The last hour of Heather Garrus' life passed uneventfully.

As she sat in her cluttered office in the credit union, everything seemed so familiar,

so normal.

She would have been comfortable in a blue swivel chair in the cockpit space of her maple

veneer surround desk, a tall pink file cabinet across the room, topped with stuffed animals.

Elsewhere amid the clutter of files and cookie tins, coke cups and water bottles, were photos

of family and friends, and a blue desk sign that simply read, Heather.

It was around 5.30 in the afternoon.

The trash can beneath her desk was full, her day almost done.

When the phone just to the right of her computer terminal lit up with a familiar number, it

was Victoria, her 9-year-old, wondering when mom would be home, and if she could help

with a homework assignment.

Shortly after that, Sarah Staley, a co-worker and family friend, stuck her head in the door.

Sarah would normally have been gone already, but on this day, she'd stayed a little late.

Heather, just wanted me to stay with her and hang out because we're having fun that day,

messing around and stuff.

With all of that going on, it's unlikely Heather noticed a black pickup, cruising slowly

past her big office window, almost as if someone might be checking to see if Heather was

still there.

A small security camera on the ATM outside was also working, and recorded it.

The time?

5.39pm.

...