The house of horrors has been re-sided a few times. First it was all clapboards, then asphalt shingles, and finally aluminum siding covering all the architectural detail of this fine old home that once belonged to a family, then became a doctor’s office until the neighborhood changed. Today there are rooms full of computers that store all the data on every terror to date. In fact, today they are switching over to a networked system, so that if you are responsible for Bosnia, you don’t have to walk over to the caseworker for Auschwitz, and “Incest, Rural” and “Incest, Urban” can communicate with just a few strokes of the keyboard. Technology changes so quickly. The old terminals, which everyone thought were such a marvel, now seem slow and antiquated, their plastic cases yellowed and cracked. The new system will be virtually paperless, so there won’t be the nagging problems of misplaced records or the overworked secretary who takes files home only to have them turn up months after, tear stained, with grocery lists scrawled on the back. They’ve been throwing the paper files out the window into a dumpster in the backyard. Pity the poor flower beds in what used to be the garden as a box misses the mark, box upon box, centuries of atrocities each day. In the alley behind the yard, day laborers are burning the papers in a fifty-five-gallon drum, keeping warm, soot blowing down the deserted street.