Dr. Neha’s initial findings complicated things. Vikram had died between 4 and 6 am, but traces of sedative in his blood suggested he’d been drugged before the attack. ‘Someone wanted him docile,’ Neha said, adjusting her glasses. ‘The machete was overkill—anger, not just intent.’ Maaya’s mind raced. A sedative required access to Vikram’s food or drink, pointing to someone close

In the misty heart of Coorg, where coffee estates sprawled like green oceans under a brooding sky, a scream shattered the dawn. The body of Vikram Shetty, a wealthy estate owner, lay sprawled near the drying yard, a machete embedded in his chest. The news rippled through the tight-knit community, and by noon, Assistant Commissioner of Police Maaya Mirchandani arrived with her team to unravel the murder.

Maaya, a sharp-eyed detective with a reputation for cracking impossible cases, surveyed the scene. The Coorg sun was relentless, but the air carried a chill of suspicion. Vikram’s sprawling estate, Shivara Coffee, employed dozens, and his wealth had bred both loyalty and resentment. Maaya’s team—Inspector Kiran Gowda, a local with deep ties to Coorg’s culture, and forensic expert Dr. Neha Rao—set to work.

The crime scene offered little. The machete, a common tool on the estate, bore no fingerprints. Blood patterns suggested Vikram was attacked from behind, and the absence of defensive wounds implied trust in his killer. Maaya noted the drying yard’s isolation—hidden by rows of coffee bushes, it was a perfect spot for an ambush. “This wasn’t random,” she said, her voice low. “Someone planned this.”

Kiran interviewed the estate workers. Vikram’s foreman, Raghu, a wiry man with nervous eyes, claimed he’d seen Vikram arguing with his cousin, Arjun Shetty, the previous evening. Arjun, who managed the estate’s finances, stood to inherit half the business. Workers whispered about Arjun’s gambling debts and his bitterness toward Vikram’s iron-fisted control. Meanwhile, Vikram’s wife, Lakshmi, seemed oddly composed, her grief tinged with defiance. “He had enemies,” she told Maaya. “Business rivals, jealous relatives. Pick one.”

Dr. Neha’s initial findings complicated things. Vikram had died between 4 and 6 a.m., but traces of sedative in his blood suggested he’d been drugged before the attack. “Someone wanted him docile,” Neha said, adjusting her glasses. “The machete was overkill—anger, not just intent.” Maaya’s mind raced. A sedative required access to Vikram’s food or drink, pointing to someone close.

Maaya focused on the household. The Shetty family lived in a colonial bungalow overlooking the estate. The kitchen staff confirmed Lakshmi had prepared Vikram’s coffee the previous night, a ritual she insisted on. A search of the kitchen revealed a vial of lorazepam, a sedative, tucked behind a spice jar. Lakshmi’s fingerprints were on it. Confronted, she paled but denied involvement. “I used it for my anxiety,” she stammered. “Vikram never touched it.” Maaya wasn’t convinced but lacked proof of administration.

Arjun, meanwhile, had no alibi. He claimed he was asleep in his quarters at the time of the murder, but a worker reported seeing him near the drying yard at dawn. His financial records, seized by Kiran, showed massive debts to a local loan shark, Motilal. When questioned, Arjun snapped, “Vikram was bleeding me dry! He deserved it.” His outburst raised eyebrows, but Maaya sensed a distraction. Arjun’s desperation felt too obvious.

Kiran dug into the estate’s operations. Vikram had recently fired a worker, Shivu, for stealing coffee beans. Shivu, now jobless, was spotted loitering near the estate days before the murder. Kiran tracked him to a shack in Madikeri, where Shivu admitted to petty theft but swore he hadn’t killed Vikram. “I hated him, but I’m no murderer,” he said, showing a bus ticket to Mangalore dated the night before the murder. Maaya crossed him off but noted the estate’s tensions ran deep.

The breakthrough came from Neha’s lab work. The sedative in Vikram’s system matched the lorazepam in Lakshmi’s vial, but a microscopic coffee ground on the machete’s handle caught Neha’s eye. It was unroasted, unlike the processed beans in the drying yard. “This came from the roasting shed,” Neha said. “Someone handled the machete there before the attack.”

Maaya and Kiran searched the shed. Behind a stack of burlap sacks, they found a bloodied rag and a half-burnt ledger. The ledger detailed illegal sales of coffee to a rival estate, signed by Raghu, the foreman. Confronted, Raghu crumbled. He’d been skimming profits for years, and Vikram had caught on. The previous night, Vikram threatened to expose him. Panicked, Raghu laced Vikram’s coffee with Lakshmi’s lorazepam, stolen from the kitchen. At dawn, he lured Vikram to the drying yard, claiming a worker issue, and struck him with the machete.

“Lakshmi’s vial was convenient,” Raghu confessed, head bowed. “I knew it’d point to her or Arjun.” Maaya pieced it together: Raghu’s access to the kitchen, his presence in the roasting shed, and his motive tied the knots. Arjun’s debts and Lakshmi’s vial were red herrings, exploited to muddy the trail.

As Raghu was cuffed, the estate workers watched in stunned silence. Maaya gazed at the rolling hills, the coffee bushes swaying in the breeze. “Greed brews bitter ends,” she murmured. With the case closed, her team drove back to Madikeri, the mist swallowing the estate behind them.