Chap 1
Chapter 1: The First Name in the Notebook
Victim: Bùi Văn D.
Crime: Hanging staged as suicide
Modus Operandi: Exploiting guilt and confrontation
Forensics: Ligature marks inconsistent with suicide
My notebook is black, leather-bound, and always cold when I open it.
The first page is not stained with blood or guilt. It’s clean, calm, clinical — the way I needed it to be. Written on it, in sharp, tight handwriting, is a single name:
1. Bùi Văn D. – Age 49 – Date of death: November 13th, 2022
He was my first.
I did not kill him because he was evil. Evil is too abstract, too vague, too easily excused. I killed him because he had done something no justice system would ever punish. He was the kind of man who learned to beat the truth until it stopped screaming. And he had lived far too long without consequence.
Bùi Văn D. was a respected man in our neighborhood — a retired military officer with a firm handshake and a booming laugh. But behind closed doors, he was a monster in pressed shirts. I had watched him for over six months, always from a distance. He walked his dog at 6:45 AM. He always bought the same coffee from the same shop at 2:05 PM. And every Tuesday, like clockwork, he left fresh lilies on the grave of the woman he had murdered — his wife.
The police called it an accident. She had fallen from the second-floor balcony. No witnesses, no security cameras. Bruises dismissed as clumsy injuries. A man in uniform doesn’t get interrogated unless there are bones sticking out of the ground.
I remembered seeing her once — thin wrists, soft voice, eyes that never quite looked up. She had died the same way she had lived: quietly, conveniently, and unnoticed.
But not by me.
I chose the night carefully. November rain was perfect for washing away regret — and fingerprints. I stood across the street from his small white house, watching the last of the lights flicker off. I had no weapon on me. I didn't need one.
I knocked twice. He opened the door in slippers and a white undershirt. His eyes squinted at me. We had never spoken before.
“Can I help you?” he said, voice thick from sleep.
I didn’t smile. “I know what you did to your wife.”
His face didn’t change. The trained kind. No emotion. No denial. Just a flicker — a twitch at the corner of the jaw.
“You should leave.”
“I think you want to talk about it,” I said. “And if you don’t, I can scream it down this street until every neighbor hears.”
He hesitated, then stepped aside. I walked in.
The house smelled of cigars and mothballs. Pictures of medals and certificates lined the wall, curated pride. I sat across from him at the kitchen table. For ten minutes, we didn’t speak. He poured us tea. Steam rose between us like ghosts.
Then I leaned in and whispered: “She was pregnant when you pushed her.”
His hand trembled. The cup clicked against the saucer.
I didn’t know that for sure. But guilt is easily triggered when you plant it in soil already rich with decay.
He broke.
Over the next hour, he confessed everything. The fights. The suspicions. The jealousy. The slap that became a shove. The scream that never had time to echo. The silence afterward.
“It was an accident,” he whispered.
“No,” I said, “it was convenient.”
He cried. Not like a man, not like a villain, not like a soldier — just like a human being, rotting from the inside.
I let him weep. Let him believe he had just been forgiven. Then I handed him a letter I had typed myself.
“Read it,” I said.
He did. It was a suicide note. It spoke of guilt, remorse, decades of secrets finally breaking through the dam of silence. It even included a note to his grown son, begging forgiveness.
“You wrote this?” he asked, voice barely audible.
“No,” I replied. “You will.”
He didn’t resist. Some men crave punishment more than absolution. He signed it with shaking hands.
The rope was already in my bag.
I chose nylon — strong, silent, and believable. I tied the knot carefully. I had practiced this dozens of times on a mannequin in an abandoned warehouse. A suicide hanging requires certain details: the knot must be behind the ear, not the back of the neck. The drop must be short enough to avoid spinal dislocation but long enough to leave bruises. Most amateurs tie it wrong. I didn’t.
I led him to the rafters in his garage. He didn’t beg. He didn’t fight. He simply asked:
“Will people know?”
“Yes,” I said. “But they’ll think it was your conscience that did it.”
He nodded.
He stood on the stool himself.
I placed the rope around his neck. Adjusted the angle.
Then I said, “Goodbye, Mr. D.”
I kicked the stool.
His feet danced for less than 40 seconds.
I cleaned the prints, set the suicide note on his desk, and left the back door slightly ajar. The rain covered my tracks. The security camera across the street hadn’t worked in two years — I knew that because I had “fixed” it.
I didn’t sleep that night. Not out of fear. Out of calculation.
📄 Forensics Report (Excerpt – 2 weeks later)
Subject: Bùi Văn D. – Male, 49 years old
Time of Death: Approx. 2:17 AM
Cause: Asphyxiation due to hanging
External Signs:
Ligature mark evident across upper neck, angled slightly to the right
No petechial hemorrhaging in eyes, unusual for suicidal hanging
Fingernail abrasions suggest hesitation or struggle
No drugs or alcohol in system
Scene Details:
Suicide note found, signature confirmed
No signs of forced entry or theft
Stool present beneath body, toppled
Conclusion: Probable suicide, pending further inquiry
I read the report with the same satisfaction as a conductor reading applause reviews after a symphony. Neat, clean, and unnoticed.
Bùi Văn D. was dead.
And the world did not mourn.
I returned to my notebook. I dated the page. Added a single checkmark beside his name.
Then I turned to a blank one, and I wrote the next name.
Because justice is not blind.
It’s just... selective.
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