It was September 3rd, 1986 in Missoula, Montana.

A quiet late summer night where nothing felt out of place.

At around 10 p.m., Doug Wells and his wife Chris pulled into their driveway,

expecting the kind of ordinary end of the day that people in the town like Missoula had come to rely on.

Doug was a supervisor at Conlon's furniture, and their life followed a predictable rhythm

built on routine and trust. That sense of normalcy lasted right up until their headlights

crossed their lawn. Sitting there, where nothing should have been, was a pickup truck. It wasn't parked

at the curb or angled like someone had pulled in and turned around. It was on the grass itself,

positioned in a way that immediately signaled something was wrong. Inside of the cab, slumped forward

over the steering wheel, was a man who appeared either unconscious or worse.

Doug reacted in the way that most people would in that moment.

He got out of the car and approached the vehicle, already preparing himself for the possibility

that someone needed help.

As he moved closer, and the light shifted across the man's face, recognition set in.

It was Wayne Nance. Wayne was 30 years old, soft-spoken, and known around town as dependable.

He worked for Doug at the furniture store, the kind of employee you trusted in your home without a

second thought. If someone needed help moving something valuable or fragile, Wayne was the person that you sent.

Doug stepped up to the driver's side and tapped on the window. Wayne, are you okay?

Wayne stirred slowly, lifting his head with a dazed expression that seemed to confirm something was wrong.

When he spoke, his voice carried just enough urgency to cut through the confusion.

Doug, thank God you're here.

I saw someone around your house, an intruder.

...