Chapter 4: Motive and Manipulation

4

Ananya’s parents pressured me every day to hand the case over to the court as soon as possible—they couldn’t bear to see their daughter’s killer live another day.

Rajesh called my mobile daily, voice trembling with impatience. Meera sent WhatsApp messages late into the night, begging for updates, their display picture still a smiling family portrait from happier times.

But I still had many doubts about this case.

Something in my gut told me it wasn’t so simple. No matter how damning the evidence, there were pieces missing—gaps that refused to be filled.

First was Prakash’s motive.

Years of investigating violent crimes had made me sensitive to motive. In most cases, it’s money or lust, sometimes jealousy. But here, none of the old explanations fit.

The dismemberment cases I’d seen before were mostly impulsive killings, where the perpetrator, in a panic, tried to destroy evidence. Such cases were haphazard and full of loopholes—relatively easy to solve.

Prakash’s actions, though, were meticulous. The methodical disposal, the strange confession, the silent resentment—it all felt calculated, cold, and deeply personal.

But Prakash’s actions were calculated. He disposed of the body with chilling precision. His motive was clearly not fear.

I remembered the look in his eyes—dead, yet burning with something I couldn’t name. Not fear, not greed. Something older, more primal.

Yet neither money nor lust made sense. If he needed money, he could have kidnapped her for ransom—no need to kill. If it was just to satisfy desire, and he wasn’t afraid of the death penalty, what difference would a few years in prison make?

The usual logic failed me. My notebook was filled with crossed-out theories. The answers, it seemed, were locked away in someone’s wounded heart.

After thinking it over, the only reasonable motive I could come up with was hatred.

Not the hot, explosive kind, but a cold, festering hatred—the sort that grows slowly, eating away at a man until he’s nothing but bone and fury.

I privately investigated the backgrounds of Prakash and the Sharmas. They were from completely different worlds. I couldn’t find any connection between the two families.

My contacts in various departments owed me favours, but not one could find a school, workplace, or neighbourhood link between Prakash and the Sharmas. Their circles didn’t overlap at all. Yet Prakash insisted he knew them.

The truth could probably only come from Prakash or Ananya’s parents themselves.

I decided to take a gamble, hoping the pressure would force a crack in their resolve.

But Prakash remained silent, and the Sharmas were unwilling to tell the truth.

Meera’s WhatsApp replies grew curt; Rajesh started avoiding my calls. I sensed they were hiding something, but what?

I decided to bluff them.

I told the Sharmas, “The court has sent the case back, saying the motive is insufficient and more evidence is needed. This process could drag on for a year.”

Rajesh’s face turned red with rage. Meera’s eyes darted to her husband, then back to me, panic rising.

Mr. Sharma couldn’t accept this and lashed out at me: “Prakash is just a lunatic! Do lunatics need a motive to kill? Maybe killing is as meaningless to him as eating or drinking!”

The words tumbled out in a torrent, hands waving wildly. Meera tugged at his sleeve, whispering urgently, but Rajesh ignored her, voice rising in the stuffy room.

I reminded Mr. Sharma that if Prakash was deemed insane, he wouldn’t be held criminally responsible. If I wrote that in my report, Prakash might be released soon.

The threat was thinly veiled, but it hit its mark. Rajesh fell silent, jaw working furiously. Meera’s breathing grew shallow, eyes darting to the door.

“Please think carefully. Have you really never met Prakash? Not even once?”

Meera hesitated, then shook her head. Rajesh looked away, fiddling with his phone, avoiding my gaze. The air was thick with unspoken words.

Mrs. Sharma pressed her lips together, her eyes suddenly widening. “Could this Prakash Yadav be...”

She trailed off, voice trembling. Rajesh turned to her, confusion etched on his face. For a second, time seemed to stand still.

Mr. Sharma looked puzzled, but Mrs. Sharma quickly made a strange gesture—she gripped something with both hands and swung it forward.

It was sudden, almost theatrical—a motion so familiar yet out of place in that grim room. Rajesh’s eyes widened in alarm, and I felt a jolt of recognition, though I couldn’t place it.

Mr. Sharma’s eyes instantly widened.

He looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. His hand shot out, trembling, pointing at my chest.

He turned and jabbed his finger into my chest, threatening, “Listen to me, I have plenty of batchmates who are senior IPS officers and judges. You’d better make Prakash disappear for me, or I’ll have you transferred to some godforsaken post!”

His words dripped with menace, the weight of power and privilege behind them. I felt a cold anger rising, but kept my face blank, jotting down his threat in my mental diary.