In the early nineteen eighties, as snow hushed the streets of Minneapolis and Saint Paul, a night-shift dispatcher sat under the buzz of fluorescent lights. Past midnight, the line clicked open, and a high, sobbing voice cut through the static, pleading, “Please do not talk. Just listen.” This was a killer, dialing nine-one-one not to threaten, but to confess. His breath hitched, and a whisper ...
