Gun Baby Gun. Iain Overton
factor for profiling whether someone is likely to go on to become a mass shooter. A 2001 analysis of thirty-four American mass shooters found that only 23 per cent had a recorded history of psychiatric illness.21
Despite this, we still fixate on the mental oddities of these troubled men. We comment on the fact Martin Bryant, who carried out the Port Arthur massacre in Australia, was really into the soundtrack of the Lion King.22 We write how Adam Lanza, the man who murdered so many children at Sandy Hook, carried a black briefcase with him, while other students had backpacks. We recall how Seung-Hui Cho, the warped killer of thirty-two at Virginia Tech, enjoyed taking photographs up the skirts of fellow students under the desks with his cell phone.23 But these are traits that, whilst odd, are far from proof of a mass murderer in the making. As one psychologist put it: ‘Although mass murderers often do exhibit bizarre behavior, most people who exhibit bizarre behavior do not commit mass murder.’24
Nonetheless, it is fair to say that mass shooters are often very focused outsiders who plan their actions obsessively. Many massacres have been in the pipeline for months, sometimes years: the Columbine shooting took thirteen months to plan.25 Anders Behring Breivik in Norway claimed he had been plotting his actions for five years.
This planning reflects a fixated and resentful view of the world. Mass shooters want to fix their ideas in history: a sort of personal vindication through gunfire. Whereas terrorists use guns and the media to promote political or religious beliefs, mass shooters use guns and the media to highlight their own personal grievances. Like Virginia Tech gunman Seung-Hui Cho, who sent NBC News an 1,800-word statement and twenty-seven QuickTime videos with him ranting to the camera.26
Other trends emerge. Many mass shooters take their own lives.27 Many wear tactical military clothing. They often use high-powered and rapid-fire weapons. Weapons used in sixty-two mass shootings over the last three decades were looked at by the website Mother Jones. Over half involved ‘semi-automatic rifles, guns with military features, and handguns using magazines with more than 10 rounds’.28 One of the guns that James Eagan Holmes used to shoot seventy-one, killing twelve, in Aurora, for instance, was an assault rifle with a 100-round drum magazine.29
This use of such legal weaponry should concern. FBI data shows that, between 2009 and 2012, mass shootings that involved assault rifles or high-capacity magazines led to an average of sixteen people being shot, 123 per cent more than when other weapons were used.30
These are ugly and disturbing observations and statistics. But they only served to help a little in my analysis of the world of the lone mass shooter. So I looked at the long list of perpetrators again, seeking someone who was, perhaps, representative of all of these trends.
I was searching for an archetype – a shooter who was relatively young, alone and socially awkward; someone who wore a uniform and carried a semi-automatic rifle with high-capacity magazines; someone who was not clinically insane; a fantasist who had penned an angry manifesto. This Venn diagram of horrors showed up one ugly and familiar name. The most murderous mass shooter of them all: Anders Behring Breivik, the Norwegian right-wing killer.
When I arrived in Norway to learn more about Breivik, the only car the Oslo hire company was able to lease me ran on electricity. I had never driven an electric car before and, as I headed through the dynamite-blasted grey mountains that led from the capital, I was disturbed to see the number on its power-gauge drop dramatically. It had read 123 kilometres when I pulled out of the car park. Now, 50 kilometres out, the power meter read 13, and I had 18 more kilometres to go. The beginnings of mild panic shifted up my spine, because the cold here was profound, and there were few car-charging points. Images of freezing to death in a Norwegian electric car – a hypothermic victim to a green response to global warming – dominated my thoughts.
As the power dipped, so did the sun, casting its last shallow, anaemic light across the deep and broad lake of Tyrifjorden. And, as my car hugged the edge of the lake, my speed at an economic crawl, the wind lifted and caused the surface of the water to flutter. Beyond lay Utøya: the outermost island. Its name was still hard for some to say because this was where Breivik had killed dozens.
Then, as the gauge told me I had two kilometres of power left, the Sundvolden Hotel, one of the oldest inns in Norway, came into view. Framed beneath the pine-rimmed peaks of King’s View and the stretching cold-blue lake, it had a beauty unique to Scandinavia.
Its Gildehuset, with its tenth-century metre-thick walls and its foyer lined with the statues of glass-eyed bulbous trolls, could be considered idyllic. But this place will not be remembered for Norwegian fairy tales or Viking walls. It will be forever marked by what happened in 2011, because this is where the survivors staggered from the worst mass shooting by a single gunman ever recorded. And these rooms were filled with grief-wrapped relatives waiting for the cauterising news of how their sons and daughters had died.
A few days before the shooting, about 600 people, mostly between fourteen and twenty-five years old, had gathered on the pine-lined island of Utøya, across the lake, for their annual summer camp. They were diverse and liberal – the cream of Norway’s Labour Party youth. But Anders Behring Breivik, a thirty-two-year-old from Oslo, saw betrayal in their tolerance and weakness in their ideals. So, on 22 July, he took a boat over to the island, hollow-point bullets in his pockets and murderous intent in his heart.
Breivik shot his first victim just after 5.20 p.m. He gave himself up to police seventy-five minutes later, and by then sixty-nine people had died. He had fired 297 shots – 176 with his Ruger and 121 with the Glock. Eight more people were killed, and over 200 injured, by a fertiliser bomb that Breivik had detonated in Oslo’s government district an hour and a half before he began his island rampage.
He carried out these horrors wearing the uniform of a police officer, playing on a trust in the state that is implicit in so much of Norwegian life. He was also wearing earplugs to protect himself from the sound of his gunshots. Two ugly details that tell you much about the man.
He was indiscriminate and brutal in his killings. He usually fired only when he was certain to hit, killing slowly and methodically with headshots at very close range. He said to those hiding in the bushes ‘Don’t be shy’, before he shot them. Others he murdered as they held on to each other. Stuck on the suddenly claustrophobic island, some students braved the freezing waters and swam to safety. They were plucked like white gulls, bloodied and blue, from the hard rocks of the shore.
Of the sixty-nine dead, sixty-seven had died from being shot, one drowned and one fell to their death from a cliff. Thirty-three of them were under eighteen years old. The youngest victim, Sharidyn Svebakk-Bøhn of Drammen, was just fourteen.
I fell asleep in my ancient bedroom with that thought.
The next day, my car recharged, I drove back out into the March light, the King’s View behind me, forests of pines and snow beyond. The silent road ran 30 metres above the shore, and Utøya stood beyond, distant and inaccessible. There were two signs pointing the way to the island but no bridge. Precisely why Breivik chose it for his massacre.
Where the route led down to the jetty someone had put up three plastic chairs and a sign that read ‘Private’. Beside it stood a row of neat postal boxes in wood, each hand-painted. The names on them spoke of long lineages and deep histories: Johnsrund, Aamaas, Syverson. Behind, on a stone, stood five memorial candles, gutted and unlit, circling a wet and dirty teddy bear. The Norwegian flag lay limply to one side, and a pine tree stood covered with broken decorations on its dripping leaves. A Christmas not celebrated.
I drove further along the road to a campsite and pulled up near the main house. The bone-marrow chill had forced me to wear all the clothes I had. I eased out of the car and waddled over to ring the bell. Nothing. But as I headed back, a man in heavy blue fatigues, black cap and thick boots came towards me through an icy drizzle that had punctured the morning. His name was Brede Johbraaten, the owner of the camping