As more and more details come out about the Tucson shooting, it’s becoming clearer that the shooter (whose name I will not mention) had serious mental issues. Indeed, some people have looked at his writings and conduct and speculate that he was schizophrenic, perhaps enhanced by drug and alcohol abuse. He needs treatment, medication, and intense therapy to return to something resembling stability.
I don’t care.
I don’t care about his mental state at the time of the shooting. I don’t care about its origins. I don’t care about how it might be treated.
He damn near killed a member of the House of Representatives. He did kill a federal judge and five others — including a 9-year-old girl born on 9/11/01. He wounded a dozen more, some gravely. Many, many lives will never be the same.
For that, there must be justice. He must face a jury of his peers for his actions. And should he be convicted, the death penalty is applicable and available in this case. Should that not be imposed, then life imprisonment would be appropriate.
Years ago, in the movie “Manhunter,” the first Hannibal Lecter movie, an FBI profiler is asked if he empathizes with the serial killer he’s hunting. And that exchange has always stuck with me:
You feel sorry for him.
As a child, my heart bleeds for him. Someone took a little boy and
turned him into a monster. But as an adult… as an adult, he’s
irredeemable. He butchers whole families to fulfill some sick fantasy.
As an adult, I think someone should blow the sick fuck out of his socks.
I’m sorry that the alleged killer had such issues. I wish to hell he’d gotten the help he needed before he acted yesterday. But now it’s too late, and he must never be given the slightest opportunity to lash out again.