The Monsooner

1 min

‘Can you see a pattern here?’ asked the Inspector.

‘All during monsoon, Sir’, the new recruit answered promptly.

‘Hence I christened him the Monsooner.’, the inspector continued, ‘First victim, 2011, July 11, 24-year-old girl. Killed by a deep incision to the radial artery. 32 other cuts in the body, none too deep, but enough to cause pain. Muscle relaxant, Pavulon in the bloodstream.’

The new recruit waited for his superior to continue.

‘No known motive. Nothing was stolen. No signs of rape.’ The inspector went on.

‘Next, August 9, a twelve-year-old boy. Alone at home after school. Victim gagged and injected with Pavulon, first. Death by bleeding. Again wrist slash. 23 slashes in all.

‘Psycho profile, sir’ the recruit asked.

‘Probably a male, age range of 30-45. Muscular enough to gag his victim and inject the medicine. Maybe associated with medical or pharma field, you know, where there is easy access to drugs.

Dr. Alex also observed that the incisions were surgical.

The puzzled recruit screwed his eyes.

‘Mr. Alex, the forensic pathologist.’ the inspector continued, looking at the photos in front of him.

‘Left-handed, considering the depth and angle of the incision. Fits a macho sado profile, sans the sex. None were sexually assaulted, only tortured.’ he said as the newbie nodded in understanding.

‘No known cases until next year, June 28, 2012. This time a 40-year-old man. Invalid, the same modus operandi. The slashes were gruesome. All over the body. Left to die, bleeding’

His voice broke but he commanded it back, ‘First two cases were handed down to me. In 2012, I was directly involved. I have been studying each case thoroughly. He will strike again this monsoon. Just a couple of weeks more. We must act now. My guess is he has already zeroed in on his next victim. Probably, the poor one is having her tea now.


She boiled the water and poured it into the filter. The heady aroma hit her instantly. A touch of milk without sugar made it perfect. The strong bitter liquid mixed entered her veins. She was pleasantly high. She spent some minutes observing the slanting sheets of rain. Monsoon arrived early this year to her utter delight.

She thought she heard some movement in the next room. For a second, her heart skipped a beat. She dismissed it as a mere scare.

She finished her coffee and carefully placed the washed cup, filter and saucepan in the smaller compartment of her large sports bag.

She opened the other zip. Firstly, she made a note in the journal. Then, she took out another new pair of surgical gloves followed by a baton of knife bag and rolled it free. She selected her favourite lancet and two scalpels that would make her experience more wholesome. She went to the next room where her victim laid, gagged, paralytic and helpless. She loved this part, the look of terror when the victims saw her toys.


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Sarves<span class="bp-verified-badge"></span>

The author wishes to write like J M Coetzee, cook like Nigella Lawson and earn like Beyonce and at the end of the day, not look like something the cat dragged in. If wishes were horses...
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