Chapter 3
A gruesome sight!
The mangled body of a young boy lay crumpled on the ground. His skull was fractured, brain matter exposed; his nose and mouth were crushed, and blood streaming from his forehead covered his entire face, making him unrecognizable.
Detective Mansur Halim, an ASP of the Bangladesh Police Detective Branch, shuddered at the sight of the body. How old could the boy be? Eleven or twelve? What kind of monster or barbarian could kill a child so mercilessly?
Mansur looked toward Sub-Inspector Ishita standing beside him. The girl was staring at the corpse with a blank, detached expression. Mansur wondered how she could remain so composed seeing such a scene. Even after years in the police force, he hadn't been able to master that level of detachment.
Though he was quite disturbed internally, Mansur appeared calm on the outside. He had a great reputation as a formidable police officer. Whenever the entire department was lost on sensational cases, the solutions usually came from Mansur's intellect. That is why the high-ranking officials were so fond of him.
Mansur Halim is thirty-three years old. He hasn't married; his heart isn't in domestic life. His days are spent chasing criminals—when would he find time for anything else? Yet, seeing him as a child, no one would have guessed he'd grow up to be a policeman! Mansur used to be a master at making people laugh with made-up jokes and funny antics. School cultural programs were never complete without Mansur's presence! His dream was to become a stand-up comedian. But having lost his parents at a young age, the twists of fate led him to chase mysteries for the DB police.
Mansur cleared his throat to get Ishita's attention. It didn't work. The girl remained fixed on the corpse.
Finally, Mansur spoke, "Ishita?"
Ishita immediately looked up at Mansur, "Yes, sir?"
"Where are the people from the forensics department?"
"They've been informed, sir. Professor Zaman is coming himself."
"Will it take this much time?"
Ishita had no answer to this question.
Mansur looked around. Next to the gate of a six-story building was a small open space. Tiny weeds had grown, and a few unidentified flowering plants were visible. The boy wore a torn shirt and dirty pants. Nearby lay a sack, stuffed with paper, plastic, and broken items. It was clear that the child belonged to the lower class of society, most likely a street urchin. He probably wandered the streets, collecting whatever he could find to sell in order to survive.
Who could even think of killing such an innocent child?
A surge of anger ran through Mansur, making every hair on his body stand on end. In his mind, he vowed: whoever the killer was, they would face the full force of justice.