CHAPTER 7
THE MAN ON THE PLATFORM
At 4:31 a.m., Arcapura Station was not truly awake yet. Most of the shops along the corridor were still closed, fluorescent lights hung pale over the wet floor, and departure announcements sounded like whispers drifting from far away. The morning air carried the scents of iron, lubricant, cheap coffee, and last night's rain. Raka stood at the end of the platform in a dark jacket, both hands in his pockets. He had come alone, just as the message requested, but for the first time in his life as an investigator, he realized that coming alone did not mean he was truly alone.
He had checked his surroundings three times. Two exits. One staircase leading to the waiting room. A footbridge. Four security cameras visible from his position. Two more cameras were probably on the opposite side. He also watched the people on the platform. A coffee vendor who glanced at his watch now and then, a janitor pushing a cart, an old man reading a newspaper, and two passengers busy with their phones. No one looked suspicious. That was exactly what made Raka more alert. Someone who truly wanted to hide did not need to conceal himself in a dark place. He only needed to look like part of the crowd.
At 4:42 a.m., the first train entered the station. Its wind swept across the platform and made the hem of Raka's jacket flutter. He watched the passengers get off one by one. There was no man with a black ring. No one looked like the person in the photograph. The train started moving again and left the station. The platform fell silent once more. Raka checked his phone. No new messages.
At 4:49 a.m., a man stood about twenty meters away. He looked around fifty. His hair was short, with patches of gray. He wore a plain brown jacket and black pants and carried an old canvas bag. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance. But when the man turned, their eyes met. He showed no surprise. Instead, he walked closer as if they had made an appointment years ago.
“Raka Adhyatma?”
Raka did not answer immediately. “Who are you?”
The man stopped two meters in front of him. “If I tell you my name now, you might leave.”
“Then I should leave.”
The man gave a faint smile. “No. You’ve already come too far.”
He pulled a brown envelope from his bag. There was no sender's name. No stamp. Only small handwriting on the front.
FOR RAKA.
The man held it out.
Raka did not take it right away.
“Who sent it?”
“Someone who can’t come himself.”
“Yusuf?”
The man fell silent for several seconds. Then he smiled faintly. “You still think this is all about Yusuf.”
“Answer my question.”
“Yusuf isn’t the person you’re looking for.”
Raka finally took the envelope.
“Then who are you?”
The man looked toward the tracks.
“Someone who once helped make a person look dead.”
The words made Raka tense.
“Who?”
The man did not answer.
He only said, “Open the envelope after I leave.”
Then he walked away from Raka.
Raka let him take about ten steps before saying, “If you leave now, I’ll consider you a suspect.”
The man stopped.
“If I stay, you’ll consider me a witness.”
He turned.
“The problem is, Raka, I’m not sure I still deserve to be called either one.”
Then he left.
Raka did not follow.
There was something in the way the man spoke that convinced him chasing after him was not the best option. The man had not come to run. He had come to make sure the envelope reached Raka's hands.
And that meant the contents of the envelope were far more important than the man himself.
Raka opened the envelope on a platform bench.
Inside were several photocopies of bank transactions. Some of the dates were from seven years earlier. The amounts varied, but one pattern immediately caught Raka's attention. Money always moved a few days after a major event in the Cakrawala case. He traced the dates one by one with his fingertip. The first payment came two days after Bastian was found dead. The second came after Yusuf was named a suspect. The third came after the security-camera recording was declared missing. The fourth came several weeks before Yusuf was declared dead.
But one transaction made Raka's hand stop.
November 17, 2019.
The date of the Cakrawala warehouse fire.
The amount was not particularly large compared with the others.
But the recipient's name made Raka's entire body turn cold.
RAKA ADHYATMA.
Raka read the name again.
Then again.
It had not changed.
The account number was correct.
The bank was correct.
The date was correct.
But he had never received that money.
He was sure of it.
At least, that was what he had believed all this time.
Raka immediately opened the old banking app, which could still access certain transaction archives. He searched for the account number. The result only confused him further. The account had indeed once been registered in his name, but it had been inactive for years.
He tried to remember when the account had been opened.
He couldn't.
He had several accounts while he was with the police. Payroll, savings, and an account for family expenses. But the number listed in the document felt unfamiliar.
Raka took a picture of the transaction.
Then he zoomed in on the transfer details.
There was a small code beneath them.
PR-17/04.
Project 17.
Again.
Raka put all the documents in his bag.
When he stood, the old man who had been reading the newspaper was no longer in his seat.
The coffee vendor was still there.
The janitor was still pushing his cart.
The two passengers from earlier were gone.
Raka looked at the security camera above the pole.
Then he looked toward the stairs.
The man who had given him the envelope was nowhere to be seen.
But on the last step, there was something.
A cigarette butt.
Still trailing a thin wisp of smoke.
Raka approached it.
He did not touch it.
He only looked at the brand.
The same cigarettes had been found near Arman’s house two days after the murder.
They had also been found in the alley behind Aruna Hotel.
Suddenly, a voice sounded behind him.
“Don’t touch it.”
Raka turned.
A security guard stood several meters away.
“Why?”
“Because someone was standing there earlier.”
“Who?”
The guard pointed at the camera.
“Him.”
“Did you see his face?”
“For a moment.”
“Where did he go?”
The guard pointed toward the corridor.
“Toward the archive room.”
Raka started walking immediately.
The station archive room was behind the administrative office. Not everyone could enter. The old metal door had a simple electronic lock. When Raka arrived, the door was still open.
He went inside.
The room was cramped.
Shelves packed with old documents lined the walls.
The smell of damp paper mingled with dust.
There was no one inside.
But on the table lay a file.
Raka approached it.
There was no name.
Only a number.
17.
He opened the file.
Inside was a train-departure log for November 17, 2019.
Raka read the page.
1:55 a.m.
A freight train passed through.
2:10 a.m.
A passenger train passed through.
2:16 a.m.
The next train arrived.
Raka stopped.
2:16.
The same time he arrived at the Cakrawala warehouse.
He turned the page.
There was a handwritten note on the back.
Someone got off at 2:09.
No name.
No ticket.
Only a car number.
Car 6.
Raka felt something shift in his mind.
Camera 6.
Car 6.
Project 17.
Room 219.
All the numbers seemed deliberately placed along the same track.
But he still did not know whether they were truly connected or someone was making him see a pattern that did not exist.
That was the most dangerous trap in an investigation.
When someone wanted too badly to find a connection, the brain began creating one.
Raka knew that.
He had seen many investigators fall because of that mistake.
So he stopped.
Drew a breath.
And returned to the facts.
Fact one: there was a transaction in his name.
Fact two: the account had once existed.
Fact three: he did not remember receiving the money.
Fact four: the transaction used the Project 17 code.
Fact five: someone wanted him to find all of this.
There was only one thing that was not yet a fact.
Who was controlling the game?
At 6:18 a.m., Raka returned to the office.
Naya was already waiting.
She immediately looked at Raka's face.
“Bad?”
“Worse.”
Raka set the documents on the desk.
Naya read them.
When she saw Raka's name as the recipient, her expression changed.
“This is your account?”
“That’s what it says.”
“You didn’t know?”
“I never remember receiving this money.”
Naya read the date.
“November 17.”
Raka nodded.
“Project 17.”
“Yeah.”
Naya looked at him.
“If this transaction is real, there are two possibilities.”
Raka looked at her.
“First, someone used your identity. Second, you did receive the money, but there’s a reason you don’t remember it.”
Raka shook his head.
“There’s no way I’d forget a transaction this large.”
“How much?”
Raka told her the amount.
Naya fell silent.
“For someone making the kind of salary we did back then, that’s a lot of money.”
“I know.”
“If someone forged a transaction in your name, they needed access to your account information.”
“Or an inside man.”
Naya nodded.
Raka picked up another document.
“There’s another problem.”
“What?”
“The next transaction happened after Yusuf was named a suspect.”
Naya read it.
Then she looked at Raka.
“And the final transaction happened before he died.”
“Yeah.”
“That means someone was paying certain people throughout the case.”
Raka nodded.
“And one of the recipients was me.”
Naya looked at Raka for several seconds.
Then asked quietly:
“What if you really were part of this game?”
Raka did not get angry.
That question had been in his mind for a long time.
“I don’t know.”
For the first time, Raka spoke the hardest words for an investigator to say.
“I can’t completely trust myself.”
At 8:03 a.m., they asked the finance department to trace the old transactions.
The account number did belong to Raka.
But one detail did not fit.
The account had been opened on November 12, 2019.
Five days before the fire.
And the account had been opened using a copy of Raka's identification.
Naya looked at the document.
“Where were you on that date?”
Raka thought.
“At the office.”
“All day?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
Raka fell silent.
He tried to remember.
November 12, 2019.
Tuesday.
There had been a meeting.
Then a witness interview.
Then that night, he went to the hospital to visit someone.
Raka stopped.
“The hospital.”
Naya looked at him.
“Who did you visit?”
Raka closed his eyes.
“Surya.”
“Why?”
“He’d been in an accident.”
Naya furrowed her brow.
“Surya was in an accident five days before the Cakrawala warehouse burned?”
Raka nodded.
“I forgot.”
Naya picked up her notes.
“And who took you to the hospital?”
Raka fell silent.
He did not remember.
The memory was like a section of film that had been deliberately cut.
He only remembered sitting in the hospital waiting room.
Remembered Surya being treated.
Remembered a brief conversation.
But he did not remember how he got there.
He did not remember who had contacted him.
He did not remember who had driven him.
Raka felt pressure in his chest.
“Why don’t I remember?”
Naya did not answer.
Because perhaps the answer was even more frightening than the question.
At 9:27 a.m., Raka requested Surya's accident records.
The documents were found.
The accident occurred at 6:43 p.m.
The location was about two kilometers from the police station.
Surya's vehicle had hit a road barrier.
There were no other victims.
But there was one strange note.
The other driver had not been found.
There was no second vehicle in the official report.
But eyewitnesses mentioned a black car behind Surya several seconds before the accident.
Raka read the report.
Then he looked at the date.
November 12, 2019.
Five days before the fire.
He began assembling a timeline.
November 12: an account in his name was opened.
November 12: Surya was in an accident.
November 16: Project 17 was closed.
November 17: Bastian died.
November 17: a deposit entered Raka's account.
November 17: Yusuf was named a suspect.
November 17: the recording from Camera 6 was deleted.
2021: Yusuf was declared dead.
2026: someone sent a message saying Yusuf was still alive.
Raka stared at the timeline.
Not one of the events stood alone.
Everything had happened in an order that was too neat.
At 11:16 a.m., they went to meet the former financial administrator who had handled the account opening in 2019.
His name was Seno.
He was retired now.
His house was in the outskirts.
When Raka showed him the documents, Seno immediately went pale.
“I remember that account.”
Raka was surprised.
“Why?”
“Because I was told to expedite the process.”
“Who told you?”
Seno did not answer.
“Mr. Seno.”
“I’m afraid.”
“It’s been seven years.”
“Fear doesn’t have an expiration date.”
Raka looked at him.
“Who?”
Seno drew a long breath.
“Surya.”
Raka was not surprised.
“Did he come alone?”
Seno shook his head.
“He came with someone.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name.”
“What did he look like?”
Seno closed his eyes.
“A man around forty.”
“Any distinguishing features?”
Seno thought.
“He wore a ring.”
The back of Raka's neck turned cold.
“What kind of ring?”
“A silver band. There was a black line through the middle.”
Raka and Naya exchanged a look.
Seno continued.
“That man was carrying a photograph of you.”
“A photograph of me?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“He said the account had to be opened in your name.”
“Why?”
Seno shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Raka looked at him.
“Did I ever come here?”
Seno shook his head.
“No.”
“Then who opened the account?”
Seno pointed to the document.
“Administratively, you did.”
“Physically?”
Seno answered:
“Someone else.”
At 1:02 p.m., Raka left Seno's house.
He did not speak for several minutes.
Naya walked beside him.
“Now it’s clear.”
Raka shook his head.
“Not yet.”
“The account was opened using your identity.”
“Yeah.”
“Surya was involved.”
“Yeah.”
“The man with the ring was involved.”
“Yeah.”
“Money was sent to your account.”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you keep saying it isn’t clear?”
Raka stopped.
“Because we don’t know who withdrew the money.”
Naya fell silent.
That was the final gap.
Someone had opened an account in Raka's name.
Someone had deposited money.
But who had taken it out?
They needed proof.
And that proof might be stored at the bank.
At 3:47 p.m., the old recordings were finally found.
The first withdrawal had been made two days after the account was opened.
9:14 a.m.
An ATM at a bank downtown.
Raka requested a still from the security-camera recording.
Several minutes later, the image appeared.
The person's face was not very clear.
He was wearing a hat.
A mask.
A black jacket.
But when he raised his hand to insert the card, the camera caught the ring on his finger.
A silver band.
A black line.
Raka stared at the screen.
“Him.”
Naya nodded.
“But his face?”
“Not visible.”
“So we’re back to zero.”
Raka enlarged the image.
Then stopped.
There was a reflection in the ATM's glass.
The person's face appeared faintly.
Raka asked a technician to enhance the image.
It was not perfect.
But it was clear enough to show the jawline.
The nose.
A small scar beneath the ear.
Raka knew that face.
Not from the Cakrawala case.
From his own life.
He rose slowly.
Naya saw the change in his expression.
“Who?”
Raka did not answer.
He only said:
“Play it again.”
The image played.
The man turned.
Raka closed his eyes.
Because the person who had withdrawn money from the account in his name was not a stranger.
Not Surya.
Not Yusuf.
Not Bastian.
The person was—
Dimas.
At 4:03 p.m., Raka did not contact Dimas immediately.
Instead, he turned off his phone.
If the recording was real, Dimas might know far more than he had admitted.
But Raka was not ready to accuse him.
One security-camera image was not a verdict.
The image quality was poor.
The face was covered.
An initial conclusion could be wrong.
He needed a second piece of evidence.
Then his phone, though switched off, turned back on.
A message came in.
“Now you know who took the money.”
The next message:
“But don’t blame Dimas.”
Raka stared at the screen.
A third message appeared.
“Because the person wearing Dimas's face that night wasn’t Dimas.”
Raka froze.
He read the message over and over.
Then another photo was sent.
A photo of Dimas.
The date:
November 17, 2019.
Time:
2:14 a.m.
Dimas stood in front of the Cakrawala warehouse.
At the same time, the ATM recording showed someone whose face resembled Dimas withdrawing money.
Raka stared at the two images.
If both were real, then something impossible had happened.
Two Dimases had been in two different places at nearly the same time.
Or one of the two images was a lie.
And if someone could make Dimas's face appear in two places at once—
then this case was no longer just about murder.
It was about forged identities, eliminated witnesses, and people who might have spent years living under names that did not belong to them.
Raka put his phone in his pocket.
He knew one thing.
Tonight, he had to meet Dimas.
Not as a friend.
Not as a colleague.
But as someone who might have been hiding the most dangerous answer in the entire case for seven years.
END OF CHAPTER 7
Next in Chapter 8 — TWO FACES
Raka went to see Dimas without telling anyone.
But before he could ask a question, Dimas had already said:
“I know why you’re here.”
Raka fell silent.
Dimas then took out an old photograph and placed it on the table.
The photograph showed him on the night of November 17, 2019.
But there was one problem.
The Dimas in the photograph had a scar that the Dimas of today had never had.
And written on the back of the photograph:
“The man you know as Dimas died that night.”