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can re-create a reasonably accurate portrait. There are not that many
Europeans who are resident in the city. I would think there would be very few
tall European women."
Typically, Keshu was brooding again, always focused on the worst-case
scenario. "She may not be resident in the city. Maybe she lives in Delhi, or
Bangalore, and only comes here to visit. To kill if she is our killer. Which
reminds me that once we have an image, it must be disseminated to every police
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department in the country. So we have a country to search, not just
Sagramanda."
"Yes sir." Bubba was clearly disheartened by his superior's coldly
professional analysis.
"Furthermore," the inspector continued, "it is also possible that she lives
outside the country and only visits to commit murder." He was deep in thought
now, arguing with himself. "But I think that less likely, since it would be
too easy to pick out such an individual at points of entry. No, I think our
serial killer lives in the country, though not necessarily in the city. I am
less certain the witness we seek is European. Perhaps she is mixed. That would
extend the list of possible suspects into the many tens of thousands."
He sighed and leaned back against the cushioning seat. It had been designed
and built by Maruti to comfort and protect a body at pursuit speeds up to 300k
an hour. Given the population density within Sagramanda, however, chase speeds
tended to be in the single digits.
"If our quarry is a woman," he went on, "it would go a long way toward
explaining the killer's success. Most people would not expect from a woman the
kind of violence on display in the official Forensics' recordings. And she
might successfully slip in and out of places with a large knife or sword where
local Security would immediately detect a gun." He could not keep from
thinking of the ceremonial kirpan at his waist whose function was purely
religious.
"She could be working with the actual killer," Bubba suggested as they dove
off the expressway and back onto city streets. "Maybe she serves as the bait."
Keshu nodded slowly. "But to what end? None of the victims who have been slain
in this manner, including our unlucky Australians, had anything missing from
their person. So robbery is not a motive, either for a solo killer, a pair, or
a group. Neither have any of the victims been sexually assaulted. They do not
appear to be linked by anything: gender, age, ethnicity, caste nothing. The
only thing that ties them together is the method by which they were murdered."
He looked over at the corporal. "We are faced with the worst kind of serial
killer: one who slays arbitrarily, and generates no pattern."
"Well, at least now we have, if not a direct link to the killer, a potential
witness, sir."
The corporal was being disingenuous, Keshu knew. Trying to offer a glimmer of
hope to a senior inspector notorious for his pessimism. He ought to be
grateful for the thought, but he was too depressed.
Instead of someone performing random acts of kindness they had someone, or
several someones, at large in the city intent on carrying out random acts of
murder. If resourceful in hiding their tracks and good at leaving no clues,
such an individual would be difficult enough to track down in a town of ten
thousand. In Sagramanda, such a task was more than daunting. It was also a
challenge; something that had driven Keshu since before he had undergone the
sacred Amrit ceremony. Whether the challenge would prove too great for him and
for the entire department to handle remained to be seen. Meanwhile, he had
already come to one certain conclusion about their killer or killers.
They were not going to stop killing of their own accord.
Motive, he thought furiously. If only they could come up with a motive. Even
serial killers had reasons for the outrages they committed. What bound the
blade-slain victims together? What link was he overlooking?
Corporal Bubba said nothing more during the remainder of the drive back to
headquarters, addressing himself neither to the car's AI nor to its other
human occupant. He knew that both were deeply engaged in the business of
processing information.
*7*
Chal was a patient man, but the lack of leads was beginning to irritate him.
Never particularly fond of Indian food, he was also growing tired of eating at
the numerous Western fast-food franchises that had extended their french-fried
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tentacles throughout the city. He could afford better, but preferred to avoid
the fancier restaurants. For one thing, such destinations were among the few
where despite his assiduous lifelong efforts to maintain his anonymity, he
might be recognized. For another, he took an almost perverse delight in
subjecting his body to the corruption fast food could engender. Lastly, the
very act of eating wasted time. The dour tracker regarded eating as akin to
putting fuel in a car: a necessity to ensure forward motion best completed in
the least possible amount of time.
Yet it seemed as if the time thus saved was being wasted. None of his contacts
had brought him anything useful. That was the conundrum he was mulling over in [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]