“I radioed in to the dispatcher and gave her the twenty-eight—that’s a license plate, if you didn’t know.  Know what she said?  The car was from Minneapolis.  Holy shit, was my heart beating.  I told her what I thought I had.  She didn’t believe me.  Not at first, anyway.  What were the chances that this guy would be all the way up north here?”

The police band radio squawks, something about a twenty.

Phil releases the mike from the side of the radio receiver and says, “Fifty-two twelve, I’m ten-six with a ten-twelve.  I’m southbound on 75, north of Crookston.”