Chapter 1: The Perfect Twist

Friends who’ve ever helped hide a body know: the hardest part of a murder case isn’t dumping the corpse, but breaking your link to the victim—only then can you truly keep your name out of the neighbourhood’s gossip.

Whether it’s helping a hostel batchmate sneak back after a late-night party, or quietly fixing a cousin’s mess before the elders find out, every Indian knows the value of a loyal friend. But severing your connection to someone you’ve wronged? That’s the real test, beta. Only then, as the elders say, can you keep your ‘naam’ from getting tangled in the colony’s grapevine and police inquiry.

Most murders boil down to money, lust, or revenge. The killer is usually unmasked by the victim’s social circle or caught on one of the dozens of CCTVs that watch over every corner.

These are the oldest stories—bada paisa ka lalach, spurned lovers, or long-standing enmities that finally explode. Our cities may have changed, but the local thana and the colony aunties still know how to sniff out the usual suspects. And now, with every paan shop and streetlight fitted with a camera, it’s tougher than ever to hide. Even the neighbourhood chaiwala listens closely, hoping for a reward from the police.

Beyond these, there are crimes committed just to make headlines, and the most baffling of all: random killings.

Those are the cases that leave even the top crime reporters scratching their heads. Sometimes, you wonder if it’s someone desperate for their face on the news, or simply a mind gone off the rails—pure pagalpan. But the random murders? Arrey, those are the real conundrums, the ones that keep even veteran policewalas awake at night.

But in 2017, I saw a sixth kind of murder. The killer’s methods were crude, yet the crime itself was chilling in its simplicity—so close to the perfect crime, it still gives me shivers.

You know how the elders in the mohalla say, ‘Beta, there’s always one more story left to be told’? This was that story. Not refined, but with a twist worthy of a classic Hindi crime film.

When I first heard of the case, I made sure to jot down every detail. Friends who enjoy a good puzzle—come, join me and try to reason through this from the very beginning.

So, all you armchair detectives—set aside your chai for a minute, and step into my shoes. Let’s retrace the case together, step by step, as if we’re sitting in the thana on a long, muggy night shift, puzzling over files while the ceiling fan creaks overhead.

1

I am a criminal police officer.

People in my field know me as Suresh Patil. Thirty-eight years old, born and bred in Pune, with a soft spot for filter coffee and a love for puzzles bigger than the morning crossword.

On 14th September 2017, a family massacre rocked Lotus Residency in Pune.

Lotus Residency—one of those posh bungalow societies near Koregaon Park, where gulmohar trees shade the lanes and the security guards doze off in the afternoon. But that day, the silence was shattered.

Dr. Rohan Mehra, director of Shanti Hospital, his wife, and his son were murdered brutally in their own home.

When I first heard the news on the police wireless, I almost dropped my cutting chai. The chaiwala paused mid-pour, eyes wide as the news crackled from the wireless. The Mehra family were respected in Pune’s medical circles—not the sort you’d ever expect at the centre of such horror.

At ten that morning, Dr. Mehra was due for a crucial surgery, but he was missing and unreachable. Fellow doctors went to his house to check, only to find blood everywhere and three heads arranged on the dining table. They fainted on the spot; it was the neighbours who called the police.

The shock that greeted those doctors—no one in the colony will forget. The watchman, Baburao, was first to raise the alarm. Soon, the wailing of neighbours filled the air, and curious onlookers pressed outside, whispering behind their hands. Someone’s tiffin carrier clattered down the steps, dal spilling everywhere, but no one cared. Three heads on the table—like a bad horror film, only real.

The call went out, and within minutes, the police, crime branch, and forensics rushed to the scene.

By the time I arrived, red beacons flashed, and the air was thick with the stench of blood and fear. Constable Deshmukh struggled to hold back the crowd, but people craned their necks for a glimpse. The usual questions—“Arrey, what happened?” “Is it true?” “Kya ho gaya?”—buzzed all around.

Inside, the smell of phenyl mixed uneasily with the sharp metallic tang of blood, while a lone ceiling fan spun overhead, creaking with every turn. The forensic doctor estimated the time of death between 10 p.m. on the 13th and 2 a.m. on the 14th, with the beheadings happening after death.

Even the toughest officers blanched. Dr. Ramdas, the senior, muttered a prayer under his breath. Seeing bodies is part of this job, but this—this was deliberate savagery. The flickering tube light painted strange shadows on the blood-smeared floor.

Dr. Rohan Mehra was forty-eight, a man who still wore starched white kurta-pajamas on Sundays. His wife, Ananya, forty-two, worked at a national bank. Their son, Kabir, fifteen, was in a nearby CBSE school.

Kabir had just started his 10th standard—his textbooks scattered across the study table, pages open to quadratic equations and the Mughal empire. You could almost hear his mother’s voice scolding him for unfinished maths homework.

The killer used a kitchen knife to sever all three heads, placed them on the table, then dismembered the bodies in the living room, chopping them up and taking the remains away.

Such cold precision is rare, even in the biggest cities. The police photographer, a veteran from Dadar, muttered, “Yeh toh pagal hai, sir.” The killer had time, working undisturbed. The knife was from the Mehtras’ own kitchen—one of those imported sets people love to show off at dinner parties.

From the scene, it was clear the killer entered earlier, waited for Dr. Mehra and his wife, killed them in the study and kitchen, and then Kabir when he returned home last.

The front door was untouched; no sign of forced entry. The events unfolded like a slow, ghastly dance. Kabir’s schoolbag lay in the foyer, his crumpled tie peeking out, as if he’d tossed it away on coming home. In one corner, the Mehra’s pet parrot squawked—the only living witness left.

Investigators searched every inch but found nothing: no fingerprints, no footprints, not a single hair.

We even called in the best from Pune Forensics—those who can find a thumbprint on a biscuit. But the killer left nothing, not even a sandal mark on the marble. Neighbours swore they heard nothing—not even the Mehra’s missing Pomeranian barking.

Nearby CCTV? Nothing suspicious—no unfamiliar faces at all.

Every paan shop camera, every security guard’s phone footage checked out. Only the milkman, newspaperwala, and postman were seen—nothing out of the ordinary. The society’s cameras caught only a few stray cats hunting scraps.

By noon, police discovered flesh at a garbage station a kilometre away. Most had been eaten by stray dogs, with only a small amount left.

At the dump, the air buzzed with flies, and the distant sound of a vegetable vendor’s bell echoed through the lanes. Stray dogs slunk away, muzzles red. Ramesh, the ragpicker, retched in the corner, making a sign of protection. The stench was overpowering—like Diwali crackers mixed with rotten eggs. There, we found a battered blue suitcase, streaked with blood.

The crime branch called an emergency meeting to analyse motive and identity.

Inside the conference room, everyone’s faces looked drained. The DCP barked orders, AC humming uselessly against the September heat. Files piled up on the table, and a half-eaten vada pav sat forgotten, flies already circling.

First, all valuables were missing. It looked like robbery-murder, but the perfect avoidance of surveillance suggested the killer was local or known to the family.

Inspector Pramod tapped his pen. “Sir, even the family’s silver pooja thali is gone.” It felt like someone wanted to stage a simple burglary, but who would go to such lengths?

Second, dismemberment after death. If it was only for money, this violence was unnecessary—it would only risk leaving evidence. This suggested a grudge; revenge was likely the main motive, theft an afterthought.

Amit pointed out, “If it’s just money, why risk all this? Log toh paisa leke bhaag jaate.” Someone wanted the Mehtras erased—even in death.

Third, judging by the wounds and blood spatter, we guessed the killer was male, 5’7” to 5’11”, weighing 65–80 kg.

Forensics chief Dr. Neeta delivered her findings with the calm of someone who’s seen too much. “The force needed means a strong man—maybe someone used to manual work.”

The DCP gave the case to me and Amit Sharma. It was the most heinous crime in two years; the killer was brutal and might strike again. We had to catch him fast.

Amit and I have worked together since police academy. He’s the kind who keeps spare Good Day biscuits in his drawer. That night, we promised not to go home until we cracked the case, even if it meant missing Ganesh Visarjan.

We split into two teams. Amit investigated relatives and friends; I focused on Dr. Mehra’s hospital colleagues.

We divided the files, each with a strong cup of cutting chai. Outside, Pune moved on, but inside, we pored over phone records, hospital schedules, birthday photos. The Mehtras seemed an ordinary family. But who could hate them so much?