Red Garrote Strangler ⚡

Not killers. Killers went to prison or the chair. No, these were the subtler monsters. The husband who smiled at church while bruising his wife’s ribs. The boss who promoted the young woman only after she “understood the terms.” The lawyer who shredded a domestic abuse case for a fee. The doctor who prescribed sedatives to a frightened girl and then visited her room at night.

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. Red Garrote Strangler

He stood over the body, breathing evenly. He always felt a strange, hollow peace afterward. Not joy. Not satisfaction. Just… quiet. As if, for one moment, the scale of the world had been balanced. Not killers

The coroner ruled it suicide. Victor ruled it murder. The husband who smiled at church while bruising

Tomorrow, he would open the ledger. One hundred and twelve names. Twenty-seven crossed out. Eighty-five left to go.

He placed a single item on Leonard’s chest: a small, hand-painted tile he had made in his workshop. It bore the image of a marigold. Marigolds were the flowers of the dead in Mexican tradition. A tribute to Maribel Soto.

Victor closed the box, turned off the light, and lay down in the dark.