Two years ago, my son was killed by a mass shooter. I’ve never spoken about it publicly until now.
Caryn Michaels

A few years ago a friend of mine had just gassed up and had pulled over to the side of the road. Not a rest area, a scenic overlook south of Sedona. She was in AZ helping her friend select a nice town to move to from NH. A young man with an assault weapon and military issue bullets came up behind them and pumped 23 rounds into the car. When the police came by the next morning, the engine was still running. She was possibly the most committed to spiritual growth of anyone I ever knew. A talented therapist and jazz singer, a thoroughly decent person. She had just become a grandmother and was looking forward to enjoying that experience. This murder of two people never made the tv news, it barely made the papers. The shooter went on to Tucson, where he pulled over into a parking lot of an animal clinic, and someone called the police, thinking it was suspicious. A shootout ensued, in which a sheriff, the father of 2 small children was killed. The ballistics linked his gun to the murders of the previous day. I have no doubt that my friend’s death and her friend’s would never have been anything but a cold case otherwise.

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