Case Closed

              Hans Müller never saw the assailant coming. The last coherent thought that formed in his head was the sound of fast approaching feet, and then a sharp whack to the back of his head. Müller swayed a little, his eyes opening wide. His mouth opened to scream, but the sound never came. It died in the back of his throat as he thudded to the floor. Though he could not see it, the back of his head was cracked open. Blood was gushing out and spreading on the floor in angry red patterns. Müller lay on his back and looked up at his attacker. His eyes widened in shock as he recognized the face.

“Du!” he spat, speaking in his mother tongue, German. You!

Müller lay on the floor as his whole body was wracked with pain. He started to writhe as his head felt like it would explode. Jolts of pain exploded before his eyes as his vision dimmed. His hands groped the air, trying to claw and clutch at the enemy, but it could only reach the ornate table by the window.

The assailant smiled, the iron rod in their hand shining with Müller’s blood. Satisfied with the blow, the assailant walked slowly towards the window, opening the blinds and looking outside. Müller knew it was now or never. He couldn’t let them get away with it. He put his hand on the bloody floor and made a scooping motion, as thick dark blood accumulated on his fingertips. Summoning all his strength, he reached out with his hand, sliding it under the table.

The assailant was still looking outside, trying to see if anyone had witnessed the crime. Müller’s hand continued to probe away, and finally, his fingers met the cold wall. Drawing a ragged breath, Müller started to write. Every single movement made his head pound, and he felt the room spin. His fingers trembled as they drew on the wall, out of the assailant’s line of sight. Müller drew in one final breath, determined to complete his message. But his brain never received the signal. In one fluid motion, Hans Müller’s brain shut down, and he breathed no more, knowing fully that he had failed to write the identity of his killer.

                                                            ***

Inspector Rathod was having a hell of a day. He’d already been screamed at by his wife, his boss and his wife again, and now he was looking at a dead foreigner with half his brains sprawled on the floor. He sighed and turned to look at Constable Jaspal Singh, who was looking through a small notebook with his tongue sticking out. The team from forensics was diligently swabbing the entire room, which had been cordoned off, checking for hairs and fingerprints. So far, they had found nobody’s except the victim’s. This is going to take all night, thought the Inspector unhappily.

He walked out of the room and into the hall, where the suspects were seated, each in various states of nervousness. There was a small, mousy woman who clutched a clipboard tightly to her chest, her eyes darting from one side to the other. Next to her was a tall, well-built foreigner whose face looked calm, but his fingers tapped nervously on his thigh. He was dressed in a suit and black leather boots, which were dirty with muddy rainwater. Sitting at the far end of the room was another woman, dressed elegantly in a blue gown, who had her face in her hands as she sobbed continuously.

The wife of the victim, remembered the Inspector. Standing behind her and patting her shoulder was a lean man with a pencil-moustache, who seemed to whispering into her ear. Last of all, was a young man, who hardly looked twenty-one, and was staring outside the window, his fingers running over the strap of shoulder bag on his back. The inspector scowled at the thought of interrogation and cleared his throat.

Immediately, five pairs of eyes were on him, as everyone turned towards him. The foreigner stood up from his chair and spoke first.

“See here, Inspector. How long will you be keeping us here? Some of us do have jobs to do, you know,” he said, his face contorted in an angry grimace. He spoke with a bit of an accent.

The inspector frowned as he tried to remember the man’s name.

“Mr... Hunter, is it not? Well, Mr. Hunter, I’m sorry to say that you will be detained for as long as necessary. There has been a murder, as you very well know, and none of you will be leaving till the formalities are complete.” He said stiffly.

There was an impatient clicking noise, which had come from the young man at the window. He had turned to look at the Inspector, who had a slight feeling of recognition. Rathod squinted into the young man’s face, certain that he had seen him before. At that moment, Constable Singh came out of the bedroom – the scene of crime – and passed the notebook to Inspector Rathod.

Rathod went through the notebook and looked up at the suspects. “This is going to be an informal interrogation only. You will be required to repeat your statements back at the station. This is just to verify the facts that we already know. Please state your name, your relationship with the victim, and your alibis between 6 and 7 pm, which is when the murder took place.”

The foreigner, Hunter spoke first. “My name is David Hunter. I work... err worked, as Mr. Müller’s – the victim’s – business partner. We are the joint heads of a construction company. We were supposed to have dinner here tonight. As for my alibi, I was at the IMAX theatre nearby, watching the new Oscar-nominated movie. I still have my movie tickets, you can check.”

The mousy woman spoke up next, and her voice was barely a whisper. “My name is Rina Thomas. I worked as Mr. Müller’s translator during meetings. He needed my assistance as he spoke very little English. I arrived here at noon, to go through his speech again. I went upstairs to the study to go through my notes at 5, and he was alive then. He was... oh!” she said as she broke down completely.

Rathod raised an eyebrow and looked at the victim’s wife, who was looking at Rina Thomas, her face a mask of fury. When she spoke, each word was spat out. “I’m his wife, Shobha Sharma. Soon to be ex-wife,” she said, her chest heaving. “I was in my room all day with a terrible headache, you can ask the maids. This is my brother, Sunil,” she said and indicated to the lean man beside her who nodded at the Inspector.

 “He was with me in my room from 4pm in the evening. Please, Inspector, you have to find my husband’s murderer. He was a good man, a good husband.... till she arrived!” she said and shot a look of venom at Rina Thomas. Rina’s face immediately flushed as she opened her mouth to speak, but closed it and turned away.

“Vile, evil, money-digger!” screamed Mrs. Müller, and the Inspector once again had to clear his throat to quieten them. He turned to the young man next, and he spoke with a shrug.

“My name is Abhay Adani. I met Mr. Müller at the local bookstore the other day. We had similar interests, and he loaned me his copy of The Murders in the Rue Morgue. I just dropped by to give it back. As for my alibi, I was in college till 6 pm, and I came here directly. I rang the bell, but no one answered, so I hung around. Before I knew it, the police were here and I was dragged in for questioning.”

The Inspector frowned as he jotted down the different alibis. He tore the pages from his notebook and gave it to one of his subordinates, instructing him to check them all. He then asked the suspects to wait as he entered the bedroom again. He frowned as he saw the body – on its back, splayed out like a snow angel. Gross bits of brain matter were sticking to the floor. The murder weapon, an iron rod was discarded next to the suspect. The only fingerprints found in the entire room belonged to the victim himself. It seemed that the victim had been a very private man, and had allowed no one – even the servants – to enter his room.

Rathod walked across the room and peered outside. His men had already asked the neighbours if they had seen anything, but it seemed that no one had anything useful to say. He looked at the garage next to the gate and whistled softly.

A black Jaguar was parked inside, which belonged to the victim’s brother-in-law, Sunil Sharma. Sweet ride, he thought. The moonlight reflected off the silver animal on the car’s bonnet, which accentuated its lithe body.

“Inspector?” said a voice from behind him. He turned to see Constable Singh, who was waiting for him.

“Yes?” he said.

“We’ve checked all the alibis, sir. We have a problem.” Said the Constable.

“None of the alibis are airtight, sir. The theatre that Mr. Hunter went to has no cameras. He could have gotten out any time. None of the maids can accurately place Ms. Thomas in the study, sir and the same goes for Mrs. Müller and her brother. The only person we can seem to clear is the boy, Abhay. His alibi seems to be solid.”

The Inspector frowned and rubbed his chin, where a stubble had began to form. Back to square one, he thought. He nodded towards the boy who was trying to peer into the crime scene.

“That boy,” said the Inspector. “I feel like I’ve seen him before. I just can’t place him.”

“Oh, him!” said the constable, and grinned. “He was in the papers last month. He helped the police solve a murder which had occurred in his school. A credible source of mine says the boy solved the case all by himself. Saw things even the police missed.”

Inspector Rathod remembered now. He recalled the case, where someone had attacked the girls in the school. Junior Holmes, the papers had called him. The inspector rolled his eyes and waved the constable away. He had enough on his mind already.

 The inspector looked around the room, which seemed to be filled with all sorts of crime novels. His eyes fell on a bunch of famous best-sellers which dominated the shelves. Obviously, the victim was interested in mystery stories. He looked down at the victim’s face, which was turned to one side. His eyes were wide open and looking at the far wall. Rathod followed his gaze and frowned. His eyes fell to the victim’s hands, which were covered in blood. His right index finger, in particular had a large amount of blood on it. Rathod’s eyes widened.

“Constable!” he called. “Constable, get over here! Move this table! I think the victim has written something on the wall over there!” Two policemen appeared at once, and somehow managed to move the heavy table from the scene. The inspector bent down and his eyes widened in shock, as he saw what the victim had written in his dying moments. Three letters had been written on the wall, which glistened with blood.

 Slowly, the inspector smiled. Case closed, he thought.

                                                            ***

The inspector smiled as he walked back into the hall. The suspects were still in their original positions and they looked at the inspector expectantly. Rathod swaggered a little as he came to a stop in front of them. He smiled lopsidedly.

“The case is closed,” he said. Everyone’s eyes flew open. The inspector could hardly contain his delight. The victim had nailed the killer in his dying breath, implicating him with damning certainty.

“Who did it?” said the wife. “Who killed my husband?” she shrieked. “Was it her? Was it her?” she said, pointing a finger at Rina Thomas, who had shrunk back against the wall.

“Calm down, Mrs. Müller. I’ll tell you exactly who the murderer is, because the victim himself has told us!” said the inspector with a flourish.

The suspects’ eyes widened.

“What...?” said Mrs. Müller. “Hans... told you?” she said, in shock.

“Yes. The victim managed to live a few minutes after the attack to his head. He used his own blood as ink and his own finger as a pen, and managed to write a message on the wall. A dying message! Come with me! I’ll show you myself, the evidence that points to the killer.” He said.

The inspector led the suspects into the bedroom.

 “Here is your killer,” said the inspector, delirious with happiness that the case was solved. He moved aside in a fluid motion, as all the suspects saw the victim’s final message on the wall.

It was three letters written in blood. The overhead lamp’s light seemed to reflect off each letter, giving it an eerie outlook. Ms. Rina Thomas’ lips moved soundlessly as she read each letter.

J   A   G

“Jag?” said David Hunter, looking puzzled.

“What is that supposed to...” he trailed off, recognition dawning on his face. He looked outside the open window, right at the black car parked in the garage. The silver animal on its bonnet glinted in the pale moonlight.

“Yes, Jag...” said Inspector Rathod, smiling grimly. “Or as we can call it by its full name, Jaguar.” He said, nodding slowly.

“Mr. Müller has left a very specific hint. The Jaguar. Which obviously points to its owner...” said Rathod, and pointed an accusing finger.

“You, Mr. Sunil Sharma! The owner of the Jaguar! You killed your own brother-in-law!” he said. Sunil Sharma had gone deathly pale.

“Wh... what?” he stammered. “This... this is ridiculous! You cannot accuse me of the murder simply from this! I... I have an alibi!” he said.

“We’ve checked, Mr. Sharma. None of the maids remember seeing you in your sister’s room. I’m afraid that won’t stand.”

“Preposterous!” screamed Mrs. Müller. “My brother was with me the whole evening! I can testify to that! Besides, why would he want to kill Hans?”

The inspector kept smiling and nodded slowly. “Perhaps... he wanted revenge for his sister. Revenge against the man who had an affair with his own translator, maybe?” he said.

Mrs. Müller stopped in her tracks. She looked shell-shocked. “How...” she said weakly.

“We have our sources, Mrs. Müller. We know about your husband’s affair, which is the reason for your divorce, I assume. Now that he’s dead before he could make a new will, I hear all his money goes to you. Very convenient,” he said.

“No,” said Mrs. Müller, shaking her head. “This is a set-up, please! My brother is innocent! He didn’t do it!” she shrieked.

The inspector had had enough. “Save it for court,” he said, and opened his mouth to tell the constables to prepare the jeep. He then turned to see that the young man – Abhay Adani – was staring at the dying message.

He got up and dusted his knees. “What are you doing looking at the body? Youngsters like you shouldn’t see things like this!” said the inspector. The boy was looking at the blood smeared around the body. He then got up and walked to the window, where he bent down and peered at the floor again.

“Hmmm...” he said to himself.

The inspector was growing impatient. “Here, I’ve had enough of your snooping around. Get out of here, it’s time to take the suspect away!” he said, his voice almost a growl. The boy was peering at everyone’s feet now. His eyes wandered across the room, and then closed. He stayed like that for a moment, eyes closed, and hands tight on his bag strap.

Suddenly, his eyes flashed open. He smiled, one side of his mouth curving upwards.

He got up slowly and looked at the Inspector.

“Sir,” he said. “I think you should let Mr. Sharma go. He’s not the real killer.” He said, smiling.

The inspector’s jaw almost hit the floor. “Wh... what!” he said, almost shouting. “What the devil do you think you’re saying? The victim has written the name of the car on the wall! I’ve heard you did some detective stuff in your school, but this isn’t the place for overconfident talk, boy!” he said, his patience wearing thin.

“Oh, but overconfidence is a virtue that is allowed when one is right, is it not, Inspector?” he asked, one side of his mouth still curved upwards. “If only you would listen to what I had to say...” he said.

The inspector drew a long breath. Alright, smarty-pants. “Go on, then.” He said viciously. “Are you going to say the dying message does not identify the killer? Or are you going to say that the message wasn’t left by the victim at all?”

The boy smiled, and his hands started to play with the strap of his bag. “Neither,” he said, and the inspector raised an eyebrow.

“You were perfectly right in your assumptions. Indeed, the dying message was written by the victim, just before he departed from this world. And indeed, the message points to the killer, directly to the killer, I might add. It is the content of the message, where you are wrong.” Said Abhay.

“You’re saying JAG doesn’t mean Jaguar? Oh, this is going to be good,” said the inspector sarcastically.

“The hint is the fact that Mr. Müller required a translator for him.”

The inspector frowned, a bit taken aback. “The translator...?” he asked, thoroughly perplexed.

“The translator,” said Abhay again. “Mr. Müller, despite being a man of considerable wealth and success, still employed a translator whose ...ah, services he used regularly. As Ms. Rina said so herself, that Mr. Müller spoke very little English.”

“What has that got to do with...” began the inspector.

“Everything, inspector!” said Abhay. “The victim was not a native English speaker! By all accounts, he was exceedingly poor in English; to the extent he used a translator, even for his most important meetings! Then why, in his last precious moments in his life, on the cusp of his dying breath, would he leave a message in English?” he asked, his hands spread out.

The inspector stopped dead in his tracks. A collective gasp went around.

“That’s right, inspector,” said Abhay. “Your assumption that JAG meant Jaguar is wrong, because the message isn’t even in English! The message is in German, the victim’s native tongue.”

“In... German?” said the Inspector.  Abhay nodded slowly, and his face became grim. He walked across to the body slowly.

“You see, Inspector, as soon as Mr. Müller was hit, he knew he was going to die. He wanted to tell the world who his killer was, as we can see by his desperate attempts to get to the wall. He tried his best, but he fell short of naming his victim.”

“Naming?” cried the inspector. “That’s the culprit’s name? There’s nobody whose name starts with J-A-G here.”

“Again, you forget, Inspector. The name is in German. Mr. Müller, about to let go his final breath, started to write the name – the German translation of the name – of his killer, before death took over.”

Abhay paused for breath. The room was as silent as the grave. The inspector was looking uneasy.

“Yes, he knew his killer, he saw him too, then why would he write the name a car, inspector? Isn’t it easier to write the name of the man himself? And that is what he did!” said Abhay.

“So the name is incomplete? And it is in German! But there must be a hundred words which start with J-A-G! How can we find them murderer? Are you suggesting I sit with a dictionary till I find the right word?”

“No,” said Abhay. “I know what word he was trying to write. The last word he would ever write,” he said, taking ragged breaths.

“For when Mr. Müller looked into the dark, cold eyes of killer, he used all his strength to expose the one who killed him, and he wrote a name which showed the killer’s true nature. Inspector, this is the name that Mr. Müller was trying to write – JÄGER.”

There was a sharp intake of breath. Everyone looked around. It was Rina Thomas. She had dropped the clipboard which she had been holding, and both her hands were clamped on her mouth. She looked terrified, scared senseless.

“It seems Ms. Thomas has recognized the German translation of the word Jäger. If you could kindly translate for us, Ms. Thomas? What does Jäger mean in English?”

Ms. Thomas slowly dropped her hands from her mouth, and spoke a single word.

“Hunter.” She said.

There was deathly silence in the room. Every single person turned to look at David Hunter who was standing against the wall, his eyes wide open. His hands were trembling, and he put them on the table to keep them steady. He tried to smile bravely, but he could only manage a twist of the facial muscles.

“What...” he whispered. “Surely... you cannot...” he said. He seemed unable to string two words together. “You have no evidence...” he said, finally.

“But I do,” said Abhay. “After you killed Mr. Müller, I assume you went to the window to check if anyone had seen you. Unknown to you, Mr. Mr. Müller’s blood had already reached your boots. You were too slow to react, and a little blood splashed the front of your boot.”

Hunter’s eyes went wide and his face lost whatever colour remained.

“I noticed that the splatter pattern was a bit odd there. A little chunk was missing. It’s the obvious explanation. Anyway, it was too late to go change your boots, so you improvised. You went out and walked a bit in the muddy water, covering the blood up with the sludge. Inspector, I think if you thoroughly examine Mr. Hunter’s boots, you will find splotches of Mr. Mr. Müller’s blood on them.”

Hunter had already given up. He sunk down on the floor and bowed his head. The inspector nodded at the constables who took him away. It later turned out that Hunter had been embezzling money from the company, and Müller was planning on exposing him. With no way out, Hunter had decided to silence him once and for all.

Inspector Rathod showed himself out, where the moon was full in the sky. Abhay Adani was waiting for him outside, a small smile on his face. The inspector smiled back.

“Good work back there,” he said and offered a hand. Abhay shook it.

Thank you, Inspector. Now we can definitely say, Case Closed.”