CHAPTER 9 WHO IS DIMAS?
The bedroom door gave way on the fourth impact.
The wood split down the middle. Small splinters scattered across the floor as cold air rushed in from outside with the sound of rain. Raka stood frozen near the window. Beside him, the man he had known all this time as Dimas stared tensely at the door. Outside the room, someone's shadow moved.
Then two men entered almost simultaneously.
Raka stepped back.
They had the same face.
Not merely similar.
The same.
The shape of their jaws, their noses, their eyes—even the way they turned their heads.
For several seconds, Raka's mind refused to accept what he was seeing. He had encountered identity fraud, disguises, and even plastic surgery in several criminal cases. But seeing two human beings with nearly indistinguishable faces standing in the same room made every theory he had built so far seem impossible.
The first man stood beside Raka.
The second stood in the doorway.
Both wore silver rings with black lines.
Both stared at Raka.
Then they spoke almost at the same time.
"I'm Dimas."
Raka didn't move.
The man in the doorway pointed at the one beside Raka.
"Don't trust him."
The man beside Raka answered immediately.
"He's the fake."
Raka felt his heart pounding.
He couldn't choose based on instinct.
He couldn't choose based on who sounded more convincing.
He had to look for facts.
"Quiet!"
Raka's voice made both men stop.
He drew his weapon but didn't aim it specifically at either one.
"Nobody move."
Rain hammered the roof.
No one spoke.
Raka studied their faces in turn.
Then he said, "You both know who I am."
They both nodded.
"You both know about Project 17."
They nodded again.
"You both know about the account in my name."
Both men fell silent.
Raka noticed the tiny change.
Only a fraction of a second.
But it was enough.
He pointed at the man in the doorway.
"You answer first."
The man said, "I'm the real Dimas."
"Why do you have the same ring?"
"Because that ring belongs to them."
"Who are they?"
The man fell silent.
Raka turned to the man beside him.
"You?"
"I'm Dimas."
"Then answer."
The man looked at him.
"They're the ones who made all of this happen."
"Who?"
"The same people who made you a suspect without ever actually accusing you."
Raka fell silent.
The sentence was too precise.
He had never told anyone the details of that transaction except Naya.
But perhaps they already knew.
Raka couldn't let himself be provoked.
"Your father's name?" Raka asked.
Both answered at the same time.
"Darmanto."
"Your mother's?"
"Sulastri."
"Place of birth?"
They gave the same answer.
"Arcapura."
Raka changed the question.
"What was your childhood nickname?"
The first man answered, "Dimas."
The second answered, "Dim."
Raka fell silent.
The two men looked at each other.
Raka studied the first man's face.
There was a trace of tension there.
The second man, meanwhile, looked more relaxed.
But that didn't mean anything either.
A liar could be nervous.
An honest man could be nervous too.
Raka took a chair and placed it in the middle of the room.
"Sit."
The two men looked at each other.
"Sit down!"
They finally sat.
Raka stood in front of them.
"From now on, I don't care which of you claims to be Dimas. I'll treat both of you as men whose identities haven't been established."
The man beside him nodded.
The other man said nothing.
Raka continued.
"The first one proven to be lying goes to the police."
The man at the door smiled.
"The problem is, who are you going to believe?"
Raka looked at him.
"I don't need to believe anyone."
He pointed to the small camera above the shelf.
"I only need to prove it."
The man immediately turned toward it.
A small movement.
But Raka saw it.
He knew now.
Someone who truly understood how investigations worked would think of evidence first.
Someone unaccustomed to a situation like this might focus more on his own safety.
Raka didn't know whether the reaction meant anything.
But he filed it away.
He asked both men to place their hands on the table.
"Do you have the same scar?"
The first man shook his head.
The second nodded.
Raka moved closer.
He saw the scar beneath the second man's ear.
About three inches long.
An old wound.
Not especially conspicuous.
But clear enough.
The first man didn't have it.
Raka looked at the first man.
"You said you're Dimas."
"Yes."
"Why don't you have the scar?"
The man drew a breath.
"Because it was removed."
"With surgery?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"In 2020."
"Why?"
"Because they wanted to erase a distinguishing mark that could connect me to the person in the photograph."
Raka turned to the second man.
"And you?"
The second man answered, "The scar is real."
"Since when?"
"Since an accident when I was twenty-three."
Raka stared at him.
"So you're the real one?"
The man didn't answer immediately.
"Not necessarily."
Raka frowned.
"Why not?"
"Because a scar can be made."
Raka fell silent.
The answer only confused him further.
The man continued, "If they're capable of opening an account in your name, creating a death certificate, and using my face, do you really think making a fake scar would be difficult?"
Raka didn't answer.
True.
He was beginning to understand how dangerous visual conclusions could be.
A scar wasn't proof of identity.
A photograph wasn't proof of identity.
Even official documents didn't always mean they reflected the truth.
Raka asked both men to show him their right hands.
"Do you have scars on your palms?"
Both shook their heads.
"Any old fractures?"
Again, both shook their heads.
"Surgery?"
The first man answered, "Appendix."
The second answered, "Appendix."
Raka let out a breath.
"Stop."
He felt as if he were playing a game deliberately designed to make him lose his mind.
Then an idea came to him.
He took out his phone.
Opened an old photograph.
A photograph of Dimas with the investigative team.
It had been taken eight years earlier.
Raka showed them the picture.
"Where were you standing when this photo was taken?"
The first man pointed immediately.
"To your right."
The second man pointed to the same spot.
Raka shook his head.
"No."
He enlarged the photo.
"The person standing beside me is Dimas."
Both men stared at the picture.
"The question isn't who was standing beside me."
Raka looked at them.
"The question is, who took this photo?"
The first man answered:
"Surya."
The second man answered:
"Raka."
Raka froze.
His breath caught.
He himself had forgotten who took the photograph.
It had been taken years ago, in a completely ordinary situation.
But one of them knew.
Raka looked at both men.
The second man gave him a faint smile.
"Still want to say I'm the fake?"
The first man shot him a sharp look.
"He knows because they gave him the information."
Raka raised a hand.
"Quiet."
He took the photograph.
Then he examined the back.
There was a small inscription.
"Photo taken by Raka."
It was in Raka's own handwriting.
He recognized it.
Raka looked at the second man.
"How did you know?"
The man didn't answer.
"Answer me!"
The man only said:
"Because I was there."
Raka felt something change.
For the first time, one of them had an answer that didn't come from a document.
He had a memory.
But memories could be manipulated too.
Raka looked at both men.
Then he asked:
"Who was the first person to call me 'Rak'?"
The first man answered immediately:
"I was."
The second man answered:
"Surya."
Raka froze.
This time, only one answer was correct.
Dimas really was the first person to call him "Rak."
The first man had answered correctly.
But the second man could have learned that by reading old notes.
Raka still had no certainty.
Suddenly, sirens sounded outside.
Both men turned at once.
Raka checked the time.
12:03 a.m.
He had never called the police.
But a few seconds later, a voice came over a loudspeaker in front of the house.
"Dimas! Come out!"
Raka looked at both men.
They both appeared startled.
"Who called them?"
There was no answer.
Raka approached the window.
Two police cars sat outside.
But something was wrong.
There were no flashing lights.
No officers were clearly visible.
Raka narrowed his eyes.
He took a flashlight and swept it across the yard.
No uniforms.
Only two men in civilian clothes.
Raka understood at once.
"They're not police."
Both men stood.
Raka signaled.
"Don't move."
Too late.
The front door was kicked in.
Three people entered.
The first man attacked the fake Dimas.
The second man leaped aside.
Raka drew his weapon.
"Stop!"
One of the attackers aimed something that looked like a gun.
Raka fired at the floor near his feet.
The blast filled the house.
Everyone froze.
Raka shouted:
"Drop the weapon!"
One of the attackers turned and ran toward the back door.
Dimas went after him.
Raka chased Dimas.
The other man ran after them too.
Within seconds, the house descended into chaos.
They ran out into the backyard.
The rain made the ground slippery.
The first man ran toward the fence.
Raka chased him.
But someone grabbed his arm.
Raka turned.
Dimas.
"We have to go!"
"Who are they?"
"There's no time!"
Raka stared at his face.
"Answer me!"
Dimas pointed toward the back road.
"If you stay here, you'll die."
Footsteps sounded from the house.
Raka made a decision.
He followed Dimas.
They ran through a narrow alley.
The rain limited their vision.
Behind them, they heard a vehicle.
Dimas stopped at an intersection.
"Left."
Raka looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because the right leads to the main road."
"And?"
"Their people are waiting there."
Raka followed him.
They ran about two hundred yards.
Then Dimas entered an abandoned building.
Raka followed.
They were inside a former repair shop.
Dimas closed the door.
Both of them were breathing hard.
Raka aimed his weapon.
"Now talk."
Dimas raised his hands.
"Okay."
"Who are you?"
Dimas looked at him.
"I'm Dimas."
"Where's the proof?"
Dimas opened his jacket.
He took something from an inner pocket.
A small object.
Raka recognized it.
An old keychain.
Its design was simple.
But carved into the back were the words:
R + D / 2014.
Raka fell silent.
He had given it to Dimas.
Years ago.
When they solved their first case together.
"Where did you get it?"
Dimas gave him a bitter smile.
"You gave it to me."
Raka stared at the object.
"The other one could have it too."
Dimas shook his head.
"He doesn't."
"How do you know?"
"Because there's only one."
Raka didn't answer.
Dimas then said:
"And now you need to know something far more important."
"What?"
"The people who entered the house weren't looking for me."
Raka frowned.
"Then what?"
"They were looking for the photograph."
"Which photograph?"
Dimas looked at Raka.
"The photograph of the six people in Project 17."
Raka fell silent.
"Why?"
"Because the sixth person has been found."
"Who?"
Dimas didn't answer immediately.
He took out the photograph.
Then pointed to someone whose face had been crossed out all this time.
Raka moved closer.
Dimas slowly removed the layer of black ink from the photograph with a special liquid.
The face beneath began to emerge.
Raka held his breath.
He recognized the man.
The man whose face had appeared only in fragments of memory.
The man who had come to the office in 2019.
The man who had always spoken with Surya.
The man who had once asked Raka to handle the Cakrawala case.
Raka spoke almost in a whisper:
"This is impossible."
Dimas nodded.
"Unfortunately, it's true."
"Who is he?"
Dimas answered:
"The man who signed the order creating Project 17."
Raka stared at the name written beneath the photograph.
GENERAL COMMISSIONER ADITYA WIRATAMA.
The name made Raka freeze.
Because Aditya Wiratama had been declared dead in a plane crash in 2018.
A year before Project 17 was officially formed.
Raka looked at Dimas.
"If he died in 2018..."
Dimas nodded.
"...then who formed Project 17 in 2019?"
There was no answer.
Only the sound of rain.
Then Raka's phone rang.
A message came in from an unknown number.
YOU'RE TOO CLOSE.
A second message:
STOP NOW.
The third message arrived a few seconds later.
OR THIS TIME, IT WON'T BE YUSUF WHO DIES.
Raka looked at Dimas.
Dimas read the message.
His expression changed.
"What?"
Raka handed him the phone.
Dimas read it.
Then he said:
"They're wrong."
"Why?"
"Because Yusuf isn't the only person still alive."
Raka stared at him.
Dimas pointed to Aditya Wiratama's photograph.
"He's still alive too."
Raka fell silent.
"How do you know?"
Dimas answered quietly:
"Because I saw him three days ago."
2:16 a.m.
They arrived at an empty house on the outskirts of the city.
Dimas opened the door with an old key.
Raka went inside.
The room contained only a table, chairs, and an old television.
There was no other furniture.
Dimas turned on the television.
A recording appeared.
The image was blurry.
An old man sat in front of the camera.
Raka recognized the face.
Aditya Wiratama.
The man who, according to official records, had died eight years earlier.
He looked into the camera.
Then he said:
"If this recording has been found, it means Raka already knows about Project 17."
Raka moved closer to the television.
Aditya continued:
"And if Raka is watching this with Dimas..."
He stopped.
Then smiled.
"...then one of you isn't Dimas."
The recording stopped.
The screen went black.
Raka turned around.
Dimas stood behind him.
Motionless.
Then Raka's phone rang.
A new message.
TRUST NO ONE.
Raka looked at Dimas.
For the first time, he didn't know whether the man in front of him was the friend he had known all these years—
or someone who had worn his friend's face for years.
And before Raka could ask, the door of the house was knocked on three times.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Dimas whispered:
"Don't open it."
Raka stared at the door.
The voice from outside was very soft.
But clear enough.
"Raka."
He recognized the voice.
Yusuf's voice.
"I've come to explain who really died that night."
END OF CHAPTER 9
Coming up in Chapter 10 — THE WRONG BODY
Raka opened the door.
There was no Yusuf.
Only a black suitcase lay in front of the house.
Inside were clothes, documents, cash, and one thing that left Raka speechless:
his own death certificate.
Date of death:
November 17, 2019.
Time of death:
3:45 a.m.
And yet at 3:45 that night, Raka was still alive.
Or at least, that's what he had believed all this time.