Taken

There was a video this morning, of a man murdering another man on live television. The footage, likely from a local news station, was from thirty years ago, in 1985. In the tape we see a man accused of child abduction and the molestation of an 11-year-old boy, walking in handcuffs, being escorted by police to face trial. Just as the camera becomes perpendicular to the passing suspect, a man, standing inconspicuously in the background, appearing to use a public telephone, turns, raises his arm and fires. The bullet hits the accused in the head at near point-blank range, killing him instantly, and he falls to the floor. Police rush at the assailant as we see him hanging up the phone and putting down his weapon. Someone on scene cries out, "why Gary, why?!" Gary was the father of the boy who had been kidnapped and sexually abused by the now slain man.

This scenario raises a couple of moral dilemmas. First, on the topic of justice and vigilantism. It doesn't take much imagination to put oneself in the place of a father whose child was taken from him. Just imagine someone hurting the one you love. For weeks he feared his son was dead, or being held somewhere against his will, tortured, forced to perform or engage in lewd and traumatic sex acts, only to have his son returned and his wildest fears confirmed. Who could slight a man for seeking retribution in this case? There is a dark, seductive triumphalism to tales of vengeance. We relish in delight at the thought of avenging the helpless, of punishing - with extreme prejudice - those who would prey on the powerless. Wicked, wrathful fantasies become indulgent perversions for which we have a limitless capacity. What could be more cathartic than taking matters into your own hands and making the world safe again for your child? An act of murder in this case becomes an act of heroism.

But, no. That is an incomplete truth. An appeal to an emotional one, even. The man had only been accused - he hadn't yet been tried. What if, and this is a big if, certainly, the man was innocent? Wrongly accused? What if, when Gary went to shoot the other man, he missed and inadvertently killed an innocent bystander? Or, what if in succeeding, Gary was charged with murder in the first degree and found himself in jail and away from his family at a time when they needed him most? Surely this was a calculated attack. He had premeditated the whole thing. He wasn't killing under extreme emotional disturbance, or with a depraved indifference to life, rather, he had given it much thought and planned to murder this man on sight, in cold blood. What kind of example does that set for his son?

This gives rise to the second moral dilemma posed - when, if ever, is murder permissible? Is killing another person acceptable when it's retaliatory? When it's preventative? Or should murder always be discouraged because life is intrinsically sacred? The troubling thing about murder, to me, is that it is inherently inhuman*. It conveys the belief that the murdered party is incapable of atonement or rehabilitation, that the individual is beyond redemption. What belief is more core to the human heart than redemption? It is the marrow of hope, and the archetypal theme of the epic story - the return of the king. To kill is to deny someone the chance to make amends, to change. Murder is a denial of mercy*. A person committed to the idea of murder is not in sound mental standing. Love is not at the center of operations. Instead, fear, anger and pain have the helm. Just as justice is blind, so is its obverse, injustice. The man lashing out in anger and pointing the gun at another really means to point the barrel at his own head, only he can't see where he aims.

It could be said that the anger and pain Gary unleashed on his son's attacker was the same pain he had been inflicting on himself. In many ways he likely blamed himself for not being able to protect his son, for being helpless to save him from the unspeakable ugliness and horror of human monstrosity. This pain then transmuted into an anger perpetuated and fomented by fear; that it might happen again, that one day he might find himself unable to defend his son against some other unimaginable and unpreventable tragedy. So, he needed a metaphor. In order to kill that part of himself, he would kill the physical representation of it - his son's captor. An act so bold would surely signify the death of fear, and it would show, to the one he loves, an unwavering resolve and tenacious dedication to championing the defenseless. His former self would be a martyr to this new and improved self. And, in doing so, he would have expiated himself for his past failings, cleverly using murder as a vehicle for redemption.

The question that comes to mind is - would I have done the same? I'd like to think the answer is no, I wouldn't have. But I don't have a son. Someone I love has never been kidnapped and raped. Would I be able to trust the criminal justice system to lock this individual away forever and reform him, to keep him from harming someone else in the same way? Would I be able to control my emotional reaction to the news, or would I buy a gun and wait patiently at a phone booth for revenge?

How many Liam Neeson movies will I have seen by then?


*Mercy killings add another layer of complexity to murder. The difference, however, between a mercy killing and murder, is that in the case of a mercy killing, the 'victim' is a willing participant. A murder, in all other cases, involves an unwilling participant - someone who wishes to live but has been given death.