Why is the Reiner story–the story about Rob and Michele possibly being killed by their son Nick–so horrifying? Why, that is to say, do some national and international stories grab us and tear at us while others do not?

Aristotle knew well: the stories that really get or, even, gnaw at us are, properly speaking, tragedies. Of course, this isn’t just any tragedy: it’s (possibly) a parricide. Though that, in itself, is terrible and though parents being killed by their children cannot but be horrifying, I think we can also go further than this.

To begin with (and, in what follows, I’m going to assume that Nick is culpable in order to write about the salient themes that strike me), one has to imagine that the parents “never thought this could happen.” Early tantrums, countless interventions, various forms of treatment, and so on: even if all failed, it’s doubtful that most parents could (or would) then conclude, “My son is too dangerous to have around.” For them, I imagine further, nothing like this was thinkable.

We can step back from this case and feel chills. Is there a family member we know, someone who’s led a troubled life, someone could “do the unthinkable,” who could “enact the unimaginable”? The mind reels. Whether parents, upon reading this story, can dismiss this suggestion out of hand, somewhere their dreams may betray them.

In addition to the whipsaw effect brought about by the unimaginable (“I never saw this coming; never in a million years would I have conceived of this happening”), one is also chilled by the fact that the very friend who’s been brought inside the house turns out to be the enemy. In all likelihood, the Reiner household is locked down at night. Perhaps there is very strong security against external threats. Yet the very one who’s been let in–the son, the friend, possibly (they hope) the Prodigal Son (to employ a Christian metaphor)–has turned out to be the enemy within. How scary must it be to discover (and this too late) that the one living in the guesthouse is precisely not a guest but your very murderer?

I don’t know whether you’ve ever had this experience (the one I’m about to describe), but I surely hope so since it goes to the very heart of wisdom. Often, I have some kind of assessment I make about “who someone is” or about “how the world works.” If I pay close enough attention, I find that my assessments fail to provide an adequate account of “who someone is” or of “how the world works.” Taking this seriously, I have to effect a dialectical response: I must admit that I’ve been in error (this is humility), and I must take in this anomaly so seriously that my new model can include it. Wisdom arises from error and, in turn, from corrections to my working models.

What’s tragic about this story, to make one final remark, is that I don’t know that the Reiners, likely being cultural Jews and very probably being social progressives, had room for the theological concept of evil. In our metaphysics, we need to leave room for evil. The most demanding love there is cannot flinch from this inclusion. In this case, lacking a concept of evil turned out to be a major blindspot, one, perhaps, that proved fatal.