In the early nineteen eighties, a Minneapolis midnight is shattered by a phone call. A veteran dispatcher answers, the air thick with the hum of fluorescent lights and stale coffee. On the other end of the nine-one-one line, a man’s voice, fragile as cracked glass, whispers an apology. He sobs out directions to a crime scene, then there’s a breathy silence… and the dead tone of a hung-up phone....
