Mr. Presley and I spend the morning with now-familiar habits: we settle the children into their virtual classrooms, feed the dogs, start the dishwasher. We discuss the latest morning headlines and the pleasant monotony of an uneventful inauguration. Mr. Presley makes a grocery list and dinner plans. I send Snapchat updates of our new puppies to friends and family.
Just after noon, someone fires five shots at our neighbor's home, then flees on foot.
This house has now been targeted four times since Christmas Eve: either a wealth of warning shots, or the world's sorriest sharpshooters. Save perhaps an inflatable Santa, there has yet to be a casualty.
Each time, we follow the same steps: look for the type of vehicle, the number of occupants. We reach out to our neighbors and the block watch, make the appropriate calls, count the minutes before police arrive. If they arrive; sometimes, they don't. If they do, officers take down the house number, ask a polite question here and there, and life carries on.
When it happens with such frequency, these tasks don't feel like unusual means of survival.
It's just part of the property tax.
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"This Nation doesn't believe in me because it was designed to forget about me."
Twenty-seven year old Christopher Harris was an active member of his community, a father figure to his girlfriend's child, and supportive of his family and friends. He often told his friends he loved them; he encouraged their goals and advised them about problems. He asked about their well-being and their mental state. He'd completed his Associate's degree and was working towards his Bachelor's.
Under the weight of the pandemic, politics, and personal crisis, Harris turned to faith for comfort and support. But his takeaway seemed to inspire increasingly erratic behavior, citing the presence of demons and malicious spirits.
Harris knew something was wrong, but resisted suggestions about pursuing help for his mental health. Instead, he burrowed deeply into the conspiracy theories heavily promoted via social media. He stocked up on food, water, and seed starters, stating that "We are up against something deeper than a virus."
He posted his theory a cousin had died and been replaced with a hired "fake" by other members of his family. He also repeated his belief that he had been injected with herpes. He thought that Satan was actively attempting to manipulate him. More than once, he claimed himself to be Jesus Christ incarnate. During the Capitol riots, he rejoiced about the forthcoming "Wrath of God".
And like many others, at some point, Harris bought a gun.
On January 8th, Harris [allegedly] spray painted the Rosary Cathedral in downtown Toledo before lighting the front doors on fire: when confronted by police, he showed officers a gun and fled the scene. Shortly after, SWAT teams surrounded the house on Fulton Avenue. Although negotiatiors spent hours attempting to facilitate his surrender, Harris did not trust them, demanding instead to speak to Ohio Governor Mike Dewine or the President. Despite her pleas, his mother was not permitted past the police line to reach her son.
During the standoff itself, Harris continued to update his Facebook. One such post reads only, "Stand off. Wit the police."
In a matter of hours, Harris would become both a killer and a victim.
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Officer Brandon Stalker, age 24, was not part of the SWAT team negotiating Harris' surrender. He graduated the police academy and started his service with the Toledo force in 2018. Off duty, Stalker was an assistant coach for his alma mater's baseball team, the same high school from which I also graduated. He was the devoted father of two, a fiancé, an only son.
Stalker had, of all things, a fondness for roller skating. Throughout the course of his life, he would not only regularly attend events at the local skating rink, but lent his time to volunteer, teach youth, and provide security.
As recently as last year, he frequented our tattoo studio.
Although he was not my client, I remember him clearly: he was loyal to his artist, laughed often during their sessions. We were familiar enough for friendly greetings, not close enough to become Facebook friends. He was, by all accounts, a kind man.
When Harris exited the house to face the SWAT team, he did so armed and firing erratically. Officer Stalker was struck and killed while he attempted to secure the perimeter. His marks the third officer-involved shooting in Lucas county within the last two months.
Last month, two young men were both steadfast in their belief they were doing their part to save the world.
Today, both men are dead.
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For weeks now I've struggled to organize my feelings. The first drafts were deleted half a dozen times from Facebook. I feared people leaving condolences for a tragedy not mine to mourn. I prepared for criticism that I might dare empathize with a man who simply could not withstand the weight of the world.
I watched the outpouring of support for Officer Stalker, the GoFundMes, the t-shirts and vigils. I watched a community mourn. In a matter of days, donations exceeded $50,000.
But below the surface of this kindness, there remained an ugly undercurrent. Following her interview pleading that others heed their loved ones' warning signs, Christopher Harris's mother was repeatedly attacked for not - containing? controlling? - her adult son's mental illness. For daring to mention his loving nature or scholastic accomplishments. For mentioning that he was Black.
The same people announcing their generous contributions to one family publicly cheered the other family's loss, as though one death has ever truly been paid for by another.
And in the wake of everything, contrary to public opinion, I still do not believe that either "cop" nor "criminal" can be an all-encompassing definition of any human.
Pointing out that Harris could simply have surrendered requires the assumption that he was of sound mind and reason during this standoff. To be frank, he was not. By the time the standoff was underway, Harris considered himself a religious figure dedicated to fighting what he perceived as actual evil. There should have been no expectation that he would behave per anyone's expectations under further pressure. His was not a premeditated act of murder, but a show of desperation in the face of utter delusion.
I worry that the truth of the matter is a rapidly growing number of people who have simply masked their own mental struggles -- fearing, perhaps, even unconsciously, that a world that often seems mad has finally prevailed.
We are not designed to ask for help. Least of all with what seems the most fundamental of tasks: functioning as one's self.
I do not believe that Christopher Harris intended to kill anyone.
Nor do I believe that Brandon Stalker deserved to die.
Both families will be marred permanently by this tragedy: no folded flag replaces a father, and no mental illness excuses murder. From the outside, we struggle to justify the unjustifiable. We pray earnestly that we will not find ourselves in either circumstance.
What we consistently fail to do, however, is consider how we might come together to prevent it. To consider why we should care about people whose problems do not mirror our own before their name makes national headlines.
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In contrast, there was no definitive follow-up to the shooting outside our home. Police finished their paperwork without conducting any interviews - without, in fact, so much as exiting their vehicles. All five shell casings were left in the snow. Detectives declined to return multiple calls while the shooter's footprints faded away.
Four shootings in as many weeks, each one targeting the same house. The man who lives there whistles as he walks his garbage cans to the street.
Meanwhile, the rest of us have little choice but to keep watch; we remain uncertain of what he's done, uncertain what will happen. We carry on, waiting for the next shooting, hoping no one's children get caught in the crossfire.
However blind lady Justice herself may be, her scales never quite weigh evenly.
And yet, our futures hang in the balance.
Mental Health Resources:
Text CONNECT to 741741 for 24/7 support.
1-800-662-HELP for mental health services