Written by Jonathan Carter.
Nearly nine months after a shocking attempt on Donald Trump’s life rocked a Butler, Pennsylvania rally, the question lingers: what drove Thomas Matthew Crooks to pull the trigger? On July 13, 2024, the 20-year-old opened fire from a rooftop, wounding the former president and leaving a community—and a nation—grasping for answers. Despite exhaustive efforts, the motive remains elusive, with new details only deepening the mystery.
A Private Probe Challenges Official Narratives
Doug Hagmann, an experienced private investigator from Erie, Pennsylvania, entered the fray shortly after the attack, hired by a private client to dig into Crooks’ life. Leading a team of six, Hagmann has spent months interviewing over 100 people—classmates, neighbors, teachers—and employing geofencing technology to track devices linked to Crooks’ movements. His findings point to a chilling possibility. “We don’t believe he acted alone,” Hagmann asserts, suggesting a “criminal network” may have orchestrated the attempt, with Crooks as its instrument.
The investigation traced electronic signatures across key locations: Crooks’ home, a shooting range, Bethel Park High School—where he graduated in 2022—and the rally site itself. One device, active even now at the school, raises questions about lingering connections. Hagmann’s team faced resistance too; twice, unidentified men—possibly federal agents or private security—escorted him to Butler County’s edge and told him to back off. For Hagmann, this hints at a cover-up, with accomplices potentially still at large.
The official response adds fuel to the fire. The FBI, under President Joe Biden’s administration, accessed Crooks’ phone, computer, and encrypted messaging apps popular in places like Belgium and Germany. Yet, transparency has been scant. National security adviser Mike Waltz has called the bureau’s silence deafening, leaving local police and private efforts like Hagmann’s to piece together the puzzle.
The Day That Shook Butler
Picture the scene: Trump, then 78 and the Republican nominee, steps onto the stage in Butler. Minutes later, gunfire erupts. Crooks, perched 130 yards away, squeezes off eight rounds. One grazes Trump’s right ear. Another kills Corey Comperatore, a 50-year-old husband and father shielding his family. Two others, David Dutch, 57, and James Copenhaver, 54, suffer grave injuries. A counter-sniper’s bullet ends Crooks’ life at 6:25 p.m., his body crumpling on that rooftop—a fatal headshot confirmed by autopsy.
That day shattered lives and assumptions. Butler, a tight-knit town of about 13,000, isn’t the kind of place you’d expect to spawn an assassin. Neither was Crooks, by most accounts, the profile of a killer. A high achiever with a 1530 SAT score and a scholarship to Robert Morris University, he seemed destined for engineering, not infamy. So what flipped the switch? Theories abound, but facts remain stubborn.
Representative Clay Higgins, a Louisiana Republican probing the incident, offers a contrasting view. Leading a bipartisan “J13” task force, he’s reviewed ballistics, interviewed family lawyers, and visited FBI headquarters in Quantico. Unlike Hagmann, Higgins believes Crooks acted solo. His hypothesis leans on a mental break—possibly triggered by prescription drugs—though no toxicology report backs this up. The Pittsburgh County medical examiner skipped that step, and Crooks’ body was cremated just eight days later, leaving little evidence to test.
Conflicting Portraits of a Young Man
Who was Thomas Crooks, really? To the media, he was a loner in fatigues, a reject from the rifle club with a violent streak. Those who knew him paint a different picture. Xavier Harmon, his tech teacher at Steel Center, remembers a “quirky, funny kid” who aced assignments and helped peers. “He was my little buddy,” Harmon says, still stunned. At Bethel Park High School and Allegheny County Community College, where Crooks earned an engineering degree in 2024, educators saw no red flags—no drugs, no rage, just a quiet brilliance.
Jim Knapp, a former counselor at Bethel Park, echoes this. He knew the Crooks family—parents steady, sister Katie unremarkable—and saw Thomas as a typical teen. “He kept to himself but had friends,” Knapp recalls. Early reports of threats or odd behavior? Nonsense, say those closest to him. Yet Higgins insists something snapped. “He was methodical and dangerous,” the congressman notes, pointing to Crooks’ precision—eight shots, a rooftop vantage—despite no apparent planning trail like notes or searches.
The disconnect gnaws at investigators and locals alike. Bethel Park, a Pittsburgh suburb forged in steel and resilience, isn’t a breeding ground for chaos. Parents there shuttle kids to soccer; retirees swap stories at diners. Crooks didn’t fit the mold of a wild-eyed radical. Harmon ventures a guess: “Maybe he got tangled with the wrong crowd, and it spiraled.” Without hard evidence—say, a manifesto or chat logs—it’s a theory as good as any.
Our Take
This case is a maze with no exit in sight. Hagmann’s claim of a network pulls us one way—toward a shadowy plot that could still threaten Trump or others. Higgins’ lone-wolf angle tugs another, pinning it on a personal unraveling we’ll never fully prove. Both can’t be right, yet both expose a troubling gap: nine months on, the why behind July 13 eludes us. For adults tracking this—maybe a nurse in Ohio or a mechanic in Texas wondering what’s safe anymore—that’s not just frustrating; it’s unsettling.
The FBI’s tight lips don’t help. If they’ve cracked Crooks’ encrypted messages, why the blackout? If Hagmann’s onto something with that active device at Bethel Park High, why no follow-up? Transparency could settle speculation—about drugs, accomplices, or sheer chance—and give closure to Comperatore’s family, still mourning a hero. Instead, we’re left with dueling narratives and a cremated body, evidence literally gone to ash. That’s not justice; it’s a dodge.
Here’s the bottom line: Crooks was no ordinary kid, but he wasn’t a mastermind either. A 20-year-old with a rifle doesn’t outsmart the Secret Service alone—or does he? Until someone bridges the data gap—geofencing, tox screens, something—this stays a wound festering in Butler and beyond. Accountability matters. Answers matter more.
