A Note to the Kirkwood City Council Killer

I did the math already. I figured out exactly where my family and I were when the shootings at the Kirkwood council meeting took place tonight. My wife and I had just gotten back from a walk around our section of Kirkwood, about a mile from downtown.

My Sister-in-law had fed our two children- our five-year-old boy and two-year-old Girl- and we chased them around for a few minutes and put them to bed. I finished preparing the potatoes for our dinner while the kids chattered and giggled in their room, hyper from playing with their aunt. My wife and I had a relaxed dinner in the living room and chatted about getting the sagging foundation of our house fixed and the funny things our kids did today. When we were done, I scolded the kids (trying not to smile at the mess they'd made of the bed they share) and told them to quiet down and go to sleep.

My wife commented that the sirens seemed unusual.

Barely a mile away, some guy whose name I didn't yet know had already shot and killed a policemen outside the City Hall. As I tucked my kids in, he was stalking crazily around the council chamber, in full sight of thirty residents, possibly even some kids, possibly even kids not unlike my own, firing at anyone who got in his way and shouting "shoot the mayor!" Apparently he succeeded. According to what we've gleaned from the local news, which is even now still flashing and warbling away in the next room, this random guy killed five people. I am assuming one of them was the mayor. I met the mayor once or twice. He seemed really cool. I liked him. And I don't like people easily. He reminded me of both of my grandfathers. He shook my hand as my wife and I went to vote this past presidential election. And now he's dead, along with four other people.

Apparently, the gunman shot at one of the attendees who was throwing chairs at him to bring him down. Damn, that takes guts. I hope the guy that did that isn't one of the dead ones too, but he probably is. That guy I'd liked to have met. Throwing chairs at a guy who's shooting people to kill is what a man does.

Shooting people because you have a crazy, whacked-out grudge isn't what a man does. That's why I am writing this note to you, that guy with the gun whose name I didn't know a few minutes ago. You know what? Even now I can't remember your name. Why should I? You're dead too, now. But if what the Bible says is true- and I believe it is- then you are out there somewhere, and maybe somehow you will be able to read this. I hope you do, because I want you to understand what I said. I'll repeat it:

Getting a gun and killing people over some stupid grudge isn't what a man does. That's the choice of a weakling, a mongrel, a human cur. Pointing a gun at an unsuspecting person and pulling the trigger doesn't take courage. It's the most cowardly thing a person can do. It's weak. It's a sign of a mind so cracked, either by defect or by will, that it has departed from the brotherhood of humanity.

What you need to know, you whose name I cannot nor will remember, is that those you left alive will not look at your actions and wonder if you were justified. No one will say, "Wow, he was really upset! I wonder what awful thing they did to him to push him so far? I wonder why they deserved to be killed?" No. Nobody is thinking that. No one is your advocate. No one is on your side. No one is thinking what you did was brave. No one sympathizes for you. There will be no plaques to honor you or your silly, stupid, pathetic cause.

In fact, in a way, you are worse than a terrorist. At least a terrorist can claim to kill for a noble cause, even if it is insane and twisted. Why did you kill? We know enough of the why. I heard the word "zoning". I heard that you used to have a construction company here in Kirkwood. I hear that you felt you'd been unfairly treated somehow. I probably don't need to tell you what I am about to say, do I? You probably know it by now. After all, you're dead, and I can only guess that being dead gives one a whole new perspective on these kind of things. But I am going to tell you anyway. Here it is:

No one believes zoning is a good reason to go on a killing rampage in front of innocent people and children. No one.

The world will forget about you, if it hasn't already. But while you are still on the world's mind, you should know that we are not pondering the validity of your complaint. We are just thinking you were a weak, sick, misguided coward who knew, like any monkey does, how to point something and pull a trigger. The world is grieving for those you killed, not you. We are wondering how best to honor the victims. The innocent people who saw you will wish forever that you had not been born. The children who might have seen your stupid, pathetic rampage will be broken, in some small part of their little hearts and minds, until they grow old and die. We will all take a tiny, insignificant bit of solace in knowing that at least you, too, are dead. And we will all wonder, for a short time, how a human being can allow themselves to shrink and shrivel into such a tiny, worthless little speck of cowardly bitterness? How can a person allow themselves to believe that killing the unsuspecting over a stupid grievance is justified? How can a person fool themselves into thinking a gun equals strength?

I'm glad you're dead, you whose name I won't remember. Not because I hate you. You don't deserve an emotion that strong. You were a bug. A bug with a gun. I'm glad you're dead because you were too stupid to know how to live. You were too weak to know how to be a man. You were a cur with rabies. I only wish the first policeman had seen the foam on your lips before you got close enough to do your wimpy, weakling work.

And the rest of you who think pointing a gun means strength, are you watching? Are you seeing how we'll honor the dead, rather than consider what wrong they did to their killer? Are you seeing how we will soon forget the killer but revere his victims? Are you taking notes? I hope you will remember that the person who pulls the trigger on the unsuspecting is known for what he is: a weakling and a coward; a sick, tiny, forgettable lump of human debris. I hope you are watching. It isn't too late to learn how to live. It isn't too late to abandon weakness and learn, at least a little bit, how to be strong.

It is too late for you, though, the gunman lying dead a mile or so away, the guy whose name I already can't remember. You could've learned how to be strong, but you refused.

The guy who threw the chairs at you was strong. I hope he lived. I want to see what courage looks like. After all, I've seen enough of what abject weakness looks like.

(Update: the mayor was not, in fact, killed. He was wounded, but I do not know how badly. The guy who threw chairs at the gun-wielding weakling also survived. Five others were not so fortunate. The gun-wielding weakling is dead, too, but he hardly counts.)