Chapter 3: New Blood, Old Wounds

A request arrived from the crime branch of a neighbouring city—they needed help on a homicide case. Inspector Raghavan assigned me to assist.

Aaj kal, everything is linked, Inspector Raghavan said, sipping his tea. "Kuch bhi ho sakta hai, beta."

Inspector Javed and Sub-Inspector Mehul led the investigation. Javed saab’s moustache was the stuff of legend; Mehul’s notebook was never out of reach. They accepted my offer of cutting chai and got straight to business.

A horrific murder had occurred in their city.

Javed saab described the scene: “Ekdam bura haal tha.”

A family of three—Rajeev Kumar, Sunita Rajeev, and their ten-year-old son Priyansh—had been slaughtered.

The Kumars lived on the city’s edge, in a modest bungalow. Priyansh, their only son, was remembered as a quiet boy, always clutching his schoolbag.

The killer was merciless: each victim suffered at least twenty stab wounds, with sedatives found in their systems.

Twenty wounds—enough to silence even the crows. The postmortem doctor called it chilling.

The killer had drugged them, then stabbed them to death.

Some called it mercy, others called it cowardice. But all agreed: this was revenge, executed with certainty.

The horror didn’t end there. The killer decapitated the victims and arranged their heads on the coffee table, a message written in blood.

No Bollywood film could match this. The inspector who first saw it had to sit and drink water, hands shaking.

The bodies were found only a week later, the smell unbearable, after a passerby noticed the dog barking nonstop.

No signs of forced entry. In small towns, friends walk in unannounced. The lack of break-in was a clue: the enemy came from within.

The scene was wiped clean—no prints, no hair, no evidence.

“Yeh kaam kisi professional ka hai. Bilkul saaf,” Javed saab muttered.

No useful CCTV footage, no leads. We traced their connections: phone calls, WhatsApp, every visitor, every festive sweet exchanged.

Two things stood out. First, the family had just moved here—no local ties. Second, Priyansh had been involved in a vicious case more than a year ago.

The Ananya case. The name sent chills down my spine.

It was revenge. And naturally, suspicion fell on Ananya’s parents, Mohan Lal and Kavita Mohan.

Javed saab said, "Dekhna, yeh kisi apne ka kaam hai." I agreed.

With no evidence, we issued a summons to Mohan Lal, who refused to come, citing his duty to his daughter but agreed to let us visit his home. “Inspector saab, bas meri beti hai. Aur koi nahi. Aap ghar aa jao, jo poochna hai, yahin pooch lo.”

We piled into the old Bolero and set off, the fields passing by in silence.