Chapter 7: Ghost in the Uniform

The corridor was dimly lit and sterile, stretching like a forgotten tunnel that connected the sixth floor of Block C to the main exit corridor. It felt hidden in plain sight — invisible, yet incredibly accessible.

Pranav walked silently with Mitra beside him. The space was clean, oddly well-maintained, and silent.

“No cameras. No guards. Anyone could sneak past unnoticed,” Mitra said softly.

Pranav turned to her and said, “Now think, Mitra. The night of the murder, all CCTVs at the exits were functioning. Only two — the sixth-floor stairwell, and one near the apartment block — were disabled.”

“You’re thinking he didn’t escape that night?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“Exactly. Usually, when killers tamper with CCTV, they only block footage for the time of the crime. Here… it was three full days. This wasn’t about avoiding one camera. This was about creating a blind spot large enough to live inside it.”

Mitra stared. “So you’re saying… the killer stayed inside the apartment complex all three days prior?”

“And only left after the police came and went,” Pranav nodded. “It’s why no one suspected him. Everyone assumes the killer comes from outside. But what if he was already here?”

Mitra’s voice was almost a whisper.

“That’s… terrifying. It explains why no one doubted the camera failure. The timing was so well-orchestrated, even the police assumed coincidence.”

Pranav didn’t waste another second. “Let’s go to the supervisor. I want old footage. From the day the cameras were still working — before the blackout.”

Inside the security room, the supervisor began pulling archived footage. Pranav asked, “Explain your visitor protocols.”

“Sir, visitors are let in only through app-based resident approval. For food delivery or cabs, exits are auto-logged after 30 minutes. If it’s family or friends, guards log them manually.”

They rolled the footage back to three days before the murder.

At 10:30 AM, a well-built man appeared in a red food delivery uniform, holding a branded thermal bag. He spoke briefly with the gate security. The guard made a phone call, then waved him in.

Pranav leaned closer.

The man never returned.

One hour passed.

Two hours.

Still, no exit was logged.

Pranav’s eyes narrowed. “Call the security guard who was on duty that morning.”

Guard Rajesh arrived, nervous but cooperative.

“Sir, I let him in after confirming with the flat resident.”

“Who?”

“Ananya.”

“Then why did you log it as a delivery instead of a visitor?”

“Sir, food deliveries are auto-exit marked after 30 minutes. Since he wore the uniform and had a delivery bag, I didn’t correct it. I thought he came with food.”

Mitra looked stunned.

Pranav clenched his jaw. “Now pull up the footage from the day after Ananya’s death, when the cameras came back online.”

The screen flickered — and there he was again, by around 11:30am

The same man, wearing the same delivery uniform, same bag, walking out as if nothing happened.

Four days later.

Pranav’s face was blank with disbelief. “He was inside the entire time.”

“No one saw it,” Mitra said, voice shaky. “Because he planned to be invisible.”

Just then, Thameem walked in, holding a folder.

“Sir, I got details and photographs of the 11 girls that matched the parameters we set. The last one on the list… her name was Vaishali.”

Pranav’s eyes locked. He didn’t say a word — he was already on the move.

They rushed back to the sixth-floor rooftop garden.

On the cement edge of the parapet wall, etched faintly into the dust and plaster, were the initials:

A. V.

Mitra exhaled slowly. “Ananya. Vaishali.”

Pranav’s voice dropped. “He isn’t just killing them. He’s marking them.”

His next target had already been chosen. And killed.

Just then, Pranav’s phone rang.

Murali.

“Sir,” he said quickly, “I wanted to brief you before boarding. Saravanan told me how he and the other guard were paid ₹1 lakh each. All they had to do was take leave three days before the murder, disable the cameras, and resign three months later. The man who approached them wore a mask, barely spoke, but seemed dangerous. They met him at a local tea shop near the apartment when they were discussing their financial struggles.”

Pranav absorbed it and responded calmly, “Murali, that man stayed hidden inside for four days. He didn’t just need the cameras down — he needed a place to stay. Food. Water. Help.”

“You think the guards—?”

“I think Saravanan knows more than he told you. He didn’t just follow instructions. He helped. Go meet him again.”

“Understood, sir.”

Murali hung up and exited the Coimbatore airport — he hadn’t boarded yet. He immediately booked a cab and rushed back toward Saravanan’s rented house.

But as he entered the narrow lane and approached the home…

He stopped in his tracks.

The local constable was already there.

Saravanan was dead.

Found hanging in his backyard, a rope tied from a neem tree that overlooked a worn-out chair.

Back in Chennai, the initials “A.V.” still stared back at Pranav from the rooftop wall.

Mitra stood beside him, her breath shallow. “Sir…”

Pranav didn’t blink.

“He left a message. A clue. A trail. We investigate Vaishali’s case next.”