ʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌn

ʌnʌnʌnʌnʌn

ʌnʌnʌnʌnʌn

ʌnʌnʌnʌnʌn

ʌnʌnʌn

ʌnʌnʌn

ʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌ

ʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌ

ʌnʌnʌn

ʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌn

ʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌ

ʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌn

ʌnʌnʌnʌn

ʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌnʌn

They tell these stories to crime stories, but they play the faint sound of crickets chirping in the background, and while that may not be everybody's thing, I found it to be incredibly relaxing.

And the girls made me chuckle with their little dad jokes that they like to tell.

So I will play that at the end of the outro, and I think that's it for the housekeeping. So let's get into today's story.

At approximately 12.30pm on the afternoon of Thursday, July 19th, 2007, 911 dispatch received a frantic call from a home located in the quiet Rolando Village neighborhood of San Diego, California.

The caller, a 17-year-old girl named Bray, said, help, please, I think we've been robbed. I'm tied up and my dad's been shot.

The dispatcher said, what's your name? Bray. Bray, how old are you? I'm 17. Your dad needs paramedics? I think he's dead.

Okay, Bray, where's the person that shot you? I don't know. He ran off. Okay, and he came into your house and did this? Yes. And who was he? Do you know? I have no idea.

Was he white, black, Hispanic? He was all covered from head to toe. Okay, all right. Where's your dad? Where is your dad at? He's on the floor.

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