Chapter 2: Flesh and Lies

2

Ananya’s mother collapsed on the spot, squatting down and sobbing. Her father grabbed a fire extinguisher and charged at Prakash. We hurried to restrain him, using all our strength to pull the couple out of the office.

It took four constables to hold Rajesh back, and even then, his curses echoed down the corridor. Meera’s wails carried through the station, piercing, raw, as if she was tearing her own heart out. Someone handed her a glass of water, but she knocked it aside, unable to stop shaking.

“We haven’t found Anu’s body yet. With no body, it’s too early to conclude she’s been murdered. Don’t lose hope.”

I tried to sound reassuring, but the words felt hollow, even to me. Outside, the sky darkened, and the first drops of rain pattered against the window, as if the monsoon itself mourned with us.

Mr. Sharma tried several times to break free and storm into the interrogation room to beat Prakash. Mrs. Sharma clung to my uniform, weeping bitterly: “That beast confessed with his own mouth. Is there any chance my daughter is still alive? Any chance at all?”

Her voice cracked, her nails digging into my sleeve. Rajesh’s breathing was ragged, each gasp heavy with helpless fury. In that moment, I wished I could have lied to comfort them, but police work is not about wishful thinking.

My heart ached. Now that Prakash had confessed, Ananya’s chances were slim.

I thought of my own daughter, same age, the way she ran to hug me when I returned late from work. A lump formed in my throat, and I swallowed hard, steeling myself for what lay ahead.

But for now, we had to find the body, the murder weapon, and the motive. Only with a complete chain of evidence could we send Prakash to the gallows—his confession alone wasn’t enough for conviction.

I explained this to the Sharmas, but the words seemed to drift past them. Meera was rocking back and forth, whispering Ananya’s name, while Rajesh stared at the wall, eyes glassy and unfocused.

I had a junior colleague comfort Ananya’s parents while I returned to the interrogation room to continue questioning Prakash.

My junior—a young woman fresh from the academy—knelt beside Meera, murmuring soft words. I caught a fragment: "Ma’am, please have some water..." The tea boy arrived with a tray of chai, but nobody touched it.

“How did you kill Ananya?”

“Strangled her.”

Prakash’s eyes were dull, voice toneless. He spoke as if reciting a grocery list, not describing a murder. I felt a shiver crawl up my spine.

“Where’s the body? How did you dispose of it?”

“I cut open her body, removed the internal organs, sliced the fascia, and stripped the meat from her bones piece by piece. I threw the flesh into the meat grinder, ground it into filling, and stuffed it into sausages. The bones I cooked in a pressure cooker until they were soft, mixed them with mutton and beef bones—you wouldn’t be able to tell them apart.”

My stomach lurched. I could almost hear the crackle of a pressure cooker in my own kitchen, the ordinary sound now twisted into something grotesque. My pen slipped from my fingers, clattering on the steel table. Even the constable in the corner looked away, jaw clenched.

A cold sweat broke out all over me. Prakash described the dismemberment in vivid detail. It was as if I was standing right beside him, watching him use a horn-handled knife to butcher a young girl in her prime.

I closed my eyes for a moment, forcing back nausea. Years of police work hadn’t prepared me for this. The horror was so real, it seemed to seep into the cracks of the walls themselves.

My colleague and I discussed it. He would take the forensics team to Prakash’s butcher shop to collect evidence while I continued questioning, hoping to uncover the motive.

He scribbled down a quick list, then hurried out with the team, their footsteps echoing in the corridor. I poured myself a glass of water, gulping it down to steady my nerves. The weight of responsibility pressed harder than ever.

“Why did you kill Ananya? Was it for money? For revenge?”

“...”

Prakash stared at his hands, lips pressed tight. He didn’t move, didn’t blink. The silence grew thick, punctuated only by the distant cawing of crows outside.

“Did you assault Ananya before she died?”

“...”

He flinched, just a little, but said nothing. The question hung between us, unanswered. I made a note of his reaction, searching for any sign of guilt or remorse.

Prakash looked exhausted and was unwilling to answer further. I tried another angle: “Do you know Ananya’s parents?”

“Yes.”

He spoke softly, almost reluctant, as if each word cost him dearly. I leaned forward, sensing a crack in his armour.

I realised I wouldn’t get more from Prakash for now, so I temporarily detained him and went to find Ananya’s parents.

I signed the paperwork, instructing the constable to keep a close eye on Prakash. As I left the room, I caught a glimpse of the old man’s face—blank, resigned, defeated.

“Do you know Prakash Yadav? Have you ever had any conflict with him?”

Mr. and Mrs. Sharma shook their heads. “We’ve never met him.”

Meera’s eyes were wide with surprise; Rajesh’s brows drew together in confusion. Their denial seemed genuine, but I’d seen enough lies in my career to remain skeptical.

I was stunned.

I wrote it down anyway, but the contradiction nagged at me. Why would Prakash claim otherwise? Something didn’t fit.

“What about Ananya? Could she have known Prakash?”

“Impossible. We never let Anu do housework. She can’t even tell mutton from chicken—of course she doesn’t know Prakash.”

Meera’s voice was tinged with pride, as if keeping Ananya away from the butcher’s shop was a badge of honor. Rajesh nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching in agreement.