H. M. Nazmul Alam
In the realm of crime and justice, numbers narrate the most uncomfortable truths. According to a recent study by the Police Bureau of Investigation (PBI), 52 percent of murder cases in Bangladesh end in acquittal. Simply said, more than half of those accused walk free. This is not a mere statistical glitch but an indictment of a system that fails the dead and the living.
The PBI study reviewed 238 murder cases decided between 2015 and 2016, involved crimes committed as far back as 1986. Out of these, 123 cases saw the accused acquitted, while 115 resulted in convictions. The surface of the numbers already looks bleak until one digs into the reasons behind these acquittals – plea bargains, poor investigation, intimidation of witnesses, and endless delays. The decay beneath the justice system becomes more visible, more human, and far more alarming.
Behind every acquittal lies not just a legal failure, but a social one. The data show that out of the 123 acquitted cases, 47 involved secret settlements between the plaintiff and the defendant, despite the fact that the Penal Code allows no room for compromise in murder trials. In 32 cases, errors in investigation and hostile witnesses led to acquittals. In 14 more, investigative errors alone were responsible. The rest were lost to a labyrinth of inconsistencies, intimidation, and procedural paralysis.
This institutionalised impunity is not confined to isolated cases. Police Headquarters data reveal that between 2009 and 2024, 60,037 people were murdered in Bangladesh, averaging to 3,750 annually. Behind each figure lies a name, a face, a silenced story. But for more than half of these deaths, the story never reaches a conclusion. The killers are more likely to be free than imprisoned.
The PBI study found that trials in murder cases take an average of 11 years to conclude. During this prolonged process, witnesses disappear, relocate, or die. Memories fade, evidence erodes, and narratives shift. In cases that eventually led to convictions, police investigations took an average of one year and two months, while trials dragged on for over a decade. For acquitted cases, the delays were even longer (taking one year and four months) and trials stretched to nearly eleven and a half years.
The police, unsurprisingly, emerge as a central player in this crisis of justice. The PBI’s own analysis points to incompetence, excessive workload, and lack of sincerity among investigating officers. In many cases, officers fail to collect or preserve evidence properly, misdescribe crime scenes, or make basic procedural errors that compromise the case irreparably. Sometimes these are mistakes of negligence; other times, of convenience. The thin line between inefficiency and influence blurs when politics enters the frame.
Political interference, though unquantified in the report, hangs like an invisible hand over the entire process. In rural Bangladesh, a murder investigation is seldom just about a crime; it is about allegiance, patronage, and power. When the accused has political muscle or local dominance, the investigation bends accordingly. Witnesses are intimidated or bribed; officers are pressured or rewarded for ‘cooperation’. Even when prosecutors know the truth, they often lack the institutional support or personal safety to pursue it.
What emerges is a justice system structurally tilted toward acquittal. From flawed investigations to false testimonies, every step of the process conspires to erode the integrity of a murder trial. Even when a judge recognises that witnesses are lying, the law offers limited remedies. The court, bound by evidence that no longer reflects reality, must often acquit.
Even when the state tries to reform itself, it remains caught in its own contradictions. The Judicial Reform Commission, formed by the interim government, has proposed a separate investigation agency independent of the police. It argues that investigation is the linchpin of the criminal justice system, and that honesty, courage, and skill are non-negotiable qualities for investigators.
The very idea of a ‘separate agency’ hints at institutional exhaustion. The CID, PBI, and police stations all operate under the same administrative command. Officers are routinely transferred between these units, erasing any hope of specialisation or accountability. In such a system, investigation is not a craft but a chore. Without autonomy, training, or oversight, investigators are left to navigate complex homicide cases with little more than paperwork and intuition.
For families of the murdered, justice remains an abstract word. Their grief is compounded by a bureaucracy that treats loss as a file number. Many wait years for a verdict, only to see the accused walk free, often to the same neighbourhood, the same market, the same mosque. In such a society, forgiveness is nothing but a survival strategy.
The moral cost of this crisis is immense. When murder loses its consequence, life loses its sanctity. The message that echoes across villages and cities is chillingly clear: killing is negotiable, accountability is optional, and truth is disposable. This erosion of deterrence seeps into the social fabric, normalising violence as a manageable risk rather than a punishable crime.
The law becomes a stage for performance, not protection. Each acquittal without justice chips away at public faith in the system, feeding cynicism, anger, and eventually apathy. People begin to seek justice outside the law, through power, money, or revenge, completing a vicious circle that turns the very notion of justice into farce.
Every unsolved murder, every acquittal without accountability, is not just a private tragedy; it is a public confession.
When more than half of those accused of murder walk free, it ceases to be a statistic. It tells us what kind of country we have built, and what kind of justice we have chosen to accept. In Bangladesh today, the grave does not always hold the dead. Sometimes, it holds the truth.
The writer is an academic, journalist, and political analyst
