By Jesse Marx
By Chris Parker
By Jake Rossen
By Jesse Marx
By Michelle LeBow
By Alleen Brown
By Maggie LaMaack
By CP Staff
Rasmusson's energy earned her the nickname "Bubbles."
Just before Rasmusson's 25th birthday, someone in the department suggested a bet to see who could lose the most body fat in three months. Rasmusson, who had always been overweight, threw $25 into the pool, and started exercising and eating healthy for the first time in her life.
After the three months, Rasmusson weighed almost 15 pounds lighter. She was hooked. A year later, she'd lost 85 pounds and had to get a special allowance for a brand new uniform, duty belt, and bulletproof vest.
"It wasn't a rapid transition," she says. "It was hard work."
Rasmusson continued losing weight after she transferred to the St. Paul Police Department in 2001, running six miles a day before her shifts, and frequenting the department gym two to three days a week.
By 2003, however, Rasmusson's health became an issue. While still with the Eden Prairie department, she'd arrived at the home of a woman having a heart attack. The woman was on the floor; to reach her they needed to move a heavy coffee table. Rasmusson and her partner lifted the table, and Rasmusson heaved backward, right into a massive entertainment center. She heard the crack of bone.
At the hospital, she found out she'd broken her coccyx. The damage was so severe that a large section of bone had to be removed, making her spine end abnormally high.
Over the years, the pressure from wearing a heavy belt and sitting for hours in a squad car took its toll. She was losing feeling in her legs. Her pelvis was sitting off kilter.
Finally, after her doctors told her the problem would only get more severe, she accepted a medical retirement. By then, she was married to a Minneapolis police officer, and all their friends were cops. She suddenly found herself an outsider.
"It was devastating," she says.
The combination of poor health and a lost career put a strain on the young marriage. In 2007, Rasmusson and her husband divorced. She moved to Lakeville, a south metro city where many of her friends from the force lived.
Looking for ways to occupy her time, she turned again to exercise. She started training at the Lifetime Fitness in Lakeville, a gym popular with police officers from several different agencies. In 2009, she competed in her first body sculpting competition.
It was also during this time that strange events began to happen.
The first incident came when she was reconnecting with a friend from the academy. He casually mentioned that he and his partner had looked up her driver's license photo on the computer in their squad car, and commented that she looked great.
"I wasn't aware that the technology had advanced to that point," Rasmusson says. "It was a friend, but I thought it was a little odd."
Rasmusson also began receiving unsolicited dating offers from cops. An officer she'd met briefly years before texted her asking if she'd like to go boating. Confused by such a forward invitation from someone she could barely remember, she texted back, "I think you have the wrong Anne."
Moments later, the reply arrived: "I've definitely got the right Anne."
She politely declined.
Before long, she stopped seeing a man she'd been out with a couple of times. He didn't take it well, and continued calling, even cruising by her house. In a series of texts, the man said his friend, another police officer, had "filled him in" on her past, her dating life, and even the kind of car she was driving.
She told him never to contact her again.
While training for her fitness competition, Rasmusson overheard cops who frequented the gym gossiping about what she used to look like, even though she hadn't met them until after she was skinny.
The final straw came after a bad breakup. Her boyfriend—a trainer at Lifetime—knew many of the same officers she did from the gym, and wasn't shy about sharing the details. Destroyed and embarrassed, she decided to move away from Lakeville, her gym, and all the cops gossiping about her.
"I just wanted some privacy," she says. "I didn't know what more to do."
In 2009, Rasmusson moved to a small, comfortable bungalow on 160 acres of an old pine tree farm. Far away from the cities, she figured she'd finally be safe. She changed her phone number and told her family not to tell anyone her new address.
But her newfound tranquility was shattered two years later. She was contacted by the Lakeville police on behalf of her ex-boyfriend, the trainer from the gym, who complained that she'd violated a harassment order by sending him an email. Confusion over whether the order was actually served to Rasmusson led the officer to drop the matter. But the incident meant that cops knew her address and new phone number.
All the old stories about cops accessing her driver's record came flooding back.
"I need to know if I'm being paranoid," she thought.
She decided to call the Department of Public Safety to find out if there was a way to put a block on her driver's record. There wasn't. Distraught, she was transferred to a data practices coordinator.