The Man Who Reported His Own Murder

M Mehran

At exactly 11:59 p.m., the emergency line received a call that should not have existed.
“I’ve been murdered,” the voice said calmly. “My name is Kamran Yousaf. You’ll find my body in twelve hours.”
The call disconnected.
Inspector Rehan Qureshi listened to the recording three times. It wasn’t a prank. The caller’s voice was steady, intelligent—almost relieved.
Criminal investigations begin with chaos.
This one began with certainty.
A Body Right on Time
At noon the next day, police found Kamran Yousaf’s body in a locked apartment downtown. No signs of forced entry. No struggle. The cause of death: a gunshot wound to the chest.
Time of death matched the call.
Rehan felt something cold settle in his stomach. Criminals don’t predict their own deaths—not unless they already know how the story ends.
A Life Carefully Erased
Kamran Yousaf was a data analyst for a private security firm. No criminal history. No enemies on record. No obvious motive for suicide—and the angle of the shot ruled that out anyway.
Even stranger, Kamran had deleted most of his digital footprint in the week before his death. Emails wiped. Social media gone. Bank accounts emptied and donated anonymously to multiple charities.
People who plan escape do that.
People who plan death usually don’t.
The First Lie
Rehan questioned Kamran’s colleagues. One name surfaced again and again—Naveed Iqbal, Kamran’s former business partner.
They had launched a cybersecurity startup years ago. It failed. Naveed disappeared. Kamran rebuilt his life quietly.
When Naveed was finally located, his hands shook as he lit a cigarette.
“I hated him,” Naveed admitted. “But I didn’t kill him.”
Naveed revealed the truth Kamran had uncovered recently—his security firm wasn’t protecting people. It was selling surveillance data to criminal networks, enabling blackmail, extortion, and disappearances.
Kamran had found proof.
And once you find something like that, you don’t get to unknow it.
The Second Phone Call
Rehan received another call that night.
Same voice.
Same calm.
“You’re close,” Kamran said. “But you’re looking in the wrong direction.”
Rehan froze.
“You’re dead,” he whispered.
“Yes,” Kamran replied. “But my murder isn’t over yet.”
The call ended.
Phone trace led nowhere.
In twenty years of criminal investigations, Rehan had chased killers. Never a ghost.
The Woman in the Photograph
Hidden in Kamran’s old apartment files was a single photograph: Kamran with a woman named Areeba Khan, a freelance journalist declared missing six months earlier.
Rehan found her last article draft. Unpublished.
It exposed the same security firm. Same data trafficking. Same names.
Areeba hadn’t vanished.
She’d been silenced.
Kamran knew he was next.
A Death Designed as Evidence
The truth unfolded piece by piece.
Kamran didn’t call the police to save himself.
He called to trap them.
He had recorded every threat. Every illegal transaction. He had scheduled files to be released only after his death. The call, the timing, the locked room—it was all designed to force a real investigation.
Because if he disappeared quietly, no one would look.
If he died loudly, everyone would.
The gun that killed Kamran was traced to the security firm’s head of operations, Fahad Mirza. Surveillance footage—previously “corrupted”—was recovered. Payments surfaced.
The murder was clean.
The cover-up was not.
The Final Truth
Fahad Mirza was arrested three days later.
During interrogation, he said only one thing:
“He wanted to die a hero.”
Rehan corrected him.
“He wanted the truth to live.”
The public fallout was massive. Arrests followed. The firm collapsed. International investigations began.
And Areeba Khan’s name was finally cleared.
The Last Message
Weeks later, Rehan received a scheduled email.
Inspector Rehan,
If you’re reading this, it means the system worked.
I didn’t report my murder because I wanted attention.
I reported it because silence is the real weapon criminals use.
Thank you for listening.
Rehan closed the file and stared at the city lights.
In criminal history, there are killers.
There are victims.
And then there are people who turn their own death into a confession—
not of guilt,
but of truth.