It was 1966 when the archetype of what would come to be known as the true crime novel barged into the culture.

In no time at all, that book, in cold blood, was as famous as a book could be.

And so was its author Truman Capote. Unusual man. Unusual book.

In Cold Blood reads like a novel, though it was a true story, the mean hard facts of it exhaustively

reported. Literary critics called it a masterpiece, though the story

was as disturbing as a story could be. Somehow, Capote's masterpiece caught the mood of those turbulent

years. In Cold Blood tells the story of a wealthy farm family called The Clutters, Herb, Bonnie, and their two children,

murdered during an apparent robbery at night in their farmhouse in Kansas in 1959.

The story was so influential, such a cultural touchstone, that even decades after its release, people

just couldn't help but see the parallels between the clutters and the stock families.

They were both good people, successful farmers in the middle of America, attacked in their

sleep, murdered in cold blood. One line in particular,

penned by Capote, seemed fitting to describe what had happened to Wayne and Charmin's stock.

They shared a doom, against which virtue was no defense.

Those days that followed the murders were dreadful ones for the three adults-dog children.

There was shock and grief and confusion and anger, the whole catalog of emotions.

They tried to keep busy. There were arrangements to make, a funeral to prepare. It was apparent that the local Methodist church would be too small to accommodate all those who wanted to pay their respects,

so it was decided they'd have the funeral in the Murdoch High School gym.

It was the right thing to do. The place was packed to the rafters.

There were speeches lauding the stocks and everything about them. Daughter Tammy.

I call them pillars of the community.

There's over 2,000 people at the funeral, so...

...