The last week in Fayetteville has been incredible.
That's an odd way to feel in the wake of Officer Steven Carr's slaying as he sat in a patrol vehicle behind police headquarters just a block off the downtown square.
Last Saturday night, shortly after a man fired point-blank at the 27-year-old officer as he prepared for his shift, my teenage son's Snapchat app on his iPhone burst with messages. Friends at the annual Lights of the Ozarks display on the square told of gunfire and people hiding or running away.
News came quickly that an officer or officers had been shot. Momentary prayers that our community's protectors had escaped injury soon became the kinds of prayers that follow inexplicable loss: Why, Lord? Help us to understand, Lord. Be with the officers and their loved ones, Lord. Help this community come to grips with its loss and mourning, Lord.
Within 30 seconds or so, a young man's life came to a violent end as he proudly wore the uniform he'd first donned a little more than two years earlier. Another guy, some lost soul, died in an alley moments later as Carr's colleagues ended the threat to the greater community.
The assailant, who we learned Friday shot Officer Carr 10 times and fired several more times, had another 82 rounds of ammunition on him. It is frightening to consider what he might have done had officers not stopped him.
The Washington County Sheriff's Office released videos from their investigation showing security cameras that captured the shooter walking in front of the City Administration Building to the busy square, moments before he diverted toward the police department and found a vulnerable and unsuspecting target.
Some will suggest these videos should be withheld from public view. I do not. I have no interest in seeing Officer Carr's fatal injuries, which the videos thankfully do not show, but I welcome the opportunity to have a greater understanding of how this happened. I welcome the opportunity to see the split-second decision-making of officers, who ran toward danger because someone was endangering their community.
I went to the candlelight vigil on Dickson Street Tuesday evening. The cold breeze from time to time made it difficult to keep the flame going. I lit mine twice from the candle of someone standing nearby. It reinforced how we were all there together, unified in mourning and in appreciation for the Fayetteville Police Department and the community. I was most touched when I saw officers surrounded by what I took to be family members -- a spouse, young kids. They clung to one another.
Even as I shared the weight of loss with everyone there, seeing these officers with their families reminded me I cannot fully comprehend how they each pay a price for our community's safety every time a new shift begins.
At Carr's funeral, the most gut-wrenching moment came with the traditional dispatcher's end-of-watch call for an officer killed in the line of duty. Carr's badge number is 413.
"Headquarters to 413 ... (silence) ... headquarters to 413 ... (silence) ... headquarters to 413 ... (silence) ... ." How can silence be so devastatingly loud?
Fayetteville, Northwest Arkansas and the nation poured out a lot of emotion last week, delivering deserved respect to Officer Carr's sacrifice, but even more to his service. Our community showed Carr's family that his too-short life had still been one of significance. And a lot of people helped each other start down a path of healing with expressions of shared compassion, whether by candlelight or under the roof of Bud Walton Arena.
Tragedy struck the community a week ago, and it was awful. In the days since, though, hope has been at the center of the response to Carr's passing.
The light wins.
Commentary on 12/15/2019