True North Communications

emergency

A staple gun, plywood and the power of clear crisis communications

by Jen Longaecker

In a crisis, clear and consistent messaging isn’t a luxury. It’s the difference between a community that recovers and one that unravels.

One week after an EF-4 tornado killed five people and obliterated dozens of homes in Greenfield, Iowa — a town of 2,000 in the middle of nowhere — there was still no clear, concise or consistent messaging coming from a single source. Residents didn’t know where to get food, how to apply for FEMA assistance or when the curfew lifted. Information was buried in long, unstructured Facebook posts. The website was inaccessible.

That’s when I arrived. And a hammer, a staple gun, some plywood and a box of Ziploc bags became the most important tools I had.

PIOs and communicators often use the tools most convenient for us — and forget about who we’re actually talking to and what they need.

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Key takeaways

  • When official communications fail, communities fill the vacuum with rumor, confusion and fear. One week without clear messaging is too long.
  • Understand your audience. Residents sorting through rubble don’t need long Facebook posts — they need three bullet points they can act on right now.
  • Build relationships quickly. The county commissioner turned PIO didn’t need a lecture — she needed a pep talk and a partner.
  • Clear and consistent messaging from one source is the foundation of effective crisis communications. Everything else is secondary.
  • Sometimes the right tool is a staple gun and a piece of plywood. Meet people where they are, not where it’s convenient for you.

A hammer, staple gun, plywood and Ziploc bags.

They can be a PIO’s most useful tools in a crisis. Especially in a community like Greenfield, Iowa. Population: 2,000. Location: Middle of nowhere.

I arrived in Greenfield in May 2024 one week after an EF-4 tornado cut a swath through the quaint and tight-knit town, killing five people, injuring 35 and obliterating dozens of homes.

A former cops and courts reporter, 911 dispatcher and PIO for a state public safety organization, I’ve seen and heard a lot. What I saw when I arrived in Greenfield assaulted my senses on a level I’d never experienced. Watching families sort through the piles of twisted metal and rubble that were once their home felt intrusive. Like I was looking through the windows at an incredibly intimate moment. Except there were no windows. There was nothing.

A piece of debris with Greenfield Strong spray painted on it in red.

I almost had a panic attack. Instead, I motored my rental car through town and headed toward the incident command post.

Stepping in to help

I walked into a 1970s-era high school where the incident command staff were located. The acting PIO — a county commissioner who wanted to help the emergency manager who was her long-time friend — greeted me with a hug then quickly crumpled. “I’ve never been so happy to see someone I’ve never met,” she said quietly.

We became fast friends.

I asked what information she’d been sharing and how. She turned her laptop to me and scrolled through Facebook. Dozens of posts. All of them long. No structure. No way to discern information about donating food and money from details about how to have your house torn down.

“Where else is this information being shared?” I asked.

“This is it. I can’t get into the website. I know someone who knows someone who can get into it but I haven’t had time.”

Crisis within a crisis

The tornado had killed, injured and destroyed, changing the fabric of Greenfield forever. But now we had a new problem: no clear, concise and consistent messaging from one source — and it had been a week since the storm hit.

I asked the PIO to focus on nothing else but getting access to the website. Then I urged her to think back to her TV background — being part of a team telling a story. That’s all this was: telling people a story, making them feel something so they take action.

Then I hopped into a truck so we could identify key points around town where we’d build message boards. The fire department. The grocery store. The lumber yard. The church. A playground at ground zero of the destruction.

Ask for help from anyone you can

We enlisted volunteer firefighters who took pieces of plywood and pallets and quickly constructed boards where we could post information about debris removal, FEMA assistance, curfew, safety concerns and where to get food and supplies.

Back at the school, I bucketed the mass amounts of information into digestible chunks and branded it so people knew it was official. I printed off hundreds of pieces of paper and started shoving them into Ziploc bags to protect them from the rain.

I slept that night on a cot in a high school classroom with four people I met that morning who already felt like family. Sleep didn’t come easy as I ran through all the work it would take to make sure people had the right information to try and move forward.

Simple yet effective

The next morning, armed with a staple gun and a backup hammer, I drove around town and loaded the message boards with information. Three bullet points per category. Clear. Scannable. Actionable.

A crowd gathered at each location, thanking me and asking questions. I told them to go to the county’s emergency management website and Facebook pages and that we’d be back each morning updating the boards.

I walked around the town square and handed out information to shop owners to hang in their windows. They did so happily.

The next five days were filled with a lot more work — but those message boards are what I’m most proud of. PIOs and communicators often use the tools that are easiest and most convenient for us, forgetting about who we’re talking to and what they actually need.

A few days after I got home, I received a text from the county commissioner turned PIO.

“Do you have any crisis communications training you could recommend? Working with you and being in Greenfield reminded me how much I miss helping people by telling stories. Thank you for rekindling that passion in me — and for leaving behind the staple gun. I’ll always have it with me.”

Ready to prepare your team before the next incident?

True North’s training is built around lessons like these — practical, field-tested and designed to build the calm and confidence your team needs when it counts.

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When every word matters: The role of crisis communications in a statewide manhunt

by Jen Longaecker

For 43 hours, a killer was on the loose and people across the world were watching. Every word we put out had to be right.

Before founding True North Communications, I served as deputy communications director at the Minnesota Department of Public Safety. This is the story of one of the most demanding incidents of my career — and the one that most directly shaped how I approach crisis communications today.

On June 14, 2025, two Minnesota lawmakers were shot in their homes by a man impersonating a police officer. One was killed. Her husband and dog were also gunned down. Another politician and his wife barely survived. I got the call just before 4 a.m. By the time I hung up, we were already moving.

What followed was a 43-hour manhunt that tested every principle of crisis communications while national media where going live, a terrified public was looking for answers, dozens of agencies were coordinating in real time with nearly zero margin for error.

Speak with one voice. Verify. Hurry. But don’t rush. That’s the balance we strike in moments like these.

Facing a high-stakes situation? True North has been in that room.

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Key takeaways

  • Be fast, but don’t rush. Speed matters in a crisis but accuracy matters more. Every detail we shared was verified before it went out because a mistake in a manhunt doesn’t just damage credibility, it can cost lives.
  • One voice saves time and builds trust. Unified messaging across agencies and platforms eliminated confusion and built credibility when it was needed most.
  • Language access is lifesaving. Translating suspect information into multiple languages wasn’t an afterthought — it was essential. Tips from the public helped end the manhunt safely. Those tips only come when everyone has the information they need.
  • Proximity accelerates response. Being in the same room helped us collaborate, adapt and make rapid decisions under pressure. In a situation like this, being together matters.
  • Public trust is part of public safety. We treated the public as partners. Calm, clear messaging helped them make informed decisions — and led to the tips that brought Vance Boelter into custody.
  • Crisis reveals character and readiness. When the worst happens, your people, your plans and your purpose must all be ready. You operate on muscle memory. That’s why preparation matters before the call comes.

 

Reporters gather in the Minnesota State Emergency Operations Center as authorities announce the capture of Vance Boelter.

Reporters from across the country gather in the Minnesota State Emergency Operations Center as authorities announce the capture of Vance Boelter.

My work cell phone rang just before 4 a.m. Saturday, June 14. I jolted awake and answered after the first ring, not even muttering a bleary hello.

“This can’t be good,” I said.

Shootings. Hoffman. Hortman. Hospital. Critical condition. Impersonating a police officer. Suspect not located.

I heard my boss saying those words and I wished I was having a nightmare. But I wasn’t. It was time to get to work.

I logged onto my computer in the quiet early morning hours, still piecing together the limited information we had. Then came the first Teams call with members of the DPS senior leadership team. The details were still fuzzy but terrifying. Even with incomplete information, the mission was clear: support public safety by sharing accurate information, calming fears and helping law enforcement do their jobs.

I started making calls to the communications staff. Each of them groggily answered and carefully listened as I relayed what little we had and asked them to head to the State Emergency Operations Center in Blaine. In a situation like this, being in the same room matters. It allows a team to move quickly, collaborate effectively and make sure every message is clear, concise, complete and correct.

The task ahead

The job wasn’t just to inform. The mission was to support communications so hundreds of law enforcement officers could do their work: catch a cold-blooded assassin and keep the public safe.

The DPS communications team — many of them former journalists — dropped everything on Father’s Day weekend to respond. They organized news conferences, wrote statements and talking points, coordinated with law enforcement, took photos and monitored media and social media for rumors and misinformation. We supported one another while grappling with the magnitude of what was unfolding.

Reporters from across the country and around the world lit up our phones, hungry for details. The pressure to say something was immense. We focused on getting it right.

I kept silently repeating to myself: Speak with one voice. Verify. Hurry. But don’t rush.

When language access is lifesaving

We worked with local linguists to translate information about Vance Boelter so anyone watching the news or following social media — regardless of what language they spoke — knew exactly who law enforcement was looking for.

Translating descriptive information into different languages doesn’t happen without preparation, partnership and an understanding of the communities being served. It takes strong relationships with trusted translation partners built long before a crisis arrives. Because in a statewide manhunt, public safety depends on everyone having the information they need — not just in English, but in the languages our communities actually speak.

During those critical hours, clarity and reach weren’t luxuries. They were necessities. A single shared photo or description in the right language could mean the difference between another tragedy and someone stepping forward with key information.

The outcome

In the end, law enforcement captured Vance Boelter not far from his home in Sibley County. Tips from the public were critical in getting him into custody without anyone else being hurt.

The DPS communications team wasn’t out in the woods or in harm’s way. But for 43 hours, we worked behind the scenes under immense pressure alongside the most talented and dedicated public safety leaders this state has to offer. No law enforcement was injured. Nobody else had to face a killer.

Bringing Vance Boelter to justice won’t bring Melissa and Mark Hortman back. But that weekend is a reminder of why this work matters — why every detail, every message, every decision behind the scenes must be deliberate, coordinated and calm under pressure.

That experience is the foundation of everything True North does.

When the stakes are highest, experience is everything.

True North brings the judgment of someone who has been inside real incidents — not advising from the outside. If you want that kind of counsel on your side, let’s talk.

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