Imagine a quiet, suburban kid morphing into a would-be assassin, nearly rewriting the course of American history with a rifle and a rooftop perch.
On a fateful day in Butler, Pennsylvania, Thomas Crooks, a 20-year-old from Bethel Park, fired eight shots at a rally for President Trump, coming perilously close to striking the former and future leader, while leaving behind no clear motive for his shocking act, CBS News reported.
Born in 2003, Crooks grew up in a modest home just outside Pittsburgh, raised by social worker parents who valued family unity and service, as evidenced by his father’s aspirations for instilling virtues like generosity.
As a child, Crooks found joy in simple pleasures—building with Legos, crafting model airplanes, cheering for the Pittsburgh Steelers, and cooking holiday meals with his visually impaired mother.
“For Thanksgiving, me and my dad will cook turkey,” Crooks once shared, painting a picture of domestic normalcy with festive dishes and family traditions. That cozy image clashes hard with the reality of a young man secretly scheming violence—hardly the “family unity” his father hoped for.
Throughout his school years, Crooks kept a low profile, maintaining a lifelong friendship with Tristan Radcliffe, who described him as just “cool” and unremarkable. Yet, neighbors noted the family’s isolation, with few visitors and little openness, a seclusion that perhaps hid darker currents.
Academically, Crooks shone brightly, scoring in the 99th percentile on his SAT with a 1530, and enrolling in a local community college in 2022 to save for a future engineering degree. His dedication earned praise from professors, one of whom marveled at a 3D-printed chessboard designed for the visually impaired—a stark contrast to the destructive plans brewing beneath.
But as his social circle shrank in college, Crooks’ secret life flourished unnoticed; even peers barely recalled him despite shared projects. It’s a chilling reminder of how easily someone can slip through the cracks in today’s disconnected, screen-obsessed world.
“He had his head on straight,” said professor Patricia Thompson, lauding his apparent path to success. If only that focus hadn’t veered into a shadowy obsession with explosives and firearms, one wonders how different this story might be.
By late 2023, while applying to engineering programs, Crooks’ online habits took a sinister turn, with increased visits to news outlets, weapons blogs, and sites about explosives, all while masking his tracks with encryption tools. This wasn’t just youthful curiosity—it was a calculated pivot to secrecy.
In the months before his attack, he ramped up privacy measures, using VPNs and encrypted email services, a far cry from the typical college kid browsing social media or gaming platforms. The progressive push for unchecked digital privacy might sound noble, but it also shields dangerous intent like this from scrutiny.
During the summer of 2023, Crooks purchased a rifle from his father and frequented a local sportsmen’s club, logging over 40 visits to practice shooting. Meanwhile, he was crafting homemade explosive devices in his bedroom—a horrifying duality of student by day, plotter by night.
On July 13, 2024, Crooks climbed a rooftop in Butler, Pennsylvania, and unleashed eight shots toward President Trump, an act that could have shattered the nation’s future. The bullets missed their mark, but the incident left a wound on public trust and safety.
Despite exhaustive investigations, no manifesto or explanation emerged to clarify why Crooks targeted Trump, leaving law enforcement and communities grasping for answers. In an era where radical ideologies—often fueled by unchecked online echo chambers—can twist young minds, this void of motive is as unsettling as the act itself.
