Imagine for a moment the sound of a man who has lost everything.

Not to something external, not to fire or a bad decision, or to a relationship falling apart.

Imagine the sound of a man who has lost control over the one thing we rely on to define ourselves.

The ability to decide what we do.

The ability to stop.

It's 3 a.m. in the Twin Cities.

The year is 1981.

There's a kind of cold that has settled into the city that isn't just uncomfortable.

It's invasive. It pushes through layers, through walls, through whatever separation you think you have from it.

Most of the city is asleep.

But inside of a small, sterile room, lit by the muted glow of a switchboard, a dispatcher answers a ringing phone. On the other end, there is no

shouting, no threats, no demands, just a sound. It's unsteady, high-pitched, controlled just enough

to stay on the line, but not enough to hide what's underneath. It sounds less like anger and more like panic,

like someone who understands what they've done, but cannot reconcile it.

And then, the voice breaks through.

Well, you finally, I just tapped somebody with an ice pick.

I can't stop myself. I keep killing somebody.

God damn will you find me, he says, the words catching as he speaks. I just stab somebody with an

ice pick. I can't stop myself. I keep killing somebody. Now, as you heard, there's no confusion in what he's saying.

There's no attempt to disguise it.

It's just a statement delivered through something that sounds disturbingly close to fear.

This is Paul Michael Stefani.

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