Next Morning – CID Bureau – 9:15 AM
It was a surprisingly quiet morning at the bureau. Files were being sorted, coffee was brewing, and the team had a moment of relative peace. Daya and Abhijeet were joking about an old case, while Freddy complained about Mumbai traffic.
Nelakhant Swami, seated by the glass window, was reading a case archive from 2003—a cold case involving a missing radio host. His eyes weren't scanning the words like most people's. They were analyzing sentence length, time stamps, syntax used in police reports. To Swami, even language was data.
Just then, ACP Pradyuman walked in holding a sealed envelope.
ACP Pradyuman: "We've received a letter. No return address. It came directly to my office."
He placed it on the table and slit it open. A single sheet of cream-colored paper inside had been typed on an old-fashioned typewriter.
> "The truth dies every night. But not tonight. At 9:45 PM, turn your radio to 103.1 FM. Someone will confess… and someone will die."
Silence.
Freddy (frowning): "Is this a prank? Sounds like something out of a crime novel."
Swami (without looking up): "The typewriter used is a Remington Rand Model 17. Discontinued in 1964. The ink is uneven—likely used after long storage. This letter isn't a prank. It's a performance."
Abhijeet: "Someone's trying to play a game with us."
Swami: "No. They're staging a show. A murder broadcast in real time—live, anonymous, and for an audience."
Purvi: "But what's the connection to us?"
Swami finally stood up. "They want us to hear it. Because they know someone at CID will understand the message hidden in the voice."
---
Later That Night – CID Radio Surveillance Room – 9:40 PM
The team gathered in the small surveillance chamber, where radio frequencies could be intercepted and recorded. The old radio crackled faintly as it was tuned to 103.1 FM. Static. Then silence. And then…
Voice (distorted, deep, calm):
"This is not a joke. This is not a warning. This is a confession. My name doesn't matter. But what I did… does."
The team tensed as they listened. The voice spoke like a poet, describing "the girl in yellow," "the bridge that never forgets," and "a city that turns its back at 10 PM."
Then came a name.
Voice: "Her name was Komal Desai. I buried her where truth sleeps—in the walls of wisdom."
And the broadcast cut to silence.
Daya: "What the hell was that?"
Swami (thoughtful): "Not just a confession. A riddle. A murder, encoded in metaphors."
Purvi: "Komal Desai… I think that name came up in a missing persons report from five years ago."
Abhijeet quickly pulled up the file.
Abhijeet: "Yes. Komal Desai. Final-year literature student. Disappeared on her way home from college. Last seen near… wait—'the bridge that never forgets.' That's Carter Bridge in Bandra. She crossed it every day."
Swami: "And 'walls of wisdom'... That's not metaphor. It's literal. It's the old city library building in Bandra—closed for renovations since 2019."
ACP Pradyuman: "Move now. Daya, Abhijeet, Swami—you know where to go."
---
Old City Library – Bandra – 10:25 PM
The old library stood abandoned in the moonlight. Covered in dust, silence clung to it like a shroud. CID flashlights lit up the interior as the team entered. Shelves stood like forgotten sentinels. The air smelled of mildew and secrets.
Swami (whispering): "Listen."
They paused. In the back wing of the building, Swami moved toward the western wall—his footsteps slow, methodical. He tapped gently on several wooden panels, then stopped at one.
Swami: "This wall. The echo changes. Something is behind it."
Daya didn't wait. He kicked in the panel—and behind the broken wood and bricks, they found her.
Wrapped in an old yellow shawl, bones and decayed cloth confirmed it.
Purvi (tears in her eyes): "It's her. Komal Desai."
Swami stepped back and looked around.
Swami: "He wanted us to find her now. He planned this for years."
Suddenly, Freddy's voice buzzed through the walkie-talkie.
Freddy: "Sir! We traced part of the broadcast equipment. It was transmitted from a rooftop near Lower Parel. Someone used a mobile signal relay. The equipment was set up to broadcast automatically. The killer wasn't even there."
Swami: "Of course not. He's a storyteller. Every killer leaves a signature. His… is narrative."
Abhijeet: "You're saying he's not done?"
Swami nodded slowly. "This was chapter one. He's written the script already. And we're inside it."
---
Back at CID Bureau – 12:45 AM
The body was taken for forensic analysis. The radio transmission was under digital enhancement to trace the voice. But no leads yet.
ACP Pradyuman stood silently, looking at the map of Mumbai on the wall.
ACP Pradyuman: "We're dealing with a killer who wants an audience… and a worthy opponent."
Swami (quietly): "Then he chose the right city. And the wrong team to play with."
Abhijeet glanced at Swami. "You think you can outthink him?"
Swami: "I don't have to. I just have to read the story faster than he can finish it."
The room fell silent as everyone realized: this wasn't an ordinary killer.
This was a game of intellect, symbolism, and time.
And the first body was only the prologue.
To be continued…