Rivers’s first thought was that it was a prank call, an occupational hazard when you’ve spent twenty-plus years doing comedy bits and song parodies like “Cheeseburger with Parasites” and the Christmas favorite “Buttcracker Suite.”

The cop asked if he was really speaking to Bob Rivers. “I answered yes, and waited for the punch line,” says Rivers. “But he said, ‘Oh, I’m very glad to hear your voice because, obviously, that means it wasn’t you in your plane.’”

Rivers suddenly realized the guy was serious. There must be a mistake, he told the officer. “My plane is in its hangar on Orcas Island.” No way his Cessna could have been in the air that day. He certainly hadn’t flown it, and even though friends sometimes took the plane up, they always asked first. Besides, this was definitely a no-fly day. Just an hour before, as their newswoman read the local weather, the thought that shot through pilot Bob’s weather-obsessed mind was, Boy am I glad I’m not flying in that!

The statie read out the plane’s tail number: November 2-4-6-5-8.

“Yes, that’s my number,” Rivers told him. “But a lot of people confuse the 8 with a B because tail numbers usually end with a letter.” He heard the cop relay the message to the tribal police chief who was standing next to the plane. After a moment he came back on the phone: “Nope, he says it’s definitely an 8, not a B. It’s your plane.”

RIVERS’S PHONE BEGAN RINGING off the hook: the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB), FAA, San Juan County Sheriff’s Office, Bureau of Indian Affairs, and FBI. The realization that his plane had been stolen began to sink in. They had no suspects, but at least, thought Rivers, with all these organizations involved and the search teams scouring the landing site, they’d be sure to catch the crook and solve the case instantly. The thief had a forty-five-minute head start, but he was outnumbered and had experienced Yakama hunters and tracking dogs on his trail.