In June 2001, an alarming, quiet rumor began to spread through the city of Wuhan, China. While the news remained absent from official reports, the whispers of local citizens spoke of a terrifying figure: a serial assaulter walking the streets, targeting a specific group. His victims were women, and their only clear commonality was the color of their clothing.

This comprehensive analysis delves into the “Red Dress Killer” case, examining the systemic suppression of information, the profile of the perpetrator, Duan Guozheng (Gary), and the ultimate judicial conclusion to a spree that shocked a society unaccustomed to such serial violence.

The Terror Begins and The Media Blackout

On a Thursday evening in June 2001, Wang Gu (41) was returning home from her regular game of Mahjong. She navigated the crowded night market before turning onto a long, narrow road known as Jin Suo Alley. It was past midnight, and the area was dimly lit. Wang, aware of the dangers, had consciously stopped wearing jewelry when passing through this isolated stretch.

As she reached the metal gate of her apartment, an assailant emerged from the shadows. She was struck on the he@d with a brick, collapsing immediately. The attacker then violently inflicted seven stab wounds to her chest with a long, thin knife, leaving her to perish in a pool of blood that stained her red dress.

Wang was not the sole victim that summer. Between May and June 2001, six other women in Wuhan were assaulted. In a typical society, such a string of events would draw intense media scrutiny.

However, this case was unique: local newspapers and media outlets strictly avoided reporting the unresolved and complex cases. Journalists who attempted to cover the assaults were censored, and their reports were canceled before publication, though copies were circulated among city officials.

This deliberate media blackout had a devastating consequence: it deprived the public of crucial information that could have assisted the investigation and, more tragically, left potential victims unaware of the imminent danger.

“If we had known there was a killer targeting women, we would have been more careful,” lamented Wang’s husband, Yao Ping, a truck driver. “But no one told us.”

The silence of the official media was quickly overcome by the speed of word-of-mouth. The chilling rumor that the assailant exclusively targeted women wearing red dresses spread like wildfire.

Women quickly adopted other colors, primarily blue, hoping to avoid attention. Even the Mayor, Juji, issued a rare, public warning advising women against wearing red outdoors at night.

Their fear was justified: the day after Wang’s passing, another young woman, a 20-year-old dishwasher from Hunan Province, was found lifeless in a building stairwell. She had been assaulted in a sudden, brutal attack, suffering 38 stab wounds that completely soaked her red clothing in blood.

The Rise of the Serial Killer and Systemic Anonymity

The context of this violence was rooted in China’s post-Mao era. During Mao’s time, anonymity was virtually impossible; every adult was registered with a work unit or neighborhood committee that monitored their movements.

However, with economic liberalization, millions migrated to cities like Wuhan for work, leading to a new social dynamic: anonymity was now possible for the first time, particularly in dense migrant communities.

This new freedom was accompanied by a darker element—the rise of serial crimes, a phenomenon the Chinese state often associated with Western society. While Chinese police boasted an 85% success rate in solving homicide cases, their experience with serial violence was severely limited.

The Wuhan police were not the first to encounter the perpetrator. In February 2001, in Yuyang, a city 200 km southwest of Wuhan, a team of six officers converged on a cramped, three-room apartment where Duan Guozheng (Gary) (29), who worked as a security guard, lived with his parents.

The police spent the entire night in the living room, offering no explanation, waiting for Gary to return from his supposed night shift. When Gary arrived the next morning, he saw the strangers and immediately fled. A foot chase ensued through a vegetable market, but Gary managed to escape.

The Yuyang police then revealed the truth: Gary was suspected of causing the loss of life of nine women. Believing Gary had fled the city, they unlawfully confined his mother for a week, hoping their coercion and intimidation—including interactions with sex workers and substance users—would force her to reveal his location. She never spoke.

Gary’s Profile: Trauma, Entitlement, and Violence

Little was known about Gary’s childhood beyond his birth into a poor family in Wuhan around 1973. Due to his parents’ itinerant work as laborers, Gary grew up isolated and often lonely, constantly seeking attention.

He was known for fighting, causing trouble, and bullying classmates. His behavior escalated in his teenage years, leading to burglary. At 13, he was sent to a Juvenile Detention Center, spending seven years—the majority of his youth—in confinement.

Upon reaching adulthood, Gary superficially changed, adopting a Western-style suit and appearing more serious. However, his criminal tendencies remained.

Local police recognized him as a persistent offender, and in the mid-1990s, he served five years for theft. Gary harbored a deep resentment toward his father, Duan Shing, a trash collector, blaming him for the family’s poverty. He frequently taunted his father, contrasting his poor education and income with the wealth of others.

In stark contrast, Gary’s mother doted on him, as he was her youngest. She became the sole confidante for Gary, including his frustration with women. Gary’s only known attempt to bring a woman home ended quickly when she left upon realizing he had no money. The psychological pattern was clear: an underlying rage fueled by feelings of inadequacy and failure.

The Spree of Violence and The Missed Opportunity

The first known victim in Wuhan was assaulted near a college dormitory on May 7, 2001. The 24-year-old student, returning from an internet cafe, was attacked from behind, stabbed with a large fruit knife, and showed signs of sexual assault. Despite the case being high priority, the attacks continued.

On May 9, another woman returning from Mahjong was assaulted and robbed. A day later, a woman named Ms. Zhou fought off an attacker with a knife and escaped, but could only describe the assailant as tall and thin, with his face covered.

The assaults intensified in June. The attack on Wang Gu, who managed to scream, caused the assailant to flee, reinforcing the public’s fear.

The rumor about the killer targeting women in red solidified when another migrant worker, Ms. Chen, was assaulted and suffered multiple stab wounds on June 2. The next assault was even more horrifying. On June 4, a waitress in her 20s was attacked near her apartment gate, meaning the assailant had already breached the building’s security.

She was not only stabbed and robbed, but the attacker spent time mutilating her body, stabbing her chest repeatedly and leaving bite marks on her chest, thighs, and genitals, confirming a savage sexual assault before he fled. At this point, seven women had been attacked, four fatally, with three severely wounded.

The pressure on the Wuhan police was immense, leading to the formation of a special investigation team that eventually swelled to over 1,000 officers.

They confirmed the incidents were a series of assaults and robberies with a recurring pattern: unmarried women aged 20-40, often wearing red, targeted at night. The sheer intensity of the violence—one victim stabbed 38 times, the mutilation—suggested a sadist or a psychopath rather than a simple robber.

The Pursuit, The Capture, and The Chilling Confession

The police gathered witness accounts, creating a composite sketch: a lean man, 168 to 174 cm tall, aged 18-30, with short hair and an underbite. He wore dark clothes, soft-soled shoes, and carried a large knife and a flashlight.

He moved silently and spoke in a non-standard Wuhan dialect, suggesting he was an inactive or unemployed migrant worker. His method was to wait in the dark, follow the victim into a secluded area, approach from behind, hold the knife in his right hand, and cover the victim’s mouth with his left.

The fatal error, however, had already occurred. When Gary escaped the Yuyang police, the Yuyang officers posted a notice in the nationwide police system.

The Wuhan police, notorious for ignoring bulletins from other provinces, initially overlooked the notice, missing the best chance to apprehend the suspect immediately. Inspector Jang Dian, who led the Wuhan investigation, admitted they failed to even check the low-cost motels in the migrant districts, exactly where Gary was hiding.

It wasn’t until August 10, three months into the Wuhan spree, that the police sent a bulletin to neighboring cities, including Yuyang. The Yuyang police immediately responded, providing information on Gary and his alias, “Hucheng.” Gary had been hiding in a succession of cheap motels in Wuhan, using his mother’s surname.

On August 15, 2001, the Wuhan police tracked a man registered under the name Hucheng at a military-run guesthouse. Inspector Jang and two officers went to his room.

When they opened the door, Gary, wearing only his underwear, violently resisted arrest. It took three officers to subdue him. When asked why they were there, Gary simply replied, “I committed a robbery.” The search of his room yielded shorts with bloodstains and shoes matching tracks from the last assault.

The Verdict and The Unanswered Questions

During the interrogation, Gary remained initially silent. He slowly began to reveal his state of mind after five hours of questioning. He admitted that after his confinement as a minor, he never felt normal again.

Overwhelmed by anxiety and the pressure to catch up with his peers, and lacking skills, he returned to robbery. His first unlawful taking of life, he claimed, was accidental; the woman wouldn’t stop screaming. In panic, he decided the only way to silence her was to end her life.

However, the victim’s scream had a profound and horrifying effect on Gary: he felt an exhilarating adrenaline rush. It was not about sexual desire, but a terrifying urge to hear more screams—the screams between life and death. He confessed that the louder and longer a woman screamed, the more savagely he attacked her. His final victim, Chen, was assaulted 38 times because, in his words, “she was so noisy.”

When an investigator intentionally provoked him by asking how he felt after causing the loss of life of so many women, Gary remained silent. Then, chillingly, he asked: “Where will the execution take place? Wuhan or Yuyang?” He admitted that during his time in Wuhan, he spent his stolen money on air-conditioned rooms, alcohol, and gambling, fueling his decadent lifestyle using what he called “rubber logic”—justifying his assaults as a necessary means of survival since he refused to work.

The news blackout was finally lifted. The front pages of Wuhan newspapers announced the capture of the “psycho killer.” Gary was formally charged. On Christmas Eve, 2002, his mother visited the detention center, bringing clothes and receiving only a receipt bearing Gary’s signature—the only way she was permitted contact. Gary was sentenced to de@th on March 14, 2003, finally ending his reign of terror.

The case was closed, but many questions remain unanswered. If his motive was solely money, why the fixation on women wearing red? Why the severe mutilation and the bite marks? Many believe the police did not reveal the full truth.

With Gary’s execution, the full psychological profile and the true origins of his depravity are likely lost forever. The case of the Red Dress Killer remains one of the most chilling in Chinese criminal history, a stark reminder of the cost of official silence and systemic negligence.