Kingston summers. They were hotter than a pot of goat-head soup at a nine-night. Made you sweat in unflattering places. And this year, it was hot in more ways than one. People were dying. That wasn’t strange in itself. Kingston, like most major cities, had its fair share of deaths. It was how people were dying that was peculiar. Macabre. Unnerving. Methodical. Unusual. There was a pattern. There was a serial killer at bay. When the news broke that the killings seemed to be carried out by the same person, someone referred to him as The Butcher of Kingston on Twitter. The name stuck. The media took it and ran with it like a member of a gold-winning Olympic relay team. The hashtag #butcherofkingston became a trending topic and the name was on everyone’s lips.
