."

He stared at the photograph for a long moment, his thoughts clearly racing. "Dr. Mehra's business partner, Vikram Patel... the initial 'V' matches," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

"So you mean to say it was Vikram?" he asked, his voice carrying a mixture of skepticism and curiosity.

I shook my head slowly. "Who knows? It's too early to make that call. But it's a lead, and we need to follow it. Vikram Patel might have been close to Dr. Mehra, maybe even in love with her. If that's the case, the emotions involved could explain the care and detail put into this murder. But we can't jump to conclusions."

Mansoor Bhaiyya looked thoughtful, the gears in his mind turning as he considered the possibility. "We'll have to bring Vikram in for questioning, but we need more than just a name on a photograph. We need evidence."

"Exactly," I agreed. "Did you find any CCTV footage?"

Mansoor Bhaiyya furrowed his brow, the uncertainty in his expression deepening as he said, "Yes, but it wasn't clear." He paused, then looked at me. "You want to see it?"

I nodded, the intensity of the moment pulling me into focus. He handed me the tablet where the footage was queued up, showing the entrance to Dr. Mehra's house. The image was grainy, with a shadowy figure moving in and out of the frame. His/her face was obscured by a hood, making it difficult to identify them. But something about the way he/she moved, something in the small details, caught my attention.

"Pause it here," I instructed, my eyes narrowing as I studied the screen.

Mansoor Bhaiyya did as I asked, his curiosity piqued. "What is it, Shivaay? Did you find something?"

I leaned closer to the screen, my gaze locked on the figure. "Zoom in on the feet," I requested, feeling a hunch forming in my mind.

He followed my instructions, and the image focused on the figure's shoes. They weren't ordinary, everyday shoes. There was something distinct about them—a unique pattern on the soles, the kind of detail that would stand out if you knew what to look for.

"Look at the shoes," I said, pointing at the screen. "They're distinctive. Not the kind you'd wear if you wanted to go unnoticed. They have a unique pattern on the soles, something that could be traced back if we find the right source."

Mansoor Bhaiyya's eyes lit up with understanding. "Good catch," he muttered, his mind already spinning with possibilities.

I straightened up, my thoughts moving rapidly. "Can we meet the suspects?" I asked.

Hearing this he nodded then we left the crime scene without another word, the urgency of the situation pushing us forward. As we made our way back to the car, I couldn't help but feel a strange mixture of excitement and dread

When we arrived, the police station's austere facade greeted us, a reminder of the gravity of our task. We stepped out of the car, and a police officer, standing at attention, approached us.

"Sir, the suspects are in the interrogation room," the officer said, saluting Mansoor Bhaiyya.

Mansoor Bhaiyya acknowledged the officer with a nod and turned to me. "Let's go."

I followed him through the station's corridors. We reached the door, and Mansoor Bhaiyya pushed it open.

Inside, the room was stark and utilitarian, with a table in the center and a few chairs around it. Rohit Kumar, Nisha Sharma, and Vikram Patel were seated on the chair. Their faces were a mix of anxiety and defiance.

Rohit Kumar, a tall man with a strained calmness, looked up as we entered. "I had no reason to kill her," he said, his voice steady. "Yes, we argued, but it was purely professional. Aarti was a difficult woman, but that's no reason to commit murder."

Mansoor Bhaiyya's gaze shifted to Nisha Sharma, who sat there trembling. She was a small woman, barely in her mid-twenties, her wide eyes darting around nervously as if searching for a way out of the tense situation. Her hands were clutched tightly around her purse, her fingers visibly shaking.

As Mansoor Bhaiyya's questioning intensified, Nisha suddenly burst into tears, her voice cracking with emotion. "I didn't kill her," she sobbed, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I hate her for what she did to me, but I would never—could never—do something like that."

Her distress was palpable, and for a moment, the room was filled with the sound of her anguished cries. Mansoor Bhaiyya watched her carefully, his expression a mix of empathy and determination. It was clear that Nisha's reaction was genuine, but the depth of her emotions didn't rule her out as a suspect just yet.

Turning his attention back to Vikram Patel, Mansoor Bhaiyya began to press him with more questions. Vikram's composure was evident, but there was a tightness in his posture that betrayed his inner tension. As Mansoor Bhaiyya questioned Vikram, I focused on his shoes—those distinctive ones we had seen in the CCTV footage. They were unmistakably the same, a pattern that could not be easily overlooked.

Finally, as the interrogation wrapped up, Mansoor Bhaiyya and I stepped out of the room. The police station's bustling corridors seemed quieter now, the weight of the investigation pressing down on us. Mansoor Bhaiyya turned to me, his face showing a mix of curiosity and expectation.

"So, did you figure out anything?" he asked, his voice low and steady.

Hearing this I said "Vikram is killer I noticed his shoes they had the same pattern."

Hearing my deduction, Mansoor Bhaiyya's expression grew thoughtful. "So Vikram is the one," he said, his voice carrying a note of certainty.

I nodded. "Think about it," I explained, "Vikram and Dr. Mehra had a business disagreement. But what if it was more than just business? The rose, the wine, the perfume—it all suggests a personal betrayal. The rose might have been a message, a final gesture from Vikram to Dr. Mehra. The perfume, an expensive one worn by a man, and the wine left untouched could be pieces of a relationship that had soured dramatically."

Mansoor Bhaiyya's eyes narrowed as he absorbed my analysis. "You're saying that this wasn't just about business but also about something more intimate?"

"Exactly," I affirmed. "The elements of the crime scene point towards a deeply personal motive. Vikram's shoes match the pattern we saw in the CCTV footage, and his relationship with Dr. Mehra might have been strained by more than just professional disagreements."

Understanding my point, Mansoor Bhaiyya gave a curt nod. "Let's confront him with this. We need to see how he responds under pressure."

We re-entered the interrogation room, where Vikram Patel sat, his face a portrait of tension. Mansoor Bhaiyya nodded for the other two suspects to be led outside, their departure leaving a heavy silence in the room.

Mansoor Bhaiyya wasted no time. He laid out the evidence methodically, starting with the shoes. The unique pattern on the soles matched those seen in the CCTV footage. Vikram's attempts to deny his involvement were growing increasingly desperate, his voice breaking under the weight of the accusations.

Mansoor Bhaiyya's patience wore thin. He slapped Vikram across the face, the sound echoing in the small room. "This isn't a game, Vikram. You're running out of excuses."

The slaps seemed to shatter Vikram's composure. His eyes, previously defiant, filled with tears. "I didn't mean for it to go that far," he choked out, his voice trembling. "I just wanted her to understand how much she meant to me, how much I cared. But when she looked at me with those cold, indifferent eyes… I lost control."

His confession came in broken fragments, his guilt raw and palpable. He described how, in a moment of overwhelming frustration and hurt, he had confronted Dr. Mehra. What started as a confrontation over their failing relationship spiraled into violence. The red rose, a token of his twisted affection, and the untouched wine were all part of his misguided attempt to make a final statement, a gesture that turned fatal.

The evidence, now laid bare before him, had left him nowhere to hide. His own words were damning enough, revealing the depth of his desperation and the tragic outcome of his actions.

Mansoor Bhaiyya listened intently.Once Vikram finished his statement, the reality of his crime sank in fully. There was no further interrogation needed. Vikram was clearly broken, his facade of arrogance dissolved under the pressure of the truth.

After taking the statement, Mansoor Bhaiyya nodded to the officers. "Take him away," he said, his voice steady. Vikram was led out of the room, his steps heavy with the weight of his guilt.

As Mansoor Bhaiyya and I stepped out of the police station, the evening air was cool and refreshing, a stark contrast to the tense atmosphere inside. The sky was a deepening shade of indigo, with the first stars beginning to twinkle faintly. I took a deep breath, the day's events replaying in my mind.

Mansoor Bhaiyya turned to me with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Shivaay, for all your help today," he said, his eyes reflecting a warmth that felt like a genuine acknowledgment of the bond we shared.

I returned his smile, feeling a sense of satisfaction mingled with the weariness of the day. "It's nothing, Bhaiyya. You're like a big brother to me."

His grin widened. "Well, let me change into something more casual, and then I'll take you out for a celebration. You've earned it."

I nodded, feeling a flutter of anticipation at the thought of a relaxing evening after the day's intense work. I watched as Mansoor Bhaiyya disappeared into the station to change. The night settled around me, the sounds of the city life providing a backdrop to my thoughts.

A few minutes later, Mansoor Bhaiyya reappeared in casual clothes—a simple shirt and jeans that seemed to soften his usually stern demeanor. We got into his car, and he started the engine with a relaxed ease that suggested he was looking forward to unwinding.

(A/N:If you want to support me, please use this UPI:-omgadekar29@oksbi "Om Gadekar")

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