Here we are again. It’s been five months since I’ve I written a post about a mass murder. Oh, there have been plenty of mass murders to write about in those five months, and even more mass shootings, but how often can you repeat the same weary commentary?
Because it IS always the same. Every single fucking time, it’s the same. The names of the victims and shooters are different, the locations are different, the numbers of the dead vary, but the bodies are all dead in the same way and the guns involved are at least similar. I noted in my last mass murder post, that I’d already written 36 earlier mass murder posts. Three a year for 12 years. This will be my third in 2023. Let’s hope there won’t be another, but hey, we’ve still sixty-some days left. Plenty of time.
Hope. That’s pretty fucking useless, isn’t it. As useless as thoughts and prayers. As useless as writing blog posts. I mean, it’s true that I really do seriously hope there won’t be another major mass murder in the next two months, but it’s also true that I don’t have any hope at all. How can a person both hope and be hopeless at the same time? But here I am.
The early reports are that the butcher’s bill in Lewiston is at least 22 dead and maybe 60 wounded or injured. The actual numbers will likely change. They usually do. Over the next couple of days we’ll learn their names; we’ll see their photographs, we’ll see interviews with some of their families, we’ll see photos of the usual memorials–flowers and notes and teddy bears–at the crime scenes. We’ve seen all of this before and we’ll almost immediately forget it, because this is how we live in the United States.
We all know why this happens. We’ll ask the question, of course. Why does this keep happening? But c’mon, we know why. It’s the easy access to semi-automatic weapons and high capacity magazine and Republican lawmakers. It’s not a mystery.
Mass murder in the US isn’t really a tragedy anymore. It hasn’t been for years. It’s just another news item.
EDITORIAL NOTE: I’ve been reminded that earlier this year I won an Edgar award for Best Mystery Short Story. It was called Red Flag; it’s about a man–a survivor of a mass killing event–who moves to Lansing, Michigan, where he learns of a person talking about committing a mass murder. He tries to find some way to prevent it. It’s about Red Flag laws, the laws that some states have passed allowing the authorities to temporarily remove weapons from people believed to be a danger to themselves or others.
Michigan doesn’t have a red flag law. The day after I learned the story was going to be published, there was a mass murder event in Lansing, Michigan. How creepy is that?
The alleged shooter in Maine had apparently been committed to a mental health facility for a couple of weeks last summer. He was reportedly hearing voices and had talked about committing a mass shooting at a nearby military training base. This is precisely the sort of situation for which red flag laws are intended.
Maine doesn’t have a red flag law.