USA TODAY National
(Correction: An earlier version of this story described the wrong model vehicle for the suspect. It was a Dodge Challenger.)
Seth Teasdale arrived at his alma mater, Utah Valley University, just before noon, rippling with excitement to see one of his online heroes, Charlie Kirk.
It was a sun-drenched 80-degree day on Sept. 10, with clear, azure skies. The amphitheater in front of the Sorensen Student Center buzzed with anticipation: College students mingled with high schoolers and families, some wearing red “Make America Great Again” caps. More than 3,000 in all. In one corner, protestors held up signs denouncing Kirk’s controversial views or chanted insults.
Teasdale texted his brother, who was meeting him there, and squeezed through the crowd toward the canopy where Kirk would be speaking.
Just after noon, Kirk arrived in a gaggle of SUVs. Former Utah state Rep. Phil Lyman was there to greet him. Kirk had helped Lyman a few years earlier as he planned a run for governor of Utah, and Lyman wanted to thank him.
The two shook hands. Kirk commented on the weather.
“Beautiful,” Lyman recalled Kirk saying. “I love Utah!”
Standing nearby, Riley Beesley, 20, had waited weeks for this moment.
As a junior at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City and vice chair of the Utah Federation of College Republicans, Beesley considered Kirk a hero. When he heard he was speaking at nearby Utah Valley University, he quickly signed up to volunteer.
After introducing himself, Beesley snapped a selfie with Kirk. In it, the student’s beaming; Kirk is squinting into the sun.
“He just made us all feel so welcomed and valuable,” Beesley said, “and part of the cause.”
After tossing a few MAGA hats to the crowd, Kirk sat down under the canopy to take questions.
At around the same time, a tall, college-aged man carrying a black backpack made his way up the stairwell of the nearby Losee Center, a four-story concrete building that houses the student welcome center, among other things.
He wore black wraparound sunglasses, blue jeans, Converse sneakers and a black, long-sleeve shirt emblazoned with an American flag and a flying eagle.
The man found his way to the roof, nestled down into the prone position and peered through a scope at Kirk less than 150 yards away.
Authorities Sept. 12, identified the man on the roof as Tyler Robinson, 22, of Washington County, Utah. They said he pulled the trigger of a Mauser .30-06 bolt-action rifle, firing a single bullet that lanced Kirk’s neck, killing him.
The announcement was the culmination of a 33-hour manhunt for the assassin of the popular conservative activist that has roiled the nation in fear and angry rhetoric. Robinson was arrested at his home in Washington County at around 10 p.m. local time Sept. 11, FBI Director Kash Patel said at a news conference.
The agency had fielded more than 7,000 leads by the time they arrested Robinson. That number had grown to 11,000 by the following morning.
“The suspect was apprehended in a historic time period,” he said. “This would not have been possible without you the media and you the public.”
For those at the amphitheater earlier that week, a festive day of political debate was shattered by the echo of the rifle shot, as they witnessed in real time what Utah’s governor called a “political assassination” and the blood and terror left behind by a bullet.
A gunshot. Then blood.
Robinson allegedly arrived in the area at 8:29 a.m. the day of the shooting in his grey Dodge Challenger, according to authorities. He wore light colored shorts, a black hat with a white logo and light colored shoes and later changed into jeans and the black long-sleeve shirt.
At around 11:50 a.m., a surveillance camera allegedly captured Robinson walking onto the Utah Valley University from the north side of campus, according to a charging document obtained by USA TODAY. At 12:02 p.m., he entered the Losee Center and, 13 minutes later, walked up stairs leading to a common area adjacent to the center.
Robinson then allegedly climbed over a short wall and onto the roof, according to the document. At 12:22 p.m., he stretched out into the prone position near the edge of the rooftop. He was facing west – toward Kirk.
At the plaza, Seth Teasdale was nearby as Kirk flung some caps into the crowd, then settled into his seat under the canopy to take questions. Teasdale was wedged within the throngs of the crowds but happy to have a clear view of Kirk.
Kirk began taking questions, first one about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Utah’s dominant religion, then another by a liberal TikTok user having to do with transgender people and gun violence. Dozens of people lined up to ask more questions.
Then: BANG!
Kirk slumped to his left in his chair. Blood poured from a wound in his neck. Someone yelled, “Get down!”
Teasdale, 24, had glanced away at that moment but the booming round echoed through his ears. He crouched down with the rest of the crowd and texted his brother, Tyler, who had just arrived at the event.
“Gunshot,” he texted.
“What?? No way,” Tyler replied.
The crowd crouched – then sprinted away from the canopy.
“They started to panic,” Seth Teasdale said. “They got off the ground and jumped over and pushed past people.”
Fearing a mass shooting, some sloshed through a fountain to reach an adjacent building’s doors, leaving behind a sea of spilled purses and discarded drink cans.
Tyler Teasdale made his way to the building. Inside, hundreds of people huddled together, crying.
“It was mass chaos,” he said.
‘I’m glad you didn’t get shot!’
Beesley was in the middle of the crowd, around 10 yards away from Kirk, when the sound of the rifle round cracked in the air.
He watched as the crowds ran in panic and Kirk’s limp body was shuttled away. He remained in his spot, as if his feet were bolted to the grass, still unable to process the grim reality of the moment.
Later, he and other volunteers helped a person in a wheelchair and others trampled by the crowds off the plaza.
“At first I didn't believe it was a gunshot,” he said, “but that became evidently clear after a short time.”
Nearby, Nathalie Herrey had come to the event with her daughter, Enya, 22, who had been listening to Kirk on podcasts since her teens. Herrey also admired him: His fidelity to Christianity, his blunt, provocative style.
They had arrived separately to the event. Nathalie, 48, was in line to ask a question, while Enya had muscled her way closer to the canopy.
When the shot rang out, Nathalie tried to reach her daughter, but the melee of panicked runners forced her out a side gate. Enya, closer to Kirk, saw the bullet pierce his neck. She would later tell her mom how surprised she was by the size of the hole it opened and the amount of blood that spouted from it.
After several chaotic minutes with no cell phone service, mother and daughter finally reunited next to the plaza.
“She kept saying, ‘I’m so glad you didn’t get shot!’” Herrey said. “She was terrified.”
‘I thought I was going to film the shooter’
A few minutes before Kirk began taking questions, Lyman left the plaza and wandered up to the second floor of the adjoining Sorensen Student Center to get a better look at the crowds. He marveled at the scene below from a second-story balcony then turned to go back downstairs to meet with friends.
He had just pushed through the first set of glass doors when the shot rang out.
It sounded like it came from above and behind him, Lyman remembered. One of the other passersby suggested it sounded like a .22-caliber pistol. No, Lyman told him, much bigger, like a hunting rifle, maybe a .30-06.
He pulled out his cell phone and began filming, pointing the phone’s camera lens to the melee below: Students yelling and running in all directions, away from the canopy and a slumped Kirk.
“I thought I was going to film the shooter,” Lyman said.
The hunt begins
But the shooter wasn’t in the crowd.
In a surveillance video released by authorities, Robinson allegedly darts across the roof after firing the single shot, jimmies down to a ledge and jumps to the grass below. He then ran around the Losee Center, across Campus Drive and into a stand of trees that abut an upscale neighborhood just north of campus.
Investigators said they later found the weapon in that stand of trees, wrapped in a towel.
Engravings on the bullets caught the agents’ attention.
The fired casing, according to Utah Gov. Spencer Cox, read, “Notices bulges OwO What’s This?” a reference to an internet meme tied to animated videos and furry culture frequently repeated by video game streamers.
One of the unfired casings said, “Oh bella ciao, bella ciao, bella ciao, ciao, ciao” – lyrics of the anthem of the antifascist Italian resistance during World War II. Another read: “Hey fascist! Catch!”
Within 16 minutes of the shooting, the first FBI agents arrived on scene along with a cadre of law enforcement officers. The hunt for the shooter was on.
Agents detained two suspects – including one at the scene of the crime – but later released them and cleared them of any involvement.
On the night of Sept. 11, authorities released video of the suspect sprinting across and jumping off the roof, hoping for a lead. A few hours later, at around 10 p.m., they had Robinson in custody.
Cox told reporters that a family member of Robinson had contacted a family friend, who then informed authorities that Robinson had "confessed to them or implied that he committed the incident."
A family member told investigators that Robinson had become more political in recent years and mentioned Kirk during a recent dinner and discussed “why they didn’t like him,” Cox said.
A roommate allegedly showed investigators Discord posts believed to be made by the suspect discussing hiding a rifle and engraving messages on bullet casings. Discord, the online chat app, would later issue a statement disputing some details outlined by authorities.
Robinson was being held in Utah County jail. He was arrested on felony charges of aggravated murder, felony discharge of a firearm and obstruction of justice in Utah County court, according to court records obtained by USA TODAY.
Cox said he could not speak to the shooter's motive.
“I hope he gets the death penalty,” Trump told Fox News. “What he did - Charlie Kirk was the finest person.”
A watershed moment
Since the shooting, both Teasdale brothers have had trouble sleeping.
Their biggest concern is what the horrific event will mean for the nation.
Tyler Teasdale said the shooting – the latest in a string of recent political violence impacting both parties – left him grappling with “how divisive things have become.”
“We're so desensitized that it just feels so wrong,” he said.
Seth Teasdale said he spent the night after the shooting reading “wild claims and political takes” on social media. He said he thinks it will make the conservative movement stronger.
He’s not sure whether it could deepen division and stoke violence – or serve as a turning point toward peace. The immediate future, he said, feels fraught.
“I've been filled with the weight of it,” he said.
At a meeting with reporters to announce Robinson’s arrest, Cox likened the current spate of political violence to what the country witnessed in the 1960s during Civil Rights turmoil and the assasination of leaders, such as President John F. Kennedy.
Cox, who has long championed civility in public discourse and has been an outspoken critic of political polarization, said Kirk’s killing could act as a turning point – he just wasn’t sure which way.
"We can return violence with violence. We can return hate with hate,” he said. “At some point, we have to find an off ramp, or it's going to get much, much worse."
Cox made the appeal to the youth of his state and those across the nation, to the ones who loved Kirk and to those who hated him. Young adults like all those who gathered to see Kirk on that sunny day.They had a chance, the governor said, to build a very different culture. With the crack of a single rifle shot, that dream remains in doubt.
Contributing: Nick Penzenstadler
This article originally appeared on USA TODAY: 'Mass chaos': How the shooting of Charlie Kirk and the race to catch his assassin unfolded
Reporting by Rick Jervis and Chris Kenning, USA TODAY / USA TODAY
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