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Across from the autopsy tables, under a large soot-covered window, Tim Curran, a former Vermont police officer trained in crime scene investigation, showed me some of the personal objects that had been recovered from the bodies. He brought out several brown paper bags and set them on a table. He fished out a set of keys and a homemade tobacco tin from one bag and a wedding band and a pocket watch from another. He laid out a Dear John letter, its pages crumpled and frayed. A soiled bankbook. A child’s drawing of a little girl holding an umbrella. I leaned over the table and took a closer look at a snapshot of a young woman kneeling next to two small children, her face radiant. It was an intimate scene, so commonplace and familiar, it could have been taken anywhere. The upper-left of the photograph was gouged. I looked at Curran. “It’s a bullet hole,” he said.