Adultery MRS. RENU MADHAVI. IPS
- Thread starter Syamala_39
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MRS. RENU MADHAVI IPS. SEASON 3: CHSPTER #03;
### Season 3: Lake Ghost's Grasp
**Chapter 3: New Blood and First Clues**
The sun had barely cleared the eastern ridge when Renu Madhavi stepped off the morning ferry, the salt-heavy wind whipping her khaki shirt against her skin. She had not slept. The overnight journey had been spent poring over the preliminary case file Fathima had emailed: three bodies, three identical trophies missing, one killer already nicknamed by the press.
Javeed Ali was waiting beside the station jeep, engine running, cap held respectfully against his chest. Twenty-six, still shiny with academy polish, eyes wide with the mixture of fear and admiration every rookie reserves for a living legend.
"Ma'am," he saluted, opening the rear door out of habit.
"Front, Constable," Renu said, sliding in beside him. "I want to see everything you see."
"Yes, ma'am." He swallowed and pulled away from the jetty.
"Talk me through the anchors again. Slowly."
Javeed kept his eyes on the narrow road. "Recovered items are old-style fisherman’s anchors, cast iron, approximately forty to forty-five kilos each. Flaking red-lead paint, barnacle growth consistent with six to eight months in brackish water. Chain links are hand-forged, 12 mm galvanised, purchased in bulk from Coastal Hardware in 2021 by the now-defunct Aaravalli Deep-Sea Co-operative. Ledger shows thirty units sold; twenty-eight still accounted for in scrap. Two missing. Matches our count."
Renu nodded once. "And the rope?"
"Coir, three-strand, 16 mm. Common island stock. UV degradation on the outer fibres, but the knots—figure-eight with two half-hitches—are unusually neat for a fisherman. Almost instructional-manual perfect."
They reached the station at 07:10. Inspector Ruma Devi was already in the yard, whiteboard rolled out under the banyan tree, markers in hand. She turned as the jeep braked, her gaze doing that half-second sweep again—professional, but not entirely—before snapping to attention.
"Ma'am. Morning briefing in five, but I thought you'd want the anchors first."
Renu stepped out. "Show me."
Under the tarp lay the three anchors, still dripping. Ruma crouched, gloved.
"Note the wear pattern on the flukes," she said, tracing with a pen. "Drag marks on the underside—consistent with the killer lowering the bodies hand-over-hand from a small boat, not dropping from a height. He took his time. And here—" she flipped one anchor—"serial number partially filed off, but the last four digits match the co-op manifest. We have provenance."
Renu's eyes narrowed. "He used what was local and disposable. Organised, but not wealthy."
"Exactly."
08:00 – First family visit: Priya's parents, a small tile-roof house near the ferry point.
The mother, Leelavathi, sat on the veranda steps clutching a school photo. The father stood behind her, arms folded tight.
Renu sat at eye level. "I know this is painful. Anything Priya said in the last week—any new person, any stranger who spoke to her more than once?"
Leelavathi’s voice cracked. "She came home happy three evenings back. Said a man at the lakeside tea stall paid for her cutting chai and asked about ferry timings. Said he had scars on his hands—like burns—and spoke softly, like an educated man. She laughed, said he was 'different'."
"Height? Build?"
"Tallish. Thin. Wore a light blue shirt, sleeves rolled. She noticed the scars when he handed over the money."
Renu made a note, then softened her tone. "Did she mention meeting him again?"
A hesitant nod. "She said he invited her for a boat ride at dusk to see the fireflies. She teased me that I worry too much."
Second house: Lakshmi’s elder brother, a tourist-guide himself.
"She kept her phone log clean," he said bitterly, handing over the device. "But three nights before she disappeared, she told me a client cancelled a mainland trip and offered to make it up with an evening cruise on Ghost Pond. Same description—quiet voice, scarred hands, said his name was 'Hari'."
Third family: Meera’s hostel warden and roommate.
The roommate, trembling, opened the call log on Meera's spare phone. "Unknown number, saved as 'Lake Uncle'. Last call duration thirty-eight seconds, two nights before she went missing. She came back to the room excited—said he was taking her to see bioluminescent plankton at the old quarry pond. Said he was a doctor who lost his licence years ago because of a fire."
Renu felt the pattern lock into place.
Back at the station by 14:30, the second dive team surfaced with a triumphant shout. The leader waded ashore holding a sealed plastic container the size of a shoebox, retrieved from beneath a sunken log at nine metres.
Inside, suspended in cloudy formaldehyde, floated two pale, perfectly excised nipple-areolar complexes—the first two victims'. A small label in waterproof ink: "For the one who will understand."
Ruma Devi bagged it carefully, her jaw tight. "Formaldehyde concentration 10 %. Medical grade. And the handwriting matches the taunt note found with Nisha."
Renu stared at the jar. "Five years ago, the 'Ghost Pond Slicer' case—two women, throats cut, bodies weighted, nipples missing. File closed for lack of evidence. Same pond."
She turned to the whiteboard, marker squeaking as she wrote:
- Organised offender
- Medical/anatomical knowledge
- Possible prior offence 2020
- Fixation on "purity" / rejection trigger
- Uses seduction + sedation
- Keeps trophies preserved
- Escalating confidence
Ruma added beneath it: "Rejected suitor. Sees himself as curator of 'perfect innocence'—removes the symbol of femininity he believes was offered then denied."
Javeed, who had been silently taking notes, piped up. "Ma'am, I took a shortcut past the old burns ward at the mission hospital—found discarded scalpel wrappers in the dumpster. Same brand as the excision margins."
Renu's eyes flashed. "Next time you take a shortcut, you log it first, Constable. But good instinct. Bag them, send for DNA."
She looked at the team—Ruma's steady gaze, Javeed's nervous energy—and felt the familiar weight settle on her shoulders.
"Briefing at 18:00. We have a ghost who’s been hunting these waters for half a decade. This time, we drag him into the light."
Outside, the pond lay flat and innocent under the afternoon sun, but beneath its surface, the trophies waited for the rest of their sisters. And somewhere on the island, a scarred man was already choosing the next perfect, innocent pair.
### Season 3: Lake Ghost's Grasp
**Chapter 3: ( Cold Case Section)**
By 17:45 the station’s incident room was thick with the smell of filter coffee and damp case files. Renu stood at the head of the table, the 2020 cold case folder open like a wound that had never healed.
She laid out the five-year-old photographs first: two women, both in their early twenties, recovered from the exact same eastern arm of Ghost Pond.
Victim 1 – Nithya Rajan, 22, local school teacher, reported missing 14 March 2020.
Victim 2 – Deepthi Sathyan, 24, nurse at Aaravalli Mission Hospital, vanished 11 days later.
Both bodies surfaced on 29 March 2020 after fishermen snagged their anchors.
Renu tapped the autopsy photos with a pen.
"Same signature, down to the millimetre.
- Anterior neck incised wound, left-to-right, single-edged blade, hesitation marks present.
- Post-mortem circumferential ligature with 12 mm coir rope.
- Bilateral excision of nipple-areolar complexes using a 22-blade scalpel, perimortem, margins perfectly circular, 38 mm diameter on Nithya, 40 mm on Deepthi (practice making perfect).
- Anchors from the same defunct co-operative, same red-lead paint.
- Bodies weighted within four to six hours of death, GHB metabolites in vitreous humour, same batch signature as our current three."
She flipped to the evidence log.
"Trophies never recovered in 2020. No sexual assault in the classical sense (no vaginal or anal trauma), but the breasts showed faint suction bruising around the excision sites. The killer spent time with them while they were still alive and sedated. He wanted them to feel the blade."
Ruma Devi leaned forward, voice low. "The 2020 case notes mention a witness: a boatman who saw a thin man in a light-blue shirt, sleeves rolled high, hands badly scarred, hiring a rowboat at dusk on two separate nights. Same description we have now."
Renu pulled out the old suspect board—yellowed photographs, red string.
"Three persons of interest, all cleared:
1. Dr. Suresh Menon, plastic surgeon, left island after a malpractice fire in 2018 that scarred his hands. Alibi—off-island conference.
2. Local fisherman Mohan K., rope supplier. Polygraph clean.
3. Unidentified male seen near the pond, never traced."
She pinned the new trophy jar photograph beside the old missing-person posters.
"Five years ago he took two. Now he’s taken four in under ten days and left us a gift in formaldehyde. He’s not just back; he’s announcing a new season."
Fathima, who had been silent till now, spoke up. "Ma'am, the 2020 file has one more detail we missed. In Deepthi’s hostel locker they found a small handwritten note folded into her diary:
'Some flowers must be plucked before they wilt. Soon you will be perfect.'
Handwriting matches the note in Nisha’s pocket last week: 'Unseen hands claim the pure'."
Renu stared at the two notes side by side on the projector.
"Same ink, same pressure, same tremor in the tail of the 'y'.
He never stopped.
He waited."
She turned to the room.
"Tomorrow we reopen the 2020 case officially.
- Re-interview every surviving witness.
- Pull Dr. Suresh Menon’s current location—he may have come home.
- Subpoena the old forensic samples for modern DNA profiling.
- And we drag the entire eastern pond again—because if he kept two trophies then, he kept more."
Ruma met Renu’s eyes, steady and sharp.
"He’s not a ghost, ma'am.
He’s a collector.
And collectors always return to the gallery."
Outside, the cicadas started their evening scream, and somewhere in the darkening forest, a scarred man in a light-blue shirt opened another jar of formaldehyde, humming softly as he prepared the next perfect, innocent exhibit.
### Season 3: Lake Ghost's Grasp
**Chapter 3: New Blood and First Clues**
The sun had barely cleared the eastern ridge when Renu Madhavi stepped off the morning ferry, the salt-heavy wind whipping her khaki shirt against her skin. She had not slept. The overnight journey had been spent poring over the preliminary case file Fathima had emailed: three bodies, three identical trophies missing, one killer already nicknamed by the press.
Javeed Ali was waiting beside the station jeep, engine running, cap held respectfully against his chest. Twenty-six, still shiny with academy polish, eyes wide with the mixture of fear and admiration every rookie reserves for a living legend.
"Ma'am," he saluted, opening the rear door out of habit.
"Front, Constable," Renu said, sliding in beside him. "I want to see everything you see."
"Yes, ma'am." He swallowed and pulled away from the jetty.
"Talk me through the anchors again. Slowly."
Javeed kept his eyes on the narrow road. "Recovered items are old-style fisherman’s anchors, cast iron, approximately forty to forty-five kilos each. Flaking red-lead paint, barnacle growth consistent with six to eight months in brackish water. Chain links are hand-forged, 12 mm galvanised, purchased in bulk from Coastal Hardware in 2021 by the now-defunct Aaravalli Deep-Sea Co-operative. Ledger shows thirty units sold; twenty-eight still accounted for in scrap. Two missing. Matches our count."
Renu nodded once. "And the rope?"
"Coir, three-strand, 16 mm. Common island stock. UV degradation on the outer fibres, but the knots—figure-eight with two half-hitches—are unusually neat for a fisherman. Almost instructional-manual perfect."
They reached the station at 07:10. Inspector Ruma Devi was already in the yard, whiteboard rolled out under the banyan tree, markers in hand. She turned as the jeep braked, her gaze doing that half-second sweep again—professional, but not entirely—before snapping to attention.
"Ma'am. Morning briefing in five, but I thought you'd want the anchors first."
Renu stepped out. "Show me."
Under the tarp lay the three anchors, still dripping. Ruma crouched, gloved.
"Note the wear pattern on the flukes," she said, tracing with a pen. "Drag marks on the underside—consistent with the killer lowering the bodies hand-over-hand from a small boat, not dropping from a height. He took his time. And here—" she flipped one anchor—"serial number partially filed off, but the last four digits match the co-op manifest. We have provenance."
Renu's eyes narrowed. "He used what was local and disposable. Organised, but not wealthy."
"Exactly."
08:00 – First family visit: Priya's parents, a small tile-roof house near the ferry point.
The mother, Leelavathi, sat on the veranda steps clutching a school photo. The father stood behind her, arms folded tight.
Renu sat at eye level. "I know this is painful. Anything Priya said in the last week—any new person, any stranger who spoke to her more than once?"
Leelavathi’s voice cracked. "She came home happy three evenings back. Said a man at the lakeside tea stall paid for her cutting chai and asked about ferry timings. Said he had scars on his hands—like burns—and spoke softly, like an educated man. She laughed, said he was 'different'."
"Height? Build?"
"Tallish. Thin. Wore a light blue shirt, sleeves rolled. She noticed the scars when he handed over the money."
Renu made a note, then softened her tone. "Did she mention meeting him again?"
A hesitant nod. "She said he invited her for a boat ride at dusk to see the fireflies. She teased me that I worry too much."
Second house: Lakshmi’s elder brother, a tourist-guide himself.
"She kept her phone log clean," he said bitterly, handing over the device. "But three nights before she disappeared, she told me a client cancelled a mainland trip and offered to make it up with an evening cruise on Ghost Pond. Same description—quiet voice, scarred hands, said his name was 'Hari'."
Third family: Meera’s hostel warden and roommate.
The roommate, trembling, opened the call log on Meera's spare phone. "Unknown number, saved as 'Lake Uncle'. Last call duration thirty-eight seconds, two nights before she went missing. She came back to the room excited—said he was taking her to see bioluminescent plankton at the old quarry pond. Said he was a doctor who lost his licence years ago because of a fire."
Renu felt the pattern lock into place.
Back at the station by 14:30, the second dive team surfaced with a triumphant shout. The leader waded ashore holding a sealed plastic container the size of a shoebox, retrieved from beneath a sunken log at nine metres.
Inside, suspended in cloudy formaldehyde, floated two pale, perfectly excised nipple-areolar complexes—the first two victims'. A small label in waterproof ink: "For the one who will understand."
Ruma Devi bagged it carefully, her jaw tight. "Formaldehyde concentration 10 %. Medical grade. And the handwriting matches the taunt note found with Nisha."
Renu stared at the jar. "Five years ago, the 'Ghost Pond Slicer' case—two women, throats cut, bodies weighted, nipples missing. File closed for lack of evidence. Same pond."
She turned to the whiteboard, marker squeaking as she wrote:
- Organised offender
- Medical/anatomical knowledge
- Possible prior offence 2020
- Fixation on "purity" / rejection trigger
- Uses seduction + sedation
- Keeps trophies preserved
- Escalating confidence
Ruma added beneath it: "Rejected suitor. Sees himself as curator of 'perfect innocence'—removes the symbol of femininity he believes was offered then denied."
Javeed, who had been silently taking notes, piped up. "Ma'am, I took a shortcut past the old burns ward at the mission hospital—found discarded scalpel wrappers in the dumpster. Same brand as the excision margins."
Renu's eyes flashed. "Next time you take a shortcut, you log it first, Constable. But good instinct. Bag them, send for DNA."
She looked at the team—Ruma's steady gaze, Javeed's nervous energy—and felt the familiar weight settle on her shoulders.
"Briefing at 18:00. We have a ghost who’s been hunting these waters for half a decade. This time, we drag him into the light."
Outside, the pond lay flat and innocent under the afternoon sun, but beneath its surface, the trophies waited for the rest of their sisters. And somewhere on the island, a scarred man was already choosing the next perfect, innocent pair.
### Season 3: Lake Ghost's Grasp
**Chapter 3: ( Cold Case Section)**
By 17:45 the station’s incident room was thick with the smell of filter coffee and damp case files. Renu stood at the head of the table, the 2020 cold case folder open like a wound that had never healed.
She laid out the five-year-old photographs first: two women, both in their early twenties, recovered from the exact same eastern arm of Ghost Pond.
Victim 1 – Nithya Rajan, 22, local school teacher, reported missing 14 March 2020.
Victim 2 – Deepthi Sathyan, 24, nurse at Aaravalli Mission Hospital, vanished 11 days later.
Both bodies surfaced on 29 March 2020 after fishermen snagged their anchors.
Renu tapped the autopsy photos with a pen.
"Same signature, down to the millimetre.
- Anterior neck incised wound, left-to-right, single-edged blade, hesitation marks present.
- Post-mortem circumferential ligature with 12 mm coir rope.
- Bilateral excision of nipple-areolar complexes using a 22-blade scalpel, perimortem, margins perfectly circular, 38 mm diameter on Nithya, 40 mm on Deepthi (practice making perfect).
- Anchors from the same defunct co-operative, same red-lead paint.
- Bodies weighted within four to six hours of death, GHB metabolites in vitreous humour, same batch signature as our current three."
She flipped to the evidence log.
"Trophies never recovered in 2020. No sexual assault in the classical sense (no vaginal or anal trauma), but the breasts showed faint suction bruising around the excision sites. The killer spent time with them while they were still alive and sedated. He wanted them to feel the blade."
Ruma Devi leaned forward, voice low. "The 2020 case notes mention a witness: a boatman who saw a thin man in a light-blue shirt, sleeves rolled high, hands badly scarred, hiring a rowboat at dusk on two separate nights. Same description we have now."
Renu pulled out the old suspect board—yellowed photographs, red string.
"Three persons of interest, all cleared:
1. Dr. Suresh Menon, plastic surgeon, left island after a malpractice fire in 2018 that scarred his hands. Alibi—off-island conference.
2. Local fisherman Mohan K., rope supplier. Polygraph clean.
3. Unidentified male seen near the pond, never traced."
She pinned the new trophy jar photograph beside the old missing-person posters.
"Five years ago he took two. Now he’s taken four in under ten days and left us a gift in formaldehyde. He’s not just back; he’s announcing a new season."
Fathima, who had been silent till now, spoke up. "Ma'am, the 2020 file has one more detail we missed. In Deepthi’s hostel locker they found a small handwritten note folded into her diary:
'Some flowers must be plucked before they wilt. Soon you will be perfect.'
Handwriting matches the note in Nisha’s pocket last week: 'Unseen hands claim the pure'."
Renu stared at the two notes side by side on the projector.
"Same ink, same pressure, same tremor in the tail of the 'y'.
He never stopped.
He waited."
She turned to the room.
"Tomorrow we reopen the 2020 case officially.
- Re-interview every surviving witness.
- Pull Dr. Suresh Menon’s current location—he may have come home.
- Subpoena the old forensic samples for modern DNA profiling.
- And we drag the entire eastern pond again—because if he kept two trophies then, he kept more."
Ruma met Renu’s eyes, steady and sharp.
"He’s not a ghost, ma'am.
He’s a collector.
And collectors always return to the gallery."
Outside, the cicadas started their evening scream, and somewhere in the darkening forest, a scarred man in a light-blue shirt opened another jar of formaldehyde, humming softly as he prepared the next perfect, innocent exhibit.
- 471
- 769
- 94