an unspeakable site. when i started up the stairs, there was blood on the walls. it was a very brutal crime scene. it was one of the worst i have ever seen. a loving couple dead. was the killer one of the family? they said, they arrested matt. and i said, who? and he said, our cousin mapped. and blew it away but this case was not solved. one tiny clue did not fit at all. the inscription said that love always who is blind and who is the trail would leave hundreds of miles away to a chilling piece of evidence. that must have been a shocker to have it pretty much sends a chill down your spine. i killed someone. he was older. i loved him. he was scary. as soon as the story, but not even it revealed the whole twisted truth. i know what happened that no one will believe me. this really happening i didn t feel i could feel so much anger. it was late past midnight, when the farmhouse no sign of life. not to them, anyway. he hit
reporter: the prairie takes on a sweet, rolling pitch as it tucks into a nebraska corner. and outside of omaha they are the rich black topsoil has grown generations of solid and faithful americans. a tiny remnant of whom appointed themselves in and around a place called murdaugh. it s the sort of place where heads turn and a stranger drives by. the family s name is carved in the local stone. it was easter sunday afternoon, 2006. a big farmyard and, like every year, an easter egg hunt. it was grandma and papa s yard. or mom and dad, to tammy, who brought her own some like always. they found their easter eggs. they found their easter baskets. and mom always made it every individual easter basket special to that child they were like that where wayne and