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Please do not suffer in silence. It is shortly before two in the morning on Sunday, February 1, 2006.

The Catalina foothills of Tucson, Arizona are quiet. The kind of quiet that only comes in the desert at that hour.

There's no wind, no traffic, just the faint sound of a neighborhood, and nothing at all.

A figure moves along the front of 5820 North Camino Escalante.

Dressed in dark clothing, a ski mask pulled tight over the face.

Gloves on both hands, a 25-liter Ozark Trail Hiker pack slung over one shoulder,

and tucked into a holster, worn low, a handgun.

The figure approaches the front door and reaches for the doorbell camera mounted to the wall beside it.

There are two attempts to knock it loose from its bracket.

When that doesn't work, the figure reaches up and covers the lens.

Foliage from a nearby potted plant is pressed against it, blocking the view.

What that figure doesn't know.

What none of us would know for another 10 days, is that

the camera's data has already been transmitted. It cannot be erased. At 228 in the morning,

the pacemaker monitoring app on an iPhone inside that house disconnects. The device it was tracking,

an 84-year-old woman's heart implant has moved out of Bluetooth range.

No one will realize she is gone for almost 10 more hours.

...