We all want to forget something, so we tell stories. It’s easier that way.—The Commoner, Rashomon
Fifteen years ago this October 7, in the small hours of the morning, Aaron McKinney swung his .357 Magnum for the final time like a baseball bat into the skull of Matthew Shepard. Shepard was tied low to a post, arms behind his back, in a prairie fringe of Laramie, Wyoming. “That was it. He went out,” McKinney said later. He and his accomplice, Russell Henderson, drove off. The baseball swing had crushed Shepard’s brain stem. He lay bleeding on the ground for eighteen hours, but he was already gone. On October 12, he was officially pronounced dead.
The murder was so vicious, the aftermath so sensational, that the story first told to…