Presbyterians make a fetish of doing things decently and in good order. Translation: slowly, carefully, and unemotionally. I know. I grew up among God's frozen-chosen. One winter, my brother and I wanted to put a bin in the narthex to collect coats for the homeless. Everyone thought it was a great idea, but by the time the Outreach Committee approved, and Property and Worship weighed in on location and décor, it was swimsuit season. My point is that Presbyterians are not known for walking into shopping malls with handguns and opening fire on tattooed teenagers, screaming about how they've made desecrating abominations of their pierced and painted bodies.

"It's just not the type of thing Steve would do," the Reverend Melissa MacDonald was telling me for the fourth or fifth time. "You can't imagine a sweeter, quieter guy. I've never seen him get angry at anything--not even to raise his voice. I just can't imagine him doing such a thing."

What she was giving me, of course, was a textbook profile of a repressed-angerkiller: the type of guy who stores up every tiny insult, every little provocation, until something pushes him over the brink. I know that, too. My name is Adam Lamb, and I'm a psychological consultant to the Metro police force. That means I've seen way too many textbook killers. I wasn't even surprised that he was deeply religious: I've also seen more than my share of God-fearing family men turn guns on children, spouses, and themselves. Some are psychotic. Some think they're sending their families on shortcuts to heaven. Some just don't care anymore. Almost all were sweet, quiet guys whose friends struggle through denial, just as the Reverend Melissa was doing now.

In her heart, Ms. MacDonald knew as well as I did that her parishioner had managed to fire off three full clips of bullets before police and security guards swarmed the scene. Luckily, he'd been a lousy shot, and had barely managed to nick his intended targets. At worst, a couple of them would have interesting scars to explain in old age, along with those from the tattoos they would someday be having removed, when the fashion pendulum swings and body art goes the way of bobby socks. What I wanted to know was why Simons had done it. If there was a why. Sometimes, there isn't--at least not one that makes sense.

"He even worked with our youth program," Ms. MacDonald added.

"In what capacity?"

"Each summer we do a mission trip. Last year, the kids went to Mexico to build a community center. This year, they'll be on the coast, helping low-income families repair flood damage. Steve was one of the counselors. I don't think he's missed a trip in a dozen years." Her voice caught. "Well, I guess he's missing this one." Another pause. "The kids loved him. He did lots of other things with them, too. He was single, lived alone, said it gave him lots of time."

I digested that for a moment. A youth-group advisor who watched kid-culture decline, year after year, feeling that the world was accelerating toward total decadence? Hell, that described everyone over thirty. But youth advisors tend to be nonjudgmental. Could one internalize all of the judgments everyone else makes, until eventually he explodes? Theoretically possible, but unlikely, my intuition said. Still, when the guy blew up, he'd started shooting at kids. There had to be a connection. I was surprised the Reverend Melissa didn't see it. Well, almost surprised. Denial is powerful. I know about that one, too.