Ishaan Roychowdhury 1 It started on a Wednesday, just as the first rains of June swept across the city like a waking god shaking off centuries of sleep, drenching Alipore’s colonial bungalows and whispering down the serpentine lanes that remembered secrets better than people did. ACP Ira Basu stood beneath the broken awning of the old Watchtower Lane police outpost, watching as constables cordoned off the site of yet another murder—this one more grotesque than the last, the body splayed like a crude offering on the steps of a crumbling cemetery wall, the eyelids meticulously removed and placed on a…