Well. When they titled this episode "Slaughterhouse," they weren't kidding around. There are two adult-sized bodies lying prostrate in the foyer, one of which is huddled over an infant, and a woman lying on the couch with no face below the nose. I have to admit, I wasn't particularly curious to see what someone looked like when they stuck a gun in their mouth and pulled the trigger, so this really isn't doing a lot for me. Horatio notices one of the bodies in the foyer breathing raspily, does the usual "we have survivors" drill, then crouches down beside the man, asking, "Who did this to you?" "My son," the man answers, then goes into the fragmentary speech patterns one might reasonably expect from someone who's been witness to and/or a participant in a mass murder. Horatio looks over at the boy lying in a pool of blood a few feet away, rolls him over -- ignoring the splashing noise from the pool of blood the boy's lying in -- and notices the baby the boy is holding. Sevilla comes out of the bedroom, voice choked, as she says, "Horatio, we've got another one." Horatio heads into the bedroom to see a small boy slumped over a computer keyboard, his headphones still blasting music. He's been shot once at the base of the skull, and his computer monitor is blood-spattered. Horatio sighs, as if he's aware that the show's been killing minors at an alarming rate. Come to think of it, they're not the only at-risk demographic: it's very dangerous to be a woman on this show ("Golden Parachute," "Wet Foot, Dry Foot," "Ashes to Ashes"), or a Latino ("Saving Face," "Wet Foot, Dry Foot"), or a child ("Broken," and now this). Only the white males are safe, and that's assuming they don't comport themselves like brazen man-hussies and get killed for their wanton behavior ("Breathless").
Anyway, Horatio takes a moment to brood over how he wasn't here to protect the children; then he's distracted by a beeping sound. He wanders through the house, alert and tense, and into a rather crowded kitchen -- dishes in the rack and in the sink, food along the counters -- toward the microwave. He warily presses the door button and notices a bottle of formula inside. It's easy to see how creeped out anyone would be about that; after spending ten minutes with a houseful of bloody bodies, one would almost expect to find a microwaved housecat and "Helter Skelter" written in blood on the door.