He smiled in the darkness. The red garrote was patient. And justice, in his hands, was silent.
The newspapers had given him the name six months ago. Red Garrote Strangler. Victor found it vulgar but accurate. The red was for the cord, yes, but also for the rage. The garrote was for the intimacy. And the strangler… well, that was simply the truth of his craft. Red Garrote Strangler
The silk cord was the color of dried rust. Victor Han loved that about it. Not the garish red of fresh blood, but the deep, arterial brown-red of a thing that had lived, pulsed, and been silenced. He called it his “little necktie,” and he kept it coiled in a velvet-lined box beside his bed, next to a photograph of his mother. He smiled in the darkness
His victims were not random. He was not a beast of impulse. Each name was drawn from a small, leather-bound ledger he kept in the false bottom of his wardrobe. The ledger contained one hundred and twelve names. Each name belonged to a man who had, in Victor’s meticulous judgment, avoided justice for the sin of cruelty against a woman. The newspapers had given him the name six months ago