Fresh snow can keep a secret. On the morning of March thirty-first, nineteen twenty-two, it held a chilling one. At the gate of a remote Bavarian farmstead named Hinterkaifeck, a neighbor, Lorenz Schlittenbauer, saw something that stopped him cold. A single set of footprints led from the dense woods to the family’s back door. But no tracks led back out. The silence from the farm was suddenly pr...
