The public face of a tragedy is often not the bereaved relative or the hapless killer, but rather the official who steps before the microphones and brings the event into focus.
After the killings of five Amish schoolgirls in rural Pennsylvania on Monday, that state's 43-year-old police commissioner, Col. Jeffrey B. Miller, has emerged as the tragedy's messenger.
Miller, who joined the Pennsylvania State Police in 1984 and became the agency's top official in 2003, spoke before a large assemblage of reporters yesterday, describing in grim detail the tools Roberts had brought with him to the schoolhouse, including flexible plastic ties, eyebolts and lubricating jelly. Miller said it appeared that the 32-year-old milk truck driver intended to abuse the schoolgirls before killing them.
On Monday, after the extent of the bloodshed had become clear, Miller called the shootings "a horrendous, horrific incident" for the Amish community.
"They're good people," Miller said, his voice halting. "They don't deserve -- no one deserves this."
Wearing a gold-bedecked hat and a sharply pressed uniform, Miller held up a suicide note from the killer and said it was clear that Roberts was "angry at life; he was angry at God."
Miller's deliberate demeanor amid a media whirlwind recalled other officials propelled into the spotlight by calamities, such as Charles A. Moose, who was the Montgomery County police chief in 2002, when two snipers were loose in the area, and Rudolph W. Giuliani, the mayor of New York when the planes hit the World Trade Center on Sept. 11, 2001.
Serenity under fire is not necessarily something you can train for.
"It would come naturally," said Kevin Cartwright, a battalion chief with the Baltimore Fire Department who acts as its spokesman. "It's in the personal makeup of the individual as to how calm they are."
Above all, he said, it is best not to become emotional, no matter how tragic the circumstances.
"It can impact one's ability to take complete control," Cartwright said. "You'd have to be focused and observe the big picture."
Cartwright recalled the water taxi accident in March 2004 in Baltimore's Inner Harbor that killed five people and brought considerable attention to the city. He described Fire Chief William J. Goodwin Jr., who answered innumerable questions with assurance, as having shown "a great deal of empathy as well as maintaining control of the scene."
In the case of the sniper shootings in 2002, Moose became "the most recognizable face in the search for a killer on the loose," said an article in Time magazine, which named him Person of the Week in early October that year. The story said he sometimes met with the media four or five times a day during 20-hour shifts
When one of the snipers' victims turned out to be a 13-year-old boy, Moose was visibly upset. "I guess it's getting to be really, really personal now," Moose said, tears filling his eyes.
Moose found out, as have others in similar positions, that the attention sometimes brings unwelcome scrutiny. He was widely accused of bungling the sniper investigation and resigned because Montgomery County's ethics rules forbade him from profiting from the book he had begun writing about the case. Later, Moose applied unsuccessfully to become the Minneapolis police chief.
In July 2002, when 5-year-old Samantha Runnion was abducted and murdered in Stanton, Calif., Orange County Sheriff Michael Carona looked at the TV cameras and delivered a message to the killer: "Don't sleep. Don't eat. Because we're coming after you. We will take every resource that's available to us to bring you to justice."
Police arrested Alejandro Avila, 30, a factory worker, who was convicted by a jury of killing Samantha.
In April this year, OC Weekly reported that Carona had socialized with Rick Rizzolo, identified by the FBI as an underworld crime figure; that several women had filed sexual harassment complaints against the sheriff; and that the attorney general's office was investigating his questionable use of $130,000 in campaign funds.