Small town grieves for 6, and the killer

There are no strangers in tragedy in a town this small.

Susan Hill, the co-owner of the only mortuary here, knew Tyler Peterson, the 20-year-old lawman who fired a fusillade into a room filled with seven young people early Sunday, killing six and wounding one. Hill also knew one of his victims. Both were related to Hill by blood or marriage.

On Monday, as this heartbroken town grappled with the enormity of the rampage that ended with Peterson’s death during a standoff with police, Hill wasn’t taking sides -- and neither were many others.

It was all too sad.

Hill was writing the names of the seven dead on individual manila folders, preparing their paperwork for a tentatively planned seven straight days of burials. Her strokes were clean and cursive. But when she put down the pencil, her hand was shaking.

“We’re not used to this,” Hill said. “We’re at a loss for words.”

Crandon, a blue-collar town of about 2,000 people about 120 miles south of Lake Superior, is in an area known for logging, fishing, Indian casinos and an annual off-road race. It had seen senseless deaths from ATV wrecks and murder-suicides.

But it had never seen so many -- so young -- die at once, on homecoming weekend no less, when the streets were covered in the burnt orange foliage of fall and floats decorated by students from each grade paraded through town. On Monday, North Lake Avenue was still filled with rah-rah decorations boasting of the recent clash between the Crandon Cardinals and the rival Florence Bobcats.

Crandon won the high school football game 34-0.

But by Monday afternoon the decorations on North Lake were being replaced by somber messages calling for unity and strength in grief.

The Pack Em Inn, a local watering hole, put “Our hearts go out” on its marquee. Down the street, next to the Sinnerman Tattoo Co., someone set up an impromptu altar on a long wooden bench in front of an American flag. A white sign with green-and-yellow lettering spelled out “Love you guys.” Seven red roses lay in front of the sign -- one for Peterson as well as for those he had killed.

“All the boys grew up together in this town. That’s what happens when you have a graduating class of about 63 people,” said Sjana Farr, the wife of a local pastor. Her son, Jonathan, a corporal in the Marines, was returning on emergency leave to grieve with his high school mates -- for Peterson and two of his victims, Bradley Schultz, 20, and Aaron “Chunk” Smith, 20.

“Jon and Tyler, Chunk and Schultzy -- they hunted together, they skied together, they cruised up and down the streets together,” Farr said. “That’s what makes it so hard, that he’s one of us, he is one of ours. And we won’t turn our back on him.”

Federal, state and local authorities were still trying to sort out what happened at 2:47 a.m. Sunday, when Peterson fired 30 rounds inside a two-story duplex where a group of current and former Crandon High School students had gathered to watch movies and eat pizza.

Some in Crandon, meanwhile, wondered how someone with such a potential for violence could have become a law enforcement officer. Wisconsin does not conduct psychological tests of potential recruits.

But a morbid outline of the massacre was taking form, and there was an obvious motive for Peterson’s rage: One of those present was his ex-girlfriend, Jordanne Murray, 18. Peterson had reportedly taken the breakup hard.

Peterson, who worked as a Forest County sheriff’s deputy and a part-time Crandon police officer, came into the duplex and argued with those gathered there, authorities said Monday during a news conference.

He left -- but came back with a rifle, forced his way inside and started shooting, according to the lone survivor of the attack, Charles Neitzel, 21, who described the events to the authorities. The AR-15 rifle was the type used by the Forest County SWAT team, of which Peterson was reportedly a member, though Crandon Police Chief John Dennee told reporters his office had not confirmed whether Peterson had used a gun issued by police.

Peterson then fled the residence. Out front, a fellow officer had pulled up to the house, responding to neighbors’ calls about the shootings. Peterson fired at him, shattering the patrol car’s window and spraying glass and debris onto the officer, Dennee said. Peterson eventually made his way out of town, hiding in a cabin in Argonne, a heavily wooded area about seven miles to the north.

In the hours after the shootings, he reached out by phone to his boss -- Dennee -- and Forest County Dist. Atty. Leon Stenz. Peterson told them what had happened: that he was the person who had shot former classmates and an ex-girlfriend inside the white duplex. Stenz said Peterson spoke about surrendering. “He was calm” on the phone, Stenz said. “He understood the dilemma he was in.”

Authorities surrounded the cabin. But the standoff ultimately crumbled when they couldn’t reach an agreement with Peterson about surrendering. Shots were fired on both sides. Peterson was killed. J.B. Van Hollen, the state attorney general, declined to say whether Peterson died by shots fired by police, or whether he committed suicide.

Left behind were his victims. In addition to Murray, Smith and Schultz, there were Lindsey Stahl, 14; Lianna Thomas, 17; and Katrina McCorkle, 17.

Jenny Stahl, Lindsey’s mother, was bordering on hysterics when speaking with reporters.

“I can’t believe this. She’ll be 15 next month,” Jenny Stahl said. “She had just started her life. The police are supposed to help us, protect us. This doesn’t happen here.”

It was hard for many in the town to accept that the youngsters they knew were gone. Classes were canceled, and so were two girls’ basketball games.

The Peterson family released a statement Monday making clear that it too was having a hard time understanding.

“We also feel a tremendous amount of guilt and shame for the horrible acts Tyler committed,” the statement said. “We are struggling to respond, like most of you. We do not know what we should do.”

When news of the shooting first raced through Crandon on Sunday morning, rumors swirled, and voice mailboxes filled up with the same questions: “Are your kids OK?” “Are you OK?” “Why did he do it?”

Pastor Bill Farr, who doubles as the deputy coroner, said he got a call from the police chief around 6 a.m. to open his doors to families. Soon, hundreds packed the Praise Chapel Community Church, still under construction, in hopes of learning which of the whispered horrors were real.

Rumors were that either Stahl or Thomas was dead. Both were. When official confirmation came, Farr hopped into his Chevy Malibu with Dennee to alert the families of the dead. By the time they arrived, most already knew.

Bruce Walentowski, co-owner of Flowers From The Heart gift shop, had to console daughter Malora, 16, who served ice cream and hamburgers with Murray and Stahl at a restaurant called Palubicki’s Eats & Treats.

But Walentowski also had a job to do. He rush-ordered as many flowers as he could. By Monday his shop was crammed with red roses, daylilies and baby’s breath. When he discussed “the practical business of death” with Hill from the funeral home, he confessed, “I didn’t know what to say.”

Malora and her boyfriend, Derek Dehart, were struggling too. The couple sat in the back of the flower shop and solemnly leafed through the pages of their old yearbooks. One featured a portrait of Dehart’s old baseball teammate, Schultz, in a slugger’s pose.

On the opposite page was a picture of a smiling Peterson, blue-eyed and in a navy shirt and jeans.

“None of us could have seen this,” Dehart said. Then he added, “I keep wondering. . . if I missed something.”

p.j.huffstutter@latimes.com

miguel.bustillo@latimes.com

Huffstutter reported from Crandon, Bustillo from Houston.