On a clear spring night in 2008, a 19-year-old college student made a phone call that would last 47 minutes—and end his life as everyone knew it. Brandon Swanson had just finished celebrating the end of his first year studying wind turbines at Minnesota West Community and Technical College. He was driving home to Marshall, Minnesota, a route he’d taken countless times, sometimes multiple times a day. It should have been simple. It should have been safe. It should have ended with him walking through his front door and falling into bed.​​

Instead, Brandon Swanson vanished into the darkness of rural Minnesota, leaving behind only two words that have haunted investigators, search teams, and his parents for seventeen years: “Oh, shit.”

A Small-Town Boy With Big Dreams
Brandon Victor Swanson was born on January 30, 1989, in Porter, Minnesota, to Brian and Annette Swanson. He grew up in Marshall, a small city of about 13,000 people in the southwestern part of the state, where everyone seemed to know everyone and life moved at a gentler pace than in the big cities.​​

Brandon was the kind of young man parents dream of raising. Responsible. Intelligent. Dependable. He graduated from Marshall High School in 2007 and immediately enrolled in Minnesota West Community and Technical College to study wind turbine technology—a forward-thinking field that promised both environmental benefits and stable employment.​​

For four years before college, Brandon had worked at the local Hy-Vee Food Store, building a reputation as a reliable employee who showed up on time and did his job well. His mother, Annette, would later recall that he loved reading, often losing himself in books during his free time.

Brandon had plans—big plans. After completing his year at the Canby campus of Minnesota West, he intended to transfer to Iowa Western College, a move that would take him 250 miles away from his family. It would be his first time living far from home, his first real step toward independence and adulthood. Eventually, he hoped to pursue a four-year degree, possibly in science, a field that had always fascinated him.

But there was one detail about Brandon that would later become significant in the investigation: he was almost totally blind in his left eye. He wore glasses to correct the issue as much as possible, but he still struggled with depth perception. In daylight, on familiar roads, it wasn’t a major problem. But in darkness, on rural roads with few landmarks? That was a different story.​

On Tuesday, May 13, 2008, Brandon’s academic year officially ended. Like college students everywhere, he decided to celebrate.​

A Night of Celebration
The evening of May 13 started innocently enough. Brandon first attended what was described as a small “get together” in Lynd, a town about seven miles from his home in Marshall. Only about six people attended this gathering, and friends who were there later told investigators that Brandon had consumed one alcoholic drink during his time there.​​

After leaving the Lynd gathering, Brandon drove approximately 35 miles to Canby, where a classmate was hosting a farewell party. This friend was moving away, and students wanted to give him a proper send-off. At this second party, witnesses reported seeing Brandon have one or two drinks. Multiple people at the party would later tell police that Brandon did not appear visibly intoxicated.​​

Around midnight, Brandon decided it was time to head home. He said his goodbyes, climbed into his Chevrolet Lumina, and began the drive back to Marshall. His friends watched him leave, and nothing about his demeanor or behavior gave them any cause for concern. He seemed fine to drive. He seemed fine period.​

The drive from Canby to Marshall should have taken about 35-40 minutes. Google Maps shows it as essentially one straight shot down Highway 68—a simple, direct route that Brandon had driven many, many times before. There was no reason to think anything would go wrong.

But somewhere between Canby and Marshall, something did go wrong.​​

Into the Ditch
At some point during his drive home, Brandon’s Chevy Lumina drifted off the road and into a ditch. He wasn’t speeding. He wasn’t swerving. He just… drifted a little, and because the curb was low, his vehicle couldn’t climb back onto the road. The wheels spun uselessly, unable to get traction.​

Brandon wasn’t hurt. The car wasn’t damaged. He was just stuck, and in 2008, in rural Minnesota in the middle of the night, being stuck meant you needed help.

He has tried calling his friends first. But it was late—after midnight now, creeping toward 1 AM—and either no one answered or no one was able to come help him. So Brandon did what any college kid would do in that situation: he called his parents.

The call came through to Brian and Annette Swanson’s home just before 2 AM. Despite the late hour, they responded immediately, their hearts already starting to race with parental worry. But Brandon’s voice was calm