White Charade

While standing in front of the naked corpses of Shabana and Ruxana I knew that I was being watched. They were all around me, again, slurping their spiky red tongues, and looking with their civet eyes. I had felt their presence before and still do whenever I am close to the murder victims. I always see demons, incubi, and ghouls looking at us, humans, from the crevices in the walls, from behind the trees and bushes, looking through the legs of the onlookers who gather around the slain, and even from under the dark space beneath a sofa or a dark closet. They move impishly, they sneer and they snigger fiendishly, pointing at us. In fact they don’t laugh at us, they laugh at Him. They deride Him, accentuating how we humans fall from grace when we kill another human being. As I said, this macabre feeling is not specific to a certain place, but imagine how it intensifies and envelopes you if you find yourself standing in front of human carrion in a graveyard which is not just another graveyard; I am talking about Makli, the biggest necropolis of 1.6 million graves, mausoleums, and tombs spread across 16 sq. km.

Shabana was 18 and Ruxana was only 16, when they were kidnapped at gunpoint on Thursday night, around 11 pm. They were returning from a marriage ceremony along with their father, 65, when a car stopped in front of the marriage hall on Rashid Minhas Road. According to the witnesses, two goons covering their faces with Ajraks jumped out of a white Charade (a Daihatsu car), wielding automatic weapons, and forced the girls into the car. The old man tried to resist but he was hit with the butt of a weapon. He fell down, unconscious, and the car sped off.

I shook my head to get the snarling demons out of my mind and knelt near the corpses that were strewn on top of each other along the plinth of a grave inside a mausoleum. The wheatish brown satiny skin of their bodies had turned into waxy pale shade of death. The elder sister Shabana was lying in a pool of blood, which had reduced to a dark tan crust. The single stab wound just above her navel must have caused her excruciating pain for about 1-2 hours before she died. Ruxana's body was lying on top of her. The dark purple bruises around her neck were suggesting that she was strangled. Both bodies were spotted with cigarette burns and had bruises as if they were beaten with a stick or a cane. The younger girl had defecated and crusty filth was still daubed between her legs. The poor soul must have been terrorized beyond her belief.

Their bodies were found 40 hours after the kidnapping, in the Makli graveyard, which is situated about 30 km from Karachi on the highway leading to Thatta. The graves, in this largest necropolis of the world date back to 15th century and attest to the grandeur and expansiveness of earliest Muslim civilization in Sindh when Thatta used to be the capital city. Two Japanese archeologists, who got separated from their group, wandered off and reached to the Northern most part. That area of graveyard was mostly covered with hawthorn and cacti preventing tourists to go that far although there were some pretty impressive mausoleums on that side. A dirt road, which ran along the Eastern edge of the graveyard from the highway, leading to a Goth (village), was the only access to that part. The Japanese reported the findings to the Makli police station as soon as they could. At around noon, SHO of Makli Police Station, called CIA (Criminal Investigation Agency) Headquarter in Karachi. Within an hour of receiving the call a task force was established. The CIA had taken charge of the investigation since it had become an extremely high profile case in the last 24 hours.

When I arrived at Makli graveyard with a crew of forensics and some constables I saw that ASI Girdhari Laal (SHO Makli) had cordoned off the area and established a perimeter around the crime scene. He was on guard with three constables, as well.

The crew started their work immediately. After the photographer took the pictures of the corpses I started examining them along with the coroner. I grabbed the wrist of one girl and lifted her arm. The rigor mortis (stiffening of the muscles) had been resolved and muscles had become flaccid, suggesting that the decomposition was setting in.

“I think they were murdered within 3-4 hours of their kidnapping; what do ya think?” I asked coroner. My estimate was based on the fact that rigor mortis, which usually kicks off after ½ an hour of death, starts resolving after 24-30 hours.

“You are right” he nodded, “Look at these spiders crawling all over them; spiders usually appear after 30 hours of death, to prey upon the hatchlings of the blue flies, which lay eggs in the eyes, nose, vagina and mouth of the victim”. He cleared his throat and continued “Insect behavior is very predictable. The stench of death attracts them with in 10 minutes of death”. He was smiling and seemed to enjoy his work.

"You know Mirza, how much I hate your stupid grin, you pervert" I said jokingly and jotted down the time of death as of approximately 36 hours earlier in my notebook.

Their clothes were found tucked under a rock. The dried pool of blood suggested that the girls were killed where their bodies were found. There were four old footprints indented in the sand. Two of them were from ladies shoe and the other two were men’s. Then there were some fresh prints, which must be from Japanese's shoes. Girdhari Laal was a smart police officer. He had kept the crime scene as intact as possible.

I waved him. “Girdhari Sa'een! I wanna talk to the watchmen. Send your men and get them at the Police Station”.

“It's already been done; all three of them are sitting there” he grinned.

I raised my thumb to appreciate him “Get their statements. And don’t use Maula Bux (third degree) unless I speak to them first”. As he saluted me and walked away I asked finger print expert about his findings.

“There is nothing much; a paper bag with left over kebobs and naan; a couple of soda bottles, and an empty bottle of Whiskey. Only one fingerprint is found inside an empty bag of potato chips. Fuckin’ bastards were having a little moonlit night picnic here”. He pointed his finger at the ground about 10 feet away from the corpses “There are some indentations on the ground and I can’t make anything out of them”.

I bent down on the ground and saw three equispaced holes.

“ Look like indentations from the feet of a tripod for a camera or something…..take the measurements”

Three hours later all forensic work was complete. All pictures and necessary measurements were taken and a detailed map of the scene was made. The plaster molds of the tire marks were also made. Before leaving and heading towards Makli police station to interview watchmen I cast a final look at the corpses. They were still lying on one side of the platform of the grave right under the inscription that read “Fa bay ayee ala-e-rub-e-kuma tukazzebaan”. A goblin hiding behind a pillar couldn’t help scoff.

The debriefing with watchmen was unavailing. It was my hunch that they were innocent. Girdhari agreed. They were released on the personal recognizance when village elders from their Goth accepted their responsibility.

When I came back to my office in CIA center around 11 p.m. I was immediately called in the meeting room by the SSP’s personal assistant. The meeting room was full of several high-ranking police officials along with a handsome gentleman in the uniform of a full colonel. Later on I found out that he was an ADC to the Prime Minister.

I started briefing them on the findings at the crime scene “I cannot say anything for sure whether this crime was an act of terrorism, sectarian or ethnic violence, or personal vendetta yet, Sir”.

“You better find that out fast” DIG growled, “The whole city is convulsing with worst ethnic violence in the history; 62 people have already lost their lives and ¾th of the city is under shoot-to-kill curfew for the past 24 hours”.

“There have been, at least, three incidents where a white Charade was used for drive by shootings with in past 24 hours” SSP added, “we strongly suspect that the whole episode has political or terrorist connotations”.

The Colonel spoke next while flipping the pages of a file, “Inspector Sami Jaan! Your name came highly recommended. You have an extensive experience of working with IB (Intelligence Bureau) for the surveillance of ethno-political groups; you were trained by the FBI, and your record is clean. Prime Minister has stressed on finding the perpetrators ASAP. I want a weekly report from you until the case is resolved”. The Colonel was delivering his speech as if he was barking his orders at his soldiers. “I expect full cooperation given to Sami by your department and I want all resources, possible, assigned to this case, OK?” he continued, “Sami! What’s your plan?”

“Sir! I don’t have a plan yet, however, I’d like to make some recommendations ”

“Go ahead”

“Sir! I suggest that we release the findings to the press without delay; otherwise, we will be at a greater political disadvantage. I would also recommend that my name should not be revealed as investigating officer, since I work undercover within political groups”

The meeting ended around 2 a.m. with a decision that information would be released to the public. As I walked out of the meeting I had no clue where to start; had a whole city of 7 million as suspects, and could not establish a clear motive either. The proverbial needle in the hay stock could be the extortionists of MQM, thugs of Punjabi-Pakhtoon Itehaad, students-by-day-robbers-by-night of PPP or Jeye Sindh or any of the half-dozen other warring ethno-political groups. It could also be the terrorists from Indian RAW or the drug Mafia reminding the city as who was the meanest dog in the neighborhood.

The next day was hectic. Early in the morning the victims’ father was informed and taken to the hospital to identify the bodies. I also received reports of two different incidents of drive-by shootings in which a white Charade was used. The news of twin murders and the white Charade made the headlines on every newspaper. The white Charade had become a symbol of terror around the city.

I decided to proceed the investigation from the car and requested Motor Registration office to provide a list of all white Charades registered in the city of Karachi, including the stolen ones. The postmortem results were due later in the evening so I started studying the file on the father and victims based on the information gathered by our informers over the past two days. The old man was a teacher and owner of a tuition center located on the ground floor of his house where he and his daughters used to teach; typical middle class family. The wife had died years ago. Both girls were very refined and likable and didn’t even have boyfriends or lovers, jealous or otherwise. The only significant information about the father was the fact that he had retired as a head constable, about ten years ago, from Nawab Shah police. He could not recall any enemy who would have settled score for something that he might have done during his service. Besides he was in the Records Department where the public interaction was next to nil.

At around noon I took two plainclothes, including a lady constable, with me and went to see victims’ neighborhood in Drigh Colony. The narrow street in front of the house was full of people standing in small groups. I asked my companions to mix with people and try to gather anything helpful while I slyly slid next to a small group of men who were talking about the incident.

“What has time come to? Now our honor and our women are not safe. What the hell is this government doing?” A middle-aged man expressed his concern.

Another guy puked his paan spit and said, “I say that baRRay miaN (old man) must have done something to deserve such a fate. These behan chod police waalas have always played with our honor. They deserve it”.

His comments felt like a bucket full of acid that was thrown on me; the acid that burns you layer by layer, eats you stratum by stratum, but doesn’t kill you. And, despite the fact that I had spent my whole career dealing with the scum of the society; heard and seen things, which an ordinary man can’t even imagine; and despite the fact that there is certain degree of truth to the saying that we, the police, have their hearts made of stones; his comments scorched me. Having lived and breathed in the political ambience of Karachi I always used to wonder if there was anything more lethal than the words. On that day I found the answer. It’s your own mind that plays cruel tricks on you. Since the time I heard those comments, no matter how hard I tried I could not prevent my mind from juxtaposing my little daughter Noreen’s face on Shabana and Ruxana’s. The pain that came with the revelation was asphyxiating and unbearable.

I was very depressed on the way back to my office. Nothing new had come out of that visit either. In the late afternoon the list of white Charades was received from the Motor Registration. There were 124 white Charades registered in the city and 5 were reported stolen. I faxed the list to all police stations and asked them to gather information, on Charade owners, resident in their jurisdiction. I also sent a special set of instructions to SHO Sher Shah Colony to warn all chop shops to report any suspicious information on any Charade.

The postmortem report was received in the evening. Both girls were repeatedly raped by two assailants; beaten and tortured with cigarette butts and their genitals were also mutilated before they were murdered.

The ethnic violence in Karachi intensified after the news of the girls’ murder was made public. Almost every other day the white Charade emerged around some murky corner and showered bullets on the passersby and disappeared. People became so afraid of white vehicles that they started ducking and taking cover whenever they saw one speeding and approaching them. Whoever was behind those shootings had successfully put the whole city under siege. It seemed that the whole city was in fact being punished for failing to protect the honor and life of two innocent human beings. And I thought that people deserved it.

Police intensified its search of the stolen vehicles. Within a week, two vehicles were found in the Tribal areas and one was seen in the possession of a son of a Baluchi sardar. The fourth vehicle was also found abandoned on a lonely street in SITE, days later. The fifth vehicle was still missing.

I received the results of the finger print match after one week. It matched the prints found at a murder scene, which happened about six months ago in Clifton. In that case the perpetrators broke into a house, raped and killed the housewife and also killed her husband. The genitals of the woman were also mutilated. Some jewelry was stolen but stealing did not seem to be the motive. The case was since then unsolved and was almost closed. The prints however, did not match any known record. That new information changed the focus of our attention from political perspective to include other possibilities.

It was the 18th day and over 300 people were killed in the violence. I was still interviewing white charade owners and gathering their background information. On that day I received a report that a charred Charade was found in the Hawks Bay area. The engine serial numbers matched with those of the fifth stolen vehicle; some bullet shells were also found in the car. That was a great setback. We had lost our only lead.

In the next two weeks I completed the interviews with the Charade owners. The background information from the snitches was still coming in and police was sifting through it. In fourth week the violence subsided and curfew was lifted off. However, MQM and some other political groups were still keeping pressure on the government to find the perpetrators. Police itself was meticulously looking for the murderers because of the constant pressure from the PM’s office.

Three months had gone by and there was no hope in sight. One day I was offering my Friday prayers at the Memon Masjid when I just couldn’t lift my head up from prostration. As I begged Him the tears started to roll; I begged Him not for sagacity or wisdom to solve the case but for a plain and simple lead. I could not and did not embellish my words. I just begged Him humbly and artlessly to help me solve that case.

Later that day, I received a call from the SHO of Leigh Market who told me that a Bai Ji filed a complaint against two men who showed up at her place around 2 p.m., that day, and asked for a dance. Though it was little early, she arranged two girls. They started fondling the girls and then tried to take them to a nearby hotel. A scuffle ensued between those two and the pimps and the musicians. The former pulled out their handguns and roughed up the later before they fled on a white Charade. One of the pimps managed to write down the plate number of the car.

The car was registered in Hyderabad and the address was that of a Goth situated on the Hyderabad- Mirpur Khas Highway. It was quite possible that the car might have fake number plates so I sent a constable to take one of the pimps with him to the Goth and have the men identified. The next day the constable confirmed their identity. I contacted the CIA staff of that area and asked them to help me obtain the fingerprints and background information.

The news wasn’t good. Our snitch picked up the fingerprints while the suspects were having tea at a driver hotel the next day. The CIA staff also picked up the tire prints. Unfortunately both didn’t match. The tires on their car were new. Despite that setback I decided to look further.

The background information about those two characters strengthened some of my doubts. Their names were Tanveer and Munavvar; both were in their early 30s; and were cousins. The car was registered in Tanveer's name whose father was a wealthy farmer. Both guys turned out to be typical perverts with lots of money in hand and nothing better to do. Their perversions ranged from local boys to the hookers in Karachi and from farm animals to male prostitutes standing in front of Empress Market.

The Toll Plaza records indicated that both were frequent visitors to Karachi. They were in Karachi on the night of the murder of the girls and also on the night when that robbery in Clifton took place. But the prosecutor was not happy about these findings and asked us to call off the surveillance. However, there was one piece of information that compelled me to seek approval from higher authorities to continue it. There was a third guy named Hamid who was once part of this duo. He had left for Qattar for employment a month ago.

The CIA staff continued to track them. One day my assistant who used to tail them in Karachi informed me that they were usually found in Bahadurabad where they seem to roam about the streets aimlessly in their car. I told him to keep an eye on them.

A month later, one night around 9 O’clock I was sitting at a Pathan's chai khana at NIPA Chowrangi when my pager beeped. It was my assistant. As I called him back from a PCO, he blurted out impatiently "Sir, about 5 minutes ago they held up a guard at a bungalow in Bahadurabad and forced their way in".

I jotted down the address and told him to call the dispatch for backup. The next 25 minutes riding my Honda and bustling through the chronically choked University Road were excruciating. When I arrived near the address, I saw a white Charade parked around the street corner. My assistant ASI Malik was anxiously waiting for me standing near his Honda.

He started briefing me immediately "Sir, I have gathered some information from the next door neighbors. We should expect at least five captives, including the guard. The man of the house is a trader in Kharadar; wife 35; two daughters 16 and 7"

As he paused to catch his breath an Eagle Squad pickup truck turned around the corner and three police constables jumped out. I was perplexed.

"Where the hell are the rest of you?" I asked the head constable.

"Janaab! They are sent to Korangi on curfew duty; us is all you've got……". He speckled his sentence with some unprintable words about the maternal relationships of the people of Korangi. There was no time to appreciate his eloquence. The lives of the abducted were in extreme danger. I asked Malik to continue.

"The front gate is locked from inside, we have to scale the perimeter wall. Once we are in, there is a kitchen door on the left side of the house. We might be able to get in through there."

"Okay, Gentlemen! Here is the plan. Driver Imtiaz will give us a boost to climb the wall and then stay with the pickup. He will keep calling the head office for more backup. Once we are inside you will follow me. I want those m—fuckers alive but don’t hesitate to shoot if you have to" I finished my instructions and signaled them to follow me.

"Oh Imtiaz! Before you go back to your truck, puncture all the wheels of their car", I instructed the driver from top of the wall as I was clasping the branch of a mango tree inside the house.

Once inside we quickly checked the windows, but they were covered with heavy shades. Malik picked the lock at the kitchen door in a matter of seconds. The ground floor was completely dark and lifeless, however, there was muffled sound of music coming from the second floor. The sound became louder as we climbed the stairs. There was light coming out, from under one of the closed doors, into the dark corridor. I pulled my equalizer and signaled constables to be cautious who were already tiptoeing behind me. I crept near the door and peeked through the keyhole. What I saw inside almost knocked the living daylights out of me.

The first thing that I saw was the body of elderly guard whose bloody face was lying motionless in a large tan blot on the carpet. The man of the house was tied on a chair facing the door; his head bowed onto his chest. He was sobbing and his shirt was drenched with tears. The wife and the elder daughter were standing naked in front of the bed with their clothes under their feet, and trying to cover their shame with their hands. The two thugs were sitting on a king size bed resting their backs against large pillows. An Uzi was lying beside one of them. The 7 year old was sitting between both of them, unclothed, and Tanveer was holding a large hunting knife against her throat. There was a camcorder set on a tripod, pointed at the women. Both thugs seemed to be threatening the women by poking little girl with the knife, but due to the closed door and the music their words sounded nothing more than a hum. The thugs didn’t bother to cover their faces; they had no plans to leave their captives alive.

Once all constables had peeked through the keyhole to see what to expect I asked them to wait for my signal. The right moment came rather quickly when Tanveer, who had his knife on little girl's throat, got up to check the camcorder. Just at that moment, at my signal, we all stormed in. Everybody in the room was petrified for a moment at this sudden intrusion. The thug on the bed moved first and as he tried to grab the little girl, Malik roared commandingly "Hath pishaaN rakh oyay (keep your hands off)"

Munavvar held back and Tanveer immediately raised his hands in the air. I quickly grabbed the girl and pushed her towards the women. As I was pulling a sheet to give to the women to cover themselves, Munavvar tried to test his luck again by extending his hand towards his Uzi. That time it wasn't Malik who roared, it was his Klashnikov that rumbled. The next 5 seconds that 30 bullets took to empty his magazine were the longest 5 seconds of my life. I could literally see the snippets of the face of the thug flying in the air and painting the wall behind him with lyrical abstraction. Malik’s fingers kept on pulling the trigger even after emptying his magazine; women were screaming hysterically while Tanveer kept standing near the camcorder with his hands in the air; he had soiled his shalwar though.

Two hours later when I stepped out of that house, my hands were still trembling. I could see that the demons and ghouls on the rooftops and around the dark corners of the street were also returning to their pits with solemn faces; none was laughing and not even one was scoffing. As I wore my helmet my heart just caved in and tears rolled down my cheeks. I didn't cry because I thought about the 300 people, who had lost their lives, nor did I cry thinking about two innocent girls in Makli; I cried hankering about my little Noreen. I desperately wanted to hold her in my arms and tell her that she was safe. But I knew that when I would hold her against my chest I wouldn’t be able to cry. I knew that everything would be ok when she would hold my face in her little hands and ask me "Papa! What's wrong?" I knew that I’d be ok once I felt Ghazal's fingers caressing my hair; yeah! Everything would be all right then. But there was something deep down in my heart that was jabbing me, tearing me apart and telling me that it might just be a charade.