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If you have ever seen arsenic and old lace, you might remember the Brewster Sisters,

two sweet, seemingly harmless old women with a deadly little hobby.

In their cozy Brooklyn home, they offered mercy to lonely, down on their luck, old men. A glass of elderberry wine,

lace with arsenic, and just a pinch of cyanide for good measure. A quiet end, buried neatly

in the basement by their well-meaning, but deeply disturbed brother.

Their crimes, as far as fictional murder sprees go, were macabre,

but almost quaint with a twisted kind of compassion.

In their minds, they were not killers.

They were helpers, easing their victims out of their misery.

Now imagine that same scene, but colder. No lullaby of poison wine, no misguided mercy.

Instead, picture this, a woman, young, beautiful, running a bright white

ice cream shop in Vienna. But beneath the cheerful pastels and the hum of the churning gelato,

a dark secret hardened in the cellar.

Not bodies laid to rest by a diluted brother, but the dismembered remains of two lovers,

two men who once promised her love, a future, of family, and failed her.

Esty believes Caranza, known to the world as the ice cream killer, did not kill out of kindness.

When the frustration, the rage, and the years of disappointment boiled over,

...