Chapter 6: The Forgotten Truth

The room fell into a respectful silence as everyone settled in. Pranav extended his hand toward Dr. Adharsh, a seasoned psychiatrist whose calm presence commanded attention without effort. With that single gesture, the formalities ended. There was no time to waste.

“Doctor,” Pranav began, “you’ve spent the most time with Raghavan. I need to know — what exactly is his condition?”

Dr. Adharsh adjusted his glasses, folded his hands on the table, and began in a tone that was part lecture, part confession.

“Raghavan exhibits clear signs of Dissociative Amnesia. In simple terms, it’s a psychological defense mechanism. When the mind is subjected to extreme emotional trauma, it blocks out memory — either partially or entirely — as a way to survive the pain.”

Pranav leaned in, his eyes sharp. “But… he remembers the day clearly. Every detail.”

“Yes,” the doctor nodded slowly, “which makes it more complex. What he forgot was not the event, but the emotion. His reactions. He narrates the sequence like a bystander. Emotionless. Almost clinical. That suggests emotional dissociation — he’s trying to survive the horror by treating it as if it didn’t happen to him.”

Pranav paused, then asked the question that had been gnawing at him since the case reopened.

“Is he lying, doctor?”

Dr. Adharsh’s reply came after a thoughtful silence.

“Legally, he’s already been convicted. But you asked for my professional view — and here it is: a liar avoids details. Raghavan remembers too much. Not just details — the right details. And despite being mentally unstable, he’s never changed his story. That’s not how guilt usually behaves. Guilt creates fractures — denial, deflection, confusion. He has none of it.”

“So you believe him?” Mitra asked gently.

The doctor gave a faint smile, but there was sadness in his eyes. “Belief is for faith. I’m a man of science. I suspect he might be telling the truth. But suspicion doesn’t clear a man’s name. Evidence does. And right now… everything you have points at him.”

He paused, then looked at Pranav. “But you have something the court didn’t — time. And doubt. That’s where justice begins.”

With that, Dr. Adharsh stood, gathered his things, and left the room with a polite nod.

The door clicked shut behind him. Silence returned.

Pranav stared at the wall for a long moment. Then, without a word, he walked to the far end of the room and opened the archive cabinet. Inside were the thick, dusty case files — sealed after conviction, never revisited.

He pulled them out — crime scene photos, forensic reports, autopsy notes, Raghavan’s statement, Lakshmi’s handwriting samples, the suicide note, the blood-splattered Ganesh idol… everything.

One by one, he laid them out on the table.

Murali flinched. “It’s all too perfect,” he murmured. “Too damn clean.”

Pranav nodded. “Exactly.”

He pored over every page with a detective’s eyes and a cynic’s heart. The fingerprints were only Raghavan’s — expected in his own home. No sign of forced entry. No defensive wounds. One blow to the head. Murder weapon identified as the Ganesh idol — found with traces of blood and brain tissue. Suicide note written in Lakshmi’s handwriting. It was a textbook conviction.

And yet, something didn’t sit right.

Pranav exhaled sharply, slamming the final file shut.

“It’s like staring into a mirror that lies,” he muttered.

Thameem, who had been quietly watching, placed a hand on Pranav’s shoulder. “You’ve seen more than most would have. What are you seeing now?”

“I see a man who might be telling the truth. And a case that doesn’t care.”

Mitra looked up from her notes. “So, what’s next?”

Pranav’s voice was calm, but it carried weight. “We find the one who built this lie — if there is one.”

He rose, brushing the dust from his hands. “We need to meet the man who led this investigation. The one who built the foundation of Raghavan’s guilt.”

Within the hour, they were in the car, cutting through the wet, grey streets of Chennai. The December air was damp with mist and anticipation.

After navigating through narrow lanes and weathered buildings, they reached the old police quarters meant for retired officers. A creaky wooden name board hung at the entrance.

“Lingeshwaran. Inspector (Retd.)”

The man who had once closed the book on Raghavan’s life.

And now, it was time to open it again