CHAPTER 4: The Withdrawn Report
Pak Hendra worked in a room that smelled of damp paper, black coffee, and an air conditioner that had been postponing its death for far too long.
Ninda arrived at ten in the morning with a photo of Bu Sari's house, a copy of the report entry, and the anonymous message still saved on her phone. She did not bring up the eyes beneath the banyan tree. Not because they were unimportant, but because she did not yet know how to write about them without making every other fact look crazy too.
The duty officer pointed to a room at the end of the corridor.
"Pak Hendra's in there. If you want to complain about the streetlights, come back later."
"I'm not here to complain."
"Everyone who walks into that room says that."
Pak Hendra sat behind a desk with two folders open and an unlit cigarette. He was in his fifties. His hair was beginning to turn gray at the temples, and his eyes had the look of someone who had seen families wait for news far too many times.
He did not stand when Ninda entered.
"A reporter," he said.
"A police officer," Ninda replied.
"I know. I could see your press card from the door."
Ninda sat without being invited. She placed the copy of the report between them.
"Laras Wulandari. The report was withdrawn the day after it was filed."
Pak Hendra looked at the paper, then drew it closer with two fingers.
"That was a long time ago."
"But its status is strange."
"Missing-person reports rarely make anyone happy."
"I didn't come here to be happy."
Hendra raised his eyes. For the first time, he seemed to be paying attention to Ninda, not merely to her profession.
"What outlet are you with?"
Ninda named her newsroom.
"Bagas still edits there?"
"He does."
"He once wrote an article about a flood that got my department head transferred."
"That means he was doing his job well."
"That means he has a way of making other people miserable. You two are a good match."
Hendra picked up a pen and tapped its tip against the desk.
"The report was withdrawn because the victim's mother said her daughter had come home. There's no reason to keep a report open if the person has returned."
"But Laras doesn't live there."
"You've met her family."
"I met her mother. She said Laras came home, but she wouldn't answer whether Laras was still alive."
Hendra stared at her for a long moment.
"The victim's mother is grieving. Grieving people don't always speak plainly."
"There was a pair of shoes covered in dirt in her house. A new photo on the wall. An anonymous message telling me to stop looking for someone who had already come home."
"An anonymous message isn't evidence."
"But it could be a clue."
"It could also be a prank."
Ninda leaned back. "Do you believe seven people disappearing in a year is a coincidence?"
The pen in Hendra's hand stopped tapping.
The room outside was filled with ringing phones and the sound of a printer spitting out documents. On the desk, the unlit cigarette shifted when Hendra leaned his arm against it.
"Who told you there were seven?"
Ninda knew she had found something.
"I asked first."
"No. You mentioned a number that isn't in the official reports."
"So you already know the number."
Hendra pulled a gray folder from beneath the stack. He did not open it. He simply set it in front of himself.
"Some people disappear. Some leave. Some don't want to be found. The police's job is to distinguish among those three things with evidence, not intuition."
"And what if the evidence was deliberately erased?"
"Who erased it?"
"I'm trying to find out."
"Then don't start by accusing the police."
Hendra's voice did not rise, but the sentence hardened between them.
Ninda looked at his left hand. There was a thin scar near his thumb. Not a fresh one. Hendra followed her gaze and closed that hand.
"Have you ever been to Wringin Anom Alley at night?" Ninda asked.
This time, the change in his expression was almost imperceptible. Only his eyelids lowered, then rose again.
"I have."
"Why?"
"Work."
"What year?"
"Did you come here about Laras's report or to test my memory?"
"Both might be equally important."
Hendra opened the gray folder. Inside were several old reports, some yellowing at the edges. He did not let Ninda touch them, only turned the folder so the first page was visible.
Names. Dates. Location: Wringin Anom Alley.
There were five entries from different years. Two people had been found alive. The other three cases had never been closed.
Ninda read quickly.
"Why aren't they in the digital system?"
"Not every old archive was scanned."
"Why are these three cases marked PW-17?"
Hendra closed the folder.
"Because you already saw that code in Laras's report."
"I have eyes."
"And far too little patience."
Ninda reached for her phone, but she did not photograph the folder. She knew Hendra would close it even faster. Instead, she memorized the first name and date she had seen.
"Do you know what happens in that alley?"
Hendra leaned back. His face looked tired again.
"I know people are afraid. I know some families withdraw their reports after their children come home. I know there's a pattern."
"What pattern?"
"Coming home without really coming back."
The sentence made the office feel colder.
Ninda waited.
Hendra said nothing more.
"Do you believe in the supernatural?"
"No."
"But you believe that alley is dangerous."
"I believe humans can make any place dangerous."
He slipped the cigarette back into his shirt pocket.
"If you want to keep investigating, do it during the day. Talk to the families. Look for evidence. Don't go in there alone after Maghrib."
"Is that a police recommendation?"
Hendra stood and carried the folder to the safe.
"No."
He locked the safe, then looked at Ninda through the reflection in the window glass.
"It's advice from someone who once saw something."
Ninda did not ask what he had seen.
Pak Hendra had already answered too much for someone who claimed not to believe.
When Ninda left the office, she found a slip of paper tucked beneath her motorcycle's windshield wiper. There was no writing on it. Only three curved scratches, like claw marks, on the wet paper.
She photographed the thing.
From the far end of the parking lot, Hendra called her name.
"Ninda."
She turned.
Pak Hendra stood in the office doorway, his face pale beneath the daylight.
"Never go there alone after Maghrib," he repeated. "If you can, don't go there at all."
Ninda wanted to ask why.
But Hendra had already gone back inside, leaving the door open and the corridor suddenly looking far too long.