Chapter 4: Echoes of the Dead

The SUV sped through the twilight-drenched roads of Chennai. Pranav sat in quiet contemplation, his gaze fixed out the window. Mitra, beside him, held her phone tight, her thumb hovering over the screen.

“You said Ravi messaged?” Pranav asked, without looking.

“Yes,” she nodded. “He’s retrieved the folder from Ananya’s phone.”

“Read it,” he said calmly.

Mitra opened the secure message Ravi had sent. Inside were screenshots — images of a private journal Ananya had maintained, audio notes, and a set of WhatsApp screenshots, all locked behind her biometric folder. Her voice notes were dated days before her death.

Mitra tapped one. Ananya’s voice played through the car speakers — faint, a little shaky, but deliberate.

"If anything happens to me, it’s not an accident. It’s not suicide. Please remember that. I’ve been followed for weeks. I told the police but they did nothing. They said I was paranoid. But I know what I saw… someone watches me. And last night, he was right outside my window.”

Silence fell over the car like a suffocating blanket.

Murali, driving, glanced nervously through the rear-view mirror. “That... that doesn’t sound like someone who wants to die.”

Pranav clenched his jaw. “She cried for help. And they ignored her.”

He looked over at Mitra. “Send that voice note to my secure drive. We’ll build the case file from here.”

The vehicle turned into the narrow lane leading to a dilapidated residential colony. A blue nameplate hung crooked on a gate: Constable Vinod R.

Inside, the constable’s quarters were modest. Vinod, in his late thirties, had been transferred thrice in the last five years — each time after speaking against his superior’s judgment. He looked tense seeing Pranav at his doorstep.

“You... Cold Case Unit?” he asked, puzzled.

“Yes,” Pranav replied. “We’re reopening the Ananya Iyer case.”

Vinod looked away and opened the gate. “I thought someone would come back one day.”

They sat in his living room. Vinod fidgeted with his cup of tea as he spoke.

“I was the first on scene, sir. I remember every detail. Her body was found on the ground floor… she had fallen from the sixth floor. But there were bruises on her wrist. Fresh ones. Not old marks. I noted it in my log.”

“You didn’t include it in the final report,” Mitra said softly.

“No,” Vinod sighed. “Inspector Johnson said it was unnecessary. He said she was a student — exam stress. He didn’t want media chaos. Told me to stick to suicide narrative.”

“Did you ever suspect someone else involved?” Pranav asked.

Vinod hesitated. “There was one thing. On the landing below her apartment — the day of her death — I found a torn scrap of paper. Part of an envelope. It had half a name written on it. ‘An-’. And a bit of blood.”

Pranav leaned forward. “What happened to it?”

Vinod looked ashamed. “It’s still with me. I kept it. I know it was wrong… but I didn’t trust anyone back then.”

He walked to an old iron trunk, unlocked it, and returned with a small transparent pouch. Inside was the paper, faintly blood-stained, with the ink partially smudged. Pranav took it, turning it over in his gloved hands.

Mitra was already clicking a picture.

“This could’ve changed the entire investigation,” Murali said, stunned.

Pranav stood up, pacing.

“She cried for help. She was stalked. She feared for her life. She left a voice note. And now we have physical evidence, dismissed by incompetence... or worse, deliberate cover-up.”

He turned to Vinod. “You did the right thing by keeping this.”

Vinod exhaled, visibly relieved.

Outside, the streetlights flickered on as the shadows thickened around them.

“Sir,” Mitra said, “you think this is just a stalker?”

Pranav shook his head. “Not anymore.”

He looked down at the pouch in his hand.

“This was no suicide. And whoever did this... made sure the truth stayed buried.”

He turned to his team, the spark of resolve flickering in his eyes.

“Let’s dig him out.”