Pheasant, Ridge Arizona. April 27 2011

My name is James Anderson, and I'm a husband and father. My daughter's name is Ayla; she's five years old. Ayla is a pretty little thing with blonde hair and bright blue eyes, a real All-American girl. She likes to laugh a lot, and her laughter is a bright, happy sound that fills our home. Ayla has known our friend Josh since she was born. There was never anything unusual about how they interacted. He's like an uncle to her. She even called him Uncle Josh.

I've always known Josh. His full name is Joshua Peter Wetterling. He's 25 years old, has light brown hair, and is a big guy at 210 lbs and 5'6". We've always been on the same local adult softball team, Stick Talk. We play for fun, but we're a good team. This season, we were 9 and 3. I pitch, and Josh plays third base. It's common for Josh to come to our house after a game. We drink a few beers, fire up the barbecue, and hang out. It's really casual, you know. Our daughter and our pets know Josh. He has always been a part of the family, a quiet presence at our family gatherings and get-togethers.

On Saturday, August 27th, we played the Los Pirates at Desert West Sports Complex on Encanto Boulevard. It wasn't a serious game; we were still preparing for the playoffs. But we won, 3-1. It was a fun game, the kind of night that felt like a perfect summer memory. The air was cool and crisp, and the sky was a deep, dark blue. After the match, several of the team returned to my house for a barbecue and a swim. My wife, Laura, and I live on West Berkeley Road in a quiet suburban neighborhood. We have a nice big yard and a pool. It's a perfect place to hang out. I fired up the barbecue, and the kids were in the pool, their laughter a bright, happy sound that echoed in the night. The pitcher, Scott, was there with his wife, Emily, and their daughter, Mary. Josh was there, too, a familiar presence on the patio, holding a cold beer and chatting with Scott.

After we finished eating, the ladies cleaned up, and the guys and I drank a couple of beers in the yard. The sky was dark, but the yard was lit by the soft glow of the patio lights. It must have been about 10 p.m. now. Mary was tired, so Scott and Emily went home. Josh and I stayed out in the yard, the quiet broken only by the sound of our voices and the crickets in the grass. We talked about the game, the season, and our plans for the playoffs. At around 11:30, Laura came out and told me that Ayla had fallen asleep on the couch. She then went to bed. Around 1:30 a.m., I told Josh I was tired and going to bed, but he could see himself out when he finished his beer. I didn't think twice about leaving him alone. He was like family. So I went into the house, picked up Ayla from the couch, and carried her to her bedroom. I kissed her on the forehead and tucked her in. Then I went to bed.

At 8:30 on Sunday morning, Laura went to get Ayla out of bed. I heard her call Ayla's name, but there was no response. Ayla’s bed was unmade. Her stuffed animals were on the ground next to the bed, but Ayla wasn't in bed. A cold knot of fear formed in my stomach. Laura then went into the living room to see if Ayla was watching cartoons. At about 8:45, Laura came back into the bedroom and got me out of bed because she couldn't find Ayla.

My heart was pounding, a frantic drumbeat in my chest. My mind, which was still half-asleep, was trying to make sense of what was happening. I ran into the garage to look for her, and that's when I saw that my truck was missing. It's a blue 2002 GMC Sierra pickup. I ran back into the house, a frantic energy coursing through me, and grabbed the phone. At 8:55, I called Josh to ask if he had my truck. The phone just rang and rang. He didn't answer. Laura had been up and down the street. She walked down West Holly Street and North 85th Lane, her voice a desperate cry as she called our daughter's name. The neighborhood was quiet, and no one was outside. At about 9:15, I called you guys.

My daughter and my truck are missing, and my friend took them both. I don't know why, but I know what I know.

Sincerely,

James Anderson