There has been another school shooting. There's no need to even name it as it's just another page in a book being written by a sleeping America.
In the aftermath the usual finger-pointing and appropriation of the tragedy happens. In lieu of soapboxes, the demagogues stand on the corpses of the victims stacked high so they can shout at the people around them. Quickly the backlash against the initial appropriation happens and a new round of finger-pointing and character assassination ensues. As the sun sets, new people rise to attack the attackers, and the discussion drifts away from the scene of the crime...further and further away until nobody can remember what it was that set this exercise in recursion in motion.
Outside of this group, but standing next to them, are the people that confuse facts with knowledge. They scour the ground, marking bullet casings; they outline the bodies in chalk (ignoring the blood stains); they interview people and carefully note the exact time and location; with string they mark bullet trajectories to the holes in the walls (ignoring the blood stains). Later on they ask for medical records, school records, police records, divorce papers, birth certificates; they spread out further and interview neighbors, relatives. They'll take pictures of the house, of the rooms; they'll write down what tv shows they liked to watch, what video games they liked to play, what music they liked to listen to, what books they liked to read.
From the huge piles of data they'll set out to write their non-fiction novel noting every fact with mathematical precision. From the morning noting what was eaten for breakfast...to the first taping off of the crime scene, they'll list out in chronological order the events of the day in excruciating detail; no stone unturned, no datum unmentioned.
In the end, they'll place their hand on their novel and pronounce "This is what happened". As if the completion of their novel is a funeral, and with their pronouncement the casket is closed, lowered into the grave and with this ceremonial finality they are able to leave it all behind. Deluding themselves with a sense of accomplishment and closure, they'll consider the case closed. At night they dream on soft pillows, blissfully unaware of the next massacre that approaches from the future.
