By Richard Stout
The recent mass shooting in Minneapolis once again forced families and communities to endure grief that should never become routine in America. I know this horror firsthand: I was a first responder at two mass shootings — including one in my own daughter’s classroom. I have seen mutilated bodies, families torn apart, and survivors left scarred for life.
One lesson from those experiences is clear: We cannot give shooters what they crave. They want attention and infamy. Ergo, we should not publish their manifestos, nor should we broadcast their names. We should not memorialize them in any way, because every time we do, we grant them the notoriety they sought. The focus must remain on the victims, their families, and on prevention — not on those who cause so much grief.
Recently, FBI Director Kash Patel called the Minneapolis shooting “barbaric” and confirmed it is being investigated as both a hate crime and an act of domestic terrorism. That matters.
The FBI’s definition of domestic terrorism is clear. Domestic terrorism is unlawful acts that threaten human life, intended to intimidate or coerce, and carried out within U.S. territory. By that standard, what else could a school shooting be? A gunman murdering children to terrify communities is the very definition of domestic terrorism. The pattern is plain and not unique to Minneapolis: Nashville, Parkland, or any other acts of senseless violence.
The FBI’s immediate response in Minneapolis shows both its strength and its limits. Dozens of agents, analysts, victim specialists, and technical teams surged to support local investigators and grieving families. The Special Agent in Charge of the Minneapolis FBI office, Alvin Winston, emphasized that the Bureau stood shoulder to shoulder with state and local partners. But the Bureau also confirmed its National Threat Operations Center received no prior tips about the shooter. That gap — between visible warning behaviors and information reaching investigators — is where prevention too often fails. Bridging that gap requires federal action and community vigilance when danger is in plain sight.
That radicalization was in plain sight in Minneapolis. Most mass shooters leak their plans beforehand. These are not vague clues but glaring warning signs. The shooter left journals, videos, and social media posts glorifying violence and murderous dictators. Classmates recalled Nazi salutes and disturbing obsessions years before the attack. None of this was hidden, and none of it was acted upon.
This shooting echoes Nashville in 2023, where the shooter left writings and online signals of her intent, and clear targeting based on Christian ideology.
These attacks often reflect incoherent ideologies. The Minneapolis shooter, a transgender, idolized Adolf Hitler while adopting identities and positions that Hitler himself persecuted — including homosexuals. Such contradictions show how online radicalization thrives on anger, not logic, and arms vulnerable people with any banner for violence.
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Schools and churches are chosen not by accident, but because they symbolize community, stability, and faith. More so, they represent a greater God at work in the universe that shooters blame for their own situations, rather than looking closely at their own actions. By attacking them, shooters aim for maximum disruption and fear while obtaining self-gratification for attacking those they perceive as “evil.”
If we recognize these shootings as terrorism, the consequences must match the crime. In state courts, shooters often face life without parole or, in some states, the death penalty. But even then, they linger in prisons where their names live on. Federal terrorism convictions, however, bring harsher penalties. Offenders can be placed in a federal supermax under Special Administrative Measures: total isolation, no media, no outside contact. In eligible cases, the death penalty is also on the table. The goal is not vengeance but deterrence. Treating mass shooters as terrorists strips them of the platform they seek and imposes the maximum restrictions our laws allow. It sends the only message that matters: You will not become famous, and instead will disappear into silence, irrelevance, and obscurity.
Still, policy debates mean little without prevention. Max Schachter, who lost his son Alex at Parkland, turned anguish into action by founding Safe Schools for Alex, advising federal threat assessment centers, helping launch SchoolSafety.gov, and pushing for the Luke and Alex Safety Act. The clearinghouse, first launched under the Trump administration and later strengthened by Congress, has faced challenges as administrations and budgets change. That fragility shows why school safety requires durable, bipartisan commitment, not political cycles.
Even so, Schachter’s work proves prevention is possible. Communities can act on warning signs, intervene early, and stop tragedies before they unfold. His example demonstrates how grief can be channeled into policy that saves lives.
The FBI must lead. For much of its history, the Bureau was reactive, but after 9/11, prevention became central. That same mindset must guide how we confront mass shootings. School threat assessment teams — made up of law enforcement, educators, and mental health professionals — work when fully supported, separating reckless talk from imminent threat. When intelligence, vigilance, and proven frameworks converge, chaos can be contained. But ignoring warning signs is negligence.
To move forward, we must treat these crimes as domestic terrorism, impose federal penalties that deny killers notoriety, ensure threat assessment teams are fully staffed, and confront online radicalization as the national security issue it has become.
Our children need safety in schools, churches, and communities, not more memorials, funerals, or fear. They need protection and action from the top down.
I have stood in the aftermath of mass shootings. I have seen the devastation. Prevention is possible, but only if we treat these crimes for what they are: domestic terrorism. We must be willing to impose the full weight of justice on those who commit these atrocious acts and prevent them from achieving their end goal of infamy.
Richard F. Stout, Jr. is a retired FBI Special Agent and founder of Reform the Bureau, a national group of former and current agents advocating for integrity, oversight, and accountability in federal law enforcement.
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