“Are you asking me to avoid airing the story?” asked Guha, the anger evident in his voice.
“I’m not suggesting that,” said the producer smoothly. “I’m simply advising that you should slow down. It’s never a good idea to get emotional about news stories.”
Guha nodded. “I’ll take your advice,” he said as he wound up the meeting.
Guha’s research assistant felt a tad sorry for him. Guha was always among the last to leave the studio. Perhaps if he had a wife or family, he wouldn’t devote his entire attention to pursuing the truth relentlessly. Guha hadn’t gotten over his wife. Her photograph steadfastly remained on his shelf.
When everyone else had left, Guha quietly spoke to his research assistant. “I have decided I shall not give anyone the luxury of time,” he said.
“What do you mean? We’re legally prohibited from going to air,” she said.
“I plan to defy the court order,” said Guha, the determination in his eyes all too evident.
“It would be contempt of court. DETV could get into trouble.”
“What’s the worst that can happen?” said Guha. “I get arrested? Fine. Public opinion will force the court to release me within the day.” He got up from his desk excitedly. He was pumped up once again.
“But why the sudden urgency?” asked his assistant.
“Because DETV is trying to bury the story,” said Guha, putting a fresh lozenge into his mouth. “The longer I wait, the higher the chances that the story will never be aired.”
“How do we manage our producer?”
“He won’t know what hit him,” said Guha as he packed up. “Make preparations for a completely different subject so that everyone is caught off guard.”
Chapter 96
It was becoming a little too easy these days. Or maybe the Deliverer was simply a genius. It was probably the latter. The Deliverer knew everything.
Over the past week he had killed so many people. With each kill, he had felt a sense of elation. And why not? He had done the world a favor in each instance! The world owed him a debt of gratitude and a medal of honor for making the world a better place.
After completing his twelfth grade at the cantonment school, he had joined the army at the age of seventeen as a soldier. He had loved every minute of his experience, surrounded by people who were bound by the call of duty. A couple of years later the war had happened and he had ended up with a bullet to his lung.
Luckily the doctor at the hospital had succeeded in patching him up, even though the wound had left him plagued with chest infections that refused to go away. It also left him with a persistent cough.
The army had no longer been an option for the Deliverer. It was almost like starting his life all over again. The newspaper stint had been just what the doctor ordered.
The Deliverer had been lucky to have survived the bullet to his lung but it had disqualified him from active duty in the armed forces. He had realized that he would soon be unemployed.
One day, while the Deliverer had still been recuperating in hospital, someone had visited the patient occupying the bed next to his. The visitor had struck up a conversation with the Deliverer and he had been forced to put down his book. The visitor had been an impeccably groomed man. It had turned out that he was the editor of a major newspaper. He had graciously offered the Deliverer an opportunity to come work for him — to report from the front lines for the newspaper. The Deliverer had gratefully accepted the offer and had spent several years providing the newspaper with scoops that were unprecedented.
While on the reporting beat, the Deliverer had begun to realize that the country was a shambles. Crimes went unpunished because of notorious delays in the justice system. Innocents lay locked up for years even though there was no real evidence against them. The law and order administration was inefficient and some police officers were busy lining their own pockets. The apathy and inefficiency had made the Deliverer’s blood boil. Men like him were giving up their lives on the nation’s borders while others sucked the country dry! It had riled him to see that the mainstream press was turning a blind eye to many such injustices.
He’d decided the only way to change the system was to occupy a position of power. He’d decided that he would need to contest elections soon.
Chapter 97
In a meeting room of Delhi’s Oberoi Hotel assembled a group of people who could never have expected to assemble in amicable circumstances.
On one side of the table sat the Police Commissioner, Sharma, who wore a uniform that strained at its buttons, as well as a distinctly sour expression, and beside him his assistant Nanda, who wore no expression at all, as though he were simply an interested bystander, an impartial observer.
Across from them sat Jack Morgan, relaxed, stubbled, his polo shirt open at the neck and a dazzling grin never far from the surface; Santosh, whose own stubble gave him a weary, troubled look; beside him Neel; and on the end Nisha, who glared with unreserved distaste at Sharma.
The cop cleared his throat to address the Private team. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me. The reason I wanted to—”
“Wait a minute,” cut in Jack. “Wait just a goddamn minute. I told you we would agree to meet on one condition. Let’s see that condition met first, shall we?”
Sharma picked up a hotel pen then placed it down again. His eyes dropped to the tabletop and his color rose as he cleared his throat and mumbled something.
“A little louder, please,” said Jack. “Aim for audible and we’ll take it from there.”
“Okay,” said Sharma, throwing back his shoulders, “let’s get this over with, shall we? I would like to say sorry to you, Mrs. Gandhe,” he nodded toward her, “for your treatment at the station the other day. It was inexcusable. I of course accept that you have nothing to do with the spate of killings, and I should never have insinuated as much. Please accept my apologies.”
“Thank you,” said Nisha tightly.
Sharma’s eyes rose to meet hers. “How is she?” he asked, with a tenderness that took her by surprise. “How is your little girl?”
“Oh, she’s... Well, she’s bearing up. She still has night terrors. She still talks about the killer as the good man. She hopes that he’s read her essay.”
Sharma nodded, tucking his chin into his chest. “And what do you think? Do you still think he’s a good man?”
Nisha’s hackles rose. “Oh? We’re starting that again?”
“I’m interested to know what you think, that’s all,” responded Sharma.
“Okay then,” began Nisha. “Our theory here at Private is that—”
Now it was Santosh’s turn to clear his throat, sitting upright in his chair. “Wait a minute, if you would. Perhaps we might first learn what is the purpose of this meeting? Up until now, Commissioner, you’ve made it very clear that you have no intention of cooperating with us. Why the sudden change of heart?”
Sharma shifted. “Not long ago somebody said to me that the fervor we’re seeing on the streets is the kind in which revolutions are forged. I didn’t agree with him then, but I’m beginning to agree with him now. Things have gone too far, they’ve gotten out of hand. We need to put a stop to it and I’m proposing that in order to do that we pool our resources. We are, after all, investigating the same thing.”
“The same two things,” Nisha reminded him. “We have a serial killer on the street and an organ-harvesting network.”
“If you’re suggesting that my own investigations into either of those things have been half-hearted then you’re wrong,” said Sharma, with a touch of wounded pride. “In fact, I’ve established the identities of all the major players in the organ-harvesting network. I believe I know the identity of the killer.”