CHAPTER 10
The Wrong Corpse
The black suitcase lay in front of the door like something deliberately left by someone who knew exactly when Raka would find it. Rain was still falling, though not as heavily as before. Water dripped from the roof of the abandoned house at regular intervals, one drop every few seconds. Raka stood in the doorway without touching the suitcase. Behind him, Dimas remained fixed in place, staring down the dark hallway.
There were no footsteps.
No vehicles.
No Yusuf.
Only the black suitcase and a death certificate that made Raka's entire certainty about the night of November 17, 2019, collapse within seconds.
Raka crouched.
He didn't open the suitcase right away. He examined the lock, the underside, the handle, and the rain-wet plastic surface. There were no bloodstains. No pry marks. No fingerprints visible to the naked eye.
"Don't touch it," Dimas said.
"I know."
"I'm serious, Raka."
"I know."
Raka stood again.
"If the person who left this wants us to open it, then they've probably already prepared what's inside."
Dimas stared at the suitcase.
"So?"
"We treat it as a trap until proven otherwise."
Raka took a pair of gloves from his small bag. He put them on slowly, then lifted the suitcase and carried it inside.
He set it on the table.
The room fell silent again.
Raka looked at Dimas.
"We'll open it together."
Dimas nodded.
The suitcase wasn't locked after all.
Raka opened the clasps.
Click.
The small sound rang unnaturally loud in the silence.
The lid lifted.
There was no bomb.
No weapon.
No corpse.
Only several neatly folded outfits, a quantity of cash in a plastic envelope, three identification cards, an old cell phone, and documents arranged by date.
At the very top was a single sheet of paper.
RAKA ADHYATMA.
Beneath the name, it said:
STATUS: DECEASED.
Raka stared at it without blinking.
Dimas drew a long breath.
"This isn't an ordinary death certificate."
"I know."
"It's an identity file."
Raka turned the page.
There was a document number.
A death-registration number.
A stamp.
A signature.
Everything looked official.
Too official.
Raka noticed one thing.
"The issue date."
Dimas moved closer.
"November 20, 2019."
Raka looked at him.
"That means this certificate was made three days after I was declared dead."
Dimas nodded.
"Then who filed it?"
Raka read the bottom section.
The informant's name was not listed.
Only one code.
PR-17/04.
The same code.
Project 17.
Raka leaned back in his chair.
A conclusion began to form in his mind.
But he held it back.
In an investigation, conclusions that came too quickly were often the hardest traps to escape.
Raka took the old cell phone from the suitcase.
The model was outdated.
The battery was dead.
He tried turning it on.
Nothing happened.
Dimas opened a desk drawer and found an old charger that fit.
A few minutes later, the screen lit up.
There was no SIM card.
No contacts.
Only one video folder.
17-11-2019.
Raka stared at the folder.
"Play it."
The first video was three minutes long.
The footage came from a camera placed inside a car.
The road was dark.
The time on the screen read:
02:37.
The car moved slowly toward Cakrawala Warehouse.
Then the camera turned toward the rearview mirror.
Raka saw the driver.
His face wasn't clear.
But his voice was audible.
"If everything goes according to plan, Yusuf will be a suspect by morning."
Raka froze.
The voice felt familiar.
Very familiar.
Not the voice of a stranger.
Not Dimas's.
Raka turned up the volume.
The driver continued:
"Raka can't know about that account."
Then a second voice came from the back seat.
"What if he finds out?"
The driver answered:
"He'll do what he always does."
"What's that?"
"Look for the truth."
The video stopped.
Raka said nothing.
Dimas looked at him.
"You recognize the voice?"
Raka nodded.
"Who is it?"
Raka didn't answer right away.
He played the second video.
The second video was only forty-seven seconds long.
The camera showed Cakrawala Warehouse from a distance.
The time was:
02:53.
Someone got out of the car.
He was tall.
He walked toward the warehouse.
A few seconds later, another person got out of the same vehicle.
This time, his face was visible.
Raka moved closer to the screen.
Dimas stood behind him.
"That's..."
Raka nodded.
The second man's face was Dimas's.
But it wasn't the man's face that made Raka shiver.
It was what he held in his hand.
A file.
Written across the front:
RAKA ADHYATMA — ORIGINAL FILE.
Raka stopped the video.
"Why is there a file about me?"
Dimas didn't answer.
Raka looked at him.
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"You always say you don't know."
Dimas lowered his head.
"Because that's the truth."
Raka opened the third video.
This time, the footage came from a camera inside the warehouse.
The time was 03:07.
Bastian could be seen walking inside.
Someone followed behind him.
The second person's face was not visible.
Bastian stopped.
They spoke.
Then Bastian handed something over.
The other person accepted it.
Bastian said:
"If I die, Raka will find everything."
The person answered:
"That's exactly what we want."
Bastian looked confused.
"Why?"
"Because Raka is the only one who can open the last door."
The video stopped.
Raka stared at the black screen.
"What does 'the last door' mean?"
Dimas shook his head.
"I don't know."
Raka turned to him.
"Don't lie."
"I'm not lying."
"Then why does my name keep coming up?"
Dimas fell silent.
Then he said:
"Because maybe you weren't the investigator in this case from the beginning."
Raka stared at him.
"Then what am I?"
Dimas answered quietly:
"The target."
3:11 a.m.
Raka decided they had to leave the house.
He put the cell phone and documents in his bag.
The suitcase was left open.
But before they left, Raka found a small envelope hidden beneath the fabric lining.
Inside was a photograph.
A photograph of Raka.
Not an old one.
It appeared to have been taken a few days earlier.
Raka was standing in front of an office.
The date was:
AUGUST 11, 2026.
He stared at the photo.
"This is recent."
Dimas moved closer.
"Then they've been watching us this whole time."
Raka turned the photo over.
Written on the back:
IF YOU'RE READING THIS, IT MEANS YOU'VE FOUND THE WRONG CORPSE.
Raka felt something cold spread from the back of his neck.
The wrong corpse.
He immediately thought of Yusuf.
Everyone had assumed Yusuf was dead.
But someone had said Yusuf was still alive.
If Raka's death certificate was also fake, then the question changed.
It was no longer:
Who died?
But:
Who was deliberately made to die?
They left the house through the back door.
This time, Raka didn't use a vehicle.
They walked toward the main road.
Dimas kept looking back.
"Why?" Raka asked.
"I feel like we're being followed."
"Since when?"
"Since the house."
Raka stopped.
"How many people?"
"I don't know."
Raka looked down the road.
It was empty.
Streetlights reflected in puddles.
There was no one there.
Then they heard an engine.
A black car passed slowly.
It didn't stop.
Raka watched the license plate.
He recognized the vehicle.
"Surya's car."
Dimas turned sharply.
"Surya is dead."
"His car can still be used."
They watched the vehicle disappear around the bend.
Raka quickly pulled out his phone.
He called Naya.
The call didn't connect.
He tried again.
Still nothing.
Dimas said:
"Don't call anyone."
"Why?"
"Because we don't know who might be listening."
Raka put his phone away.
For the first time, he began considering a possibility that had always seemed too extreme to entertain.
If the network really had access to bank-account data, police documents, security-camera recordings, and even a person's death identity, then maybe they also had access to the communications system.
Maybe Naya was safe.
Maybe she wasn't.
And that uncertainty was more frightening than a clear threat.
At 4:02 a.m., they found a small coffee shop that hadn't opened yet.
Raka sat on the porch.
He reopened his death documents.
There was one section he hadn't noticed.
Cause of death: trauma from an accident.
Location:
Jalan Lingkar Utara.
Raka fell silent.
Dimas looked at the document.
"Why?"
"Because I didn't have an accident that night."
"That's right."
"I remember."
"Then?"
Raka turned the page.
There was an attachment.
Victim's vehicle: black sedan.
Raka looked at Dimas.
"I've never owned a black sedan."
Dimas took the document.
"Then they used your identity for another vehicle."
Raka shook his head.
"No."
"What?"
"They used my identity for someone who really died."
Dimas fell silent.
Raka pointed to a vehicle identification number.
"If we trace this vehicle, we'll find out who actually died."
At 7:18 a.m., they gained access to the old vehicle archives.
The vehicle identification number was registered to a man named Rendra Mahesa.
Thirty-eight years old.
Occupation:
Security-systems technician.
Raka read the data.
Then his expression changed.
"Dimas."
"Yeah?"
"Rendra Mahesa used to work at Cakrawala Warehouse."
Dimas stared at the screen.
"As what?"
"A security-camera technician."
They fell silent.
Raka looked at the documents again.
Rendra's date of death:
November 17, 2019.
Time:
03:45.
Raka compared it with his own death certificate.
Same date.
Same time.
Different location.
But the vehicle used belonged to Rendra.
Raka stood.
"So someone took Rendra's body."
Dimas shook his head.
"Not necessarily."
"If my identity was used for his corpse..."
"Then they wanted other people to believe you were the one who died."
Raka looked at him.
"And Rendra?"
Dimas answered:
"Rendra may have been the person who knew how to erase the recordings."
Raka fell silent.
Camera 6.
Rendra, the security-camera technician.
November 17.
3:45 a.m.
Everything was beginning to connect.
But there was one bigger question.
If Rendra died that night, who erased the recordings?
And if he didn't die...
where was Rendra now?
At 9:41 a.m., they found Rendra's last known address.
A simple house.
Empty.
The neighbors said it had been abandoned several years ago.
But an elderly woman who lived across the street gave them a different answer.
"Sometimes someone still comes by."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"A man?"
"Yes."
"What does he look like?"
"Like someone I've seen on television."
Raka frowned.
"Who?"
The old woman pointed to the television in her living room.
An old news report was playing.
The face of an official appeared on-screen.
Raka froze.
Aditya Wiratama.
The woman said:
"The man who comes to that house looks like him."
Raka looked at Dimas.
Dimas looked just as shocked.
"How often?"
"Every few months."
"When was the last time?"
The woman thought.
"A week ago."
Raka felt his chest tighten.
Aditya Wiratama had been declared dead eight years ago.
Yet someone with his face was still visiting Rendra's house.
Raka asked:
"Have you ever seen his car?"
The woman nodded.
"A black car."
Raka and Dimas exchanged a look.
"The license plate?"
The woman recited it.
Raka immediately wrote it down.
The number matched Surya's vehicle.
That afternoon, Raka and Dimas returned to the safe house.
They didn't speak during the drive.
Too many facts.
Too many questions.
Far too few answers.
Once they arrived, Raka opened the old cell phone from the suitcase.
He checked the last video.
There was one file they hadn't opened.
Its name was simple:
FINAL.
Raka pressed the button.
The screen showed a white room.
A man sat with his back to the camera.
Raka recognized his voice.
It was the driver's voice from the first video.
The man said:
"If you're watching this, it means the first plan failed."
He paused.
"Raka, for seven years you've been looking for the murderer."
The man slowly turned around.
His face came into view.
Raka froze.
Not Aditya.
Not Surya.
Not Dimas.
Not Yusuf.
Rendra Mahesa.
The security-camera technician who, according to official documents, had died that same night.
Rendra stared into the camera.
"The problem is, Raka..."
He smiled faintly.
"...all this time, you've been looking for the person who killed the victims."
Rendra leaned toward the camera.
"But not all the victims are dead."
Raka held his breath.
Rendra continued:
"Some of them were made dead."
The screen turned black.
A single sentence appeared:
AND YOU'RE THE NEXT VICTIM.
Raka stared at the screen.
Dimas stood behind him.
He said nothing.
But suddenly, Raka realized something.
In the video, Rendra had said:
"the first plan."
Not "the first case."
Not "the first murder."
The first plan.
Which meant there was a second plan.
And Raka might already be right in the middle of it.
The old phone suddenly rang.
Unknown number.
Raka answered.
There was no sound for three seconds.
Then a man's voice came through.
"Raka?"
"Who is this?"
The man answered:
"Yusuf."
Raka stood.
"Where are you?"
The voice was quiet.
"Somewhere you were supposed to die."
Raka clenched his fist.
"Where?"
Yusuf named a location.
Raka recognized it immediately.
Cakrawala Warehouse.
Then the call disconnected.
Raka looked at Dimas.
Dimas only said:
"Don't go."
"Why?"
"Because if Yusuf really is there..."
Dimas stopped.
"What?"
"Then someone deliberately wants to gather everyone who was supposed to be dead."
Raka grabbed his jacket.
"Then we have to go."
Dimas stared at him.
"Why?"
Raka answered:
"Because maybe tonight we can finally see who's really standing behind all these fake corpses."
But before they left the room, a message came in.
DON'T COME TO CAKRAWALA.
A second message:
YUSUF ISN'T ALONE.
The third message made Raka stop.
I'M THERE TOO.
Sender:
RAKA ADHYATMA.
Raka stared at the screen.
The phone was in his hand.
But the message had been sent from Raka's own phone.
At the same moment, a siren sounded in the distance.
Someone had reported that Raka Adhyatma had been found dead at Cakrawala Warehouse.
Yet Raka was still standing.
Still alive.
And reading the news about his own death.
END OF CHAPTER 10
Next in Chapter 11 — THE MAN WHO DIED TWICE
Raka goes to Cakrawala Warehouse.
The police have already put up a perimeter.
A dead man has been found inside the warehouse.
The victim's initial identity:
Raka Adhyatma.
The victim's face is identical.
The fingerprints are identical.
The preliminary DNA test shows a match.
But when Raka examines the body up close, he finds one detail that cannot be faked:
the scar on the victim's body is a scar Raka had when he was a child.
And for the first time, Raka begins asking himself:
Is the person he has known all this time as himself really Raka Adhyatma?