I called 911 from the truck. I said there was a man on my roof removing my security cameras without my permission and that I was watching it happen live. The dispatcher asked if he was inside the house, and I said no, and she asked if I knew him, and I said yes, sort of, and she asked if anybody was home, and I said no, and she said officers would be dispatched and asked me not to return to the property until they arrived.
I returned to the property immediately. I am not proud of it. Kuna to Nampa is twenty minutes if you hit the lights right on Ten Mile and I didn't hit a single one. Skeet came down off the roof. He moved out of frame toward the front of the house. My doorbell camera and driveway camera both went offline within four minutes of each other, the little green dots on the app going gray, one, then the other.
When I turned onto Towhee Court, Skeet's truck was gone, and there was a Nampa police cruiser parked at my curb, and an officer was standing in my driveway with her hands on her duty belt, looking up at the empty, scarred place by my front door where my doorbell camera used to be. Two dangling wires. A rectangle of slightly cleaner siding. She turned around when I got out of the truck, and it was her, the same officer, the one from March and June. Her name tag said HENDRICKS. She had sandy hair pulled back tight and the sunburn of somebody who spent her days in parking lots, and when she saw me she let out a breath that was almost a laugh.
"Mr. Dupuis," she said. "You really are having a year."
"He took all of them?"
"Three that I can see. Front door, garage corner, and something on the side. There's a bracket up under your eave on the north side with nothing on it. You've got a fourth?"
"Back patio. It's what I watched him on."
"He didn't get it?"
"He didn't know it was there."