Dear Mr. Fisher--help me understand

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I've spent much of my adult life at crime scenes....belly-up to police tape in big cities and small towns....watching as emergency responders do their thing.

Over the last 30 years a lot of those scenes have sort of blurred together in my memory. A handful, however, stand out.

I'll never forget the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City after Timothy McVeigh parked his truck bomb out front--ripping the building apart and killing 168 men, women and children. When I first saw it with my own eyes it felt like somebody straight-armed my in the chest and knocked the wind out of me.

I'll will also never forget the sights, the sounds, the taste and the feel of New York's Ground Zero--the smoldering wreckage of the World Trade Center in the days immediately following 911 attack.

Add to the list of the unforgettable: a home in south Scottsdale--burned to the ground early one morning as t.v choppers hovered over head broadcasting the inferno on live television.

In the ashes, cops would soon find the bodies of a mom and her two children. I spent the next couple of days there at the crime tape as investigators combed through the ashes and as they pretty quickly determined that the woman, Mary Fisher had been shot before the fire was deliberately ignited and that her two beautiful children, Bethany and Bobby, had had their throats slit. Cops also promptly figured out that the killer was none other than the husband and father of this ill-fated family, a real piece of work by the name of Robert Fisher.
In the following days, the terrible story of the Fisher family would unfold, the story of a brutal, controlling and unfaithful husband, an abused wife who had finally had enough and two innocent children caught in the middle.

Robert Fisher ran like the coward that he is and he is still on the run. But in the off chance that he ever reads my "confessions of an ambulance chaser" blog, I have a standing invitation for him: if you ever makes your way back to the Valley of the Sun, look me up Bob, maybe we can meet in the parking lot of a bar some night, mano y mano, and maybe you can explain to me, dad to dad, how in hells name you can sink so low as to slit your childrens' throats. Until then may your journey be the nightmare that you so richly