Angie Get Your Goat - 2

Angie snorts, staring at the Doctor.

He has just offered up the standard defence of most rapists.

“Is that also your medical opinion, Doc?”

He says nothing, just looks at his hands, folded on the table in front of him.

He's a nervous looking, bespectacled, mild-mannered man, tall, bald and thin. Dressed immaculately in a polo shirt, trousers and wing-tipped shoes, plus a jacket, folded neatly, kept on the back of the cold metal chair he sat in.

Angie can see the beads of sweat gathered at his temples, and on his shiny pate, and large patches of it on his shirt.

Room's chilly and he's sweating bullets. Man's guilty, of course. But he's scared too.

His eyes dart everywhere, but never come to settle on Angie for more than a fleeting moment. Angie observes that he hasn't looked her in the eye for more than a few seconds.

Scared of what, exactly?

Angie has seen this before, mostly in men who sexually assault women. Many of them can't talk to a woman openly. That's why they have, as part of their MO, kidnapping or assaulting victims from behind.

“Did you kill them after the rape?”

“Yes.”

The doctor seems increasingly uncomfortable, fidgeting in his seat, wringing his hands, his eyes more shifty. The basement interrogation room is meant to make criminals uncomfortable and scared so it's easier making them confess, and most do.

And yet, the ease with which the Doctor gives away his guilt is unprecedented.

“We found only five bodies out of the twelve missing women. Where did you put the rest of them?”

Doctor doesn't reply at first, looking at his hands.

“I...”

“Yes?”

“They're buried peacefully in my farmhouse in Lonavala.”

“I'd hardly call that peaceful, but okay. This farmhouse have an address?”

“Yes.”

Angie fishes out a small notepad and a pen from the pocket of her trousers.

“Out with it, Doc.”

Noting down the address, she puts the notepad back in her trousers.

There is a yellow legal pad and pen kept on a side of the table. Angie pushes it towards Doctor Fatal.

“Time to jot down your confession and sign it, Doc.”

For the first time, Darziwala looks at her properly.

“Come on, do it quickly. Saves time for the both of us. In case you're thinking of denying everything you just admitted, don't. I have your word, safely here,” Angie says, patting her jacket just above her right breast.

“You are recording me?” the Doctor asks, his tone sharp.

“Yeah. Just like you recorded these women. Don't be so outraged, Doc,” Angie replies. The Doctor's laptop has been found to have several voice recordings of the women's torture and painful deaths.

Angie had to stop halfway through the first.

The Doctor flinches at this. Angie grins. In a perverse way,she seems to be enjoying his discomfiture.

The psychiatrist from South Bombay takes the pen and the legal pad, and starts writing, his hands shaking, while at the same time breaking out into a fresh bout of perspiration. Five minutes later, he has a signed confession ready.

Angie reads through it, and gets up from her chair, taking the pad with her.

“Thanks a ton, Doc. Enjoy your jail time,” she says, and turns back to go upstairs.

“I did it for their own good, Inspector,” he says to her retreating back.

Angie sends in another cop, waiting at the entrance to the basement, to handcuff Doctor Fatal and take him back to the holding cell.