A Nintendo butt-whuppin' ruined Cameron Kocher's day off.
The 9-year-old fourth-grader got a snow day on a March Monday 25 years ago in his rural Poconos hometown of Kresgeville, Pa.
When his parents left for work that morning, Kocher went next door on Hideaway Hill Road to the home of Richard and Trudy Ratti, where kids from the neighborhood had gathered.
A first-grader, Jessica Carr, 7, challenged Kocher to a bout of "Spy Hunter," a video game in which players spray enemies with machine guns mounted on a speeding car.
Kocher must have thought he had an advantage. He was older, and he knew his way around guns.
His father, Keith, was a hunter and, like many country kids, the boy had been introduced to firearms. He favored camouflage clothing, and some called him Little Rambo.
But the younger girl was good at the game, and Kocher got mad when she beat him.
He was still steamed early that afternoon when Trudy Ratti ran the kids outside to play in the snow. Some of them jumped on the family's snowmobile, but Kocher stomped home.
Alone there, he went to the second-floor master bedroom, retrieved a hidden key and unlocked his father's gun cabinet, lined with 10 firearms. He removed a .35-caliber Marlin rifle, found the proper ammo in a separate locked drawer, and loaded a cartridge into the chamber.
Kocher opened a window, removed the screen and leveled the rifle on the noisy snowmobile moving slowly across the Ratti yard, 100 yards away. He found his target in the scope and squeezed off a shot.
The boy replaced the window screen, returned the rifle to the cabinet, and put the shell casing back in the ammo box.
A few minutes later, Richard Ratti phoned and ordered young Kocher to return to his house. Little Jessica Carr had been shot while riding on the back of the snowmobile, Ratti said, and they feared a sniper was loose in the area.
He was worried about Kocher's safety.
The Ratti home was a scene of emotional bedlam, with kids wailing and praying over their friend, who lay dying in the living room. As Kocher walked past, he calmly said, "If you don't think about it, you won't be sad." He sat down and played a video game by himself.
Later that afternoon, a state police trooper noticed a halfmoon-shaped cut on Kocher's forehead — a wound from the recoil of the rifle scope, it turned out.
Investigators found the boy's blood on the rifle and near the bedroom window redoubt. Two days after the shooting, the Allentown Morning Call announced to the world the latest American crime outrage: "9-Year-Old Arrested in Killing."
No one so young had ever been charged as an adult with murder, and the case prompted national skull sessions about judicious punishment for kids who commit vile acts — and about justice for their victims.
As legal adversaries debated whether Kocher should be treated as a boy or a man, the sympathy scale seemed to tip toward the shooter and his parents.
Richard Ratti, whose 13-year-old daughter was on the snowmobile with Jessica Carr, said the pity was misplaced.
"You can't feel as bad for the Kochers as you should for the Carrs," he told a reporter.
Kocher's mind was prodded by psychiatrists who found him to be a normal child, although emotionally removed from his deed. (He dozed off during one early court appearance.)
The political popularity of draconian lock-'em-up laws for both adults and juveniles was at a peak in 1989, the year of the shooting. And Pennsylvania had traditionally meted out long sentences for homicide convictions, whether the killer was an adult or a juvenile.
So Kocher seemed to be in for it when a judge finally ruled, five months after the slaying, that he would be treated as an adult because the shooting had been "willful and deliberate." He faced an automatic life sentence if convicted of murder.
The case bounced from one pretrial appeal to another as Kocher's attorney fought to steer his client into juvenile court, arguing he was "a child of very tender years." In the meantime, Kocher, free on $50,000 bond, attended classes under an assumed name in a distant school district.
Resolution finally came 3½ years after the shooting when Jessica's mother, Donna Teetz, reluctantly signed off on a plea deal.
Kocher, then 13, was convicted of misdemeanor involuntary manslaughter. His sentence was probation until age 21, with no jail time and no permanent record.
Prosecutor James Gregor defended the agreement, saying, "The case was floundering and something had to be done."
Almost immediately, Jessica's mother regretted bestowing her blessing.
"Involuntary manslaughter means it's an accident," she told the media. "It wasn't an accident."
Neighbor Richard Ratti called the deal "a total disgrace."
Teetz's second thoughts festered. In 1993, she went on a TV talk show and said, "He should have gone to jail for life . . . He took my daughter's life, and he gets to be free."
Whether he has lived free or fettered with guilt, Cameron Kocher, now 34, has made no further headlines since gunning down his playmate.
The 9-year-old fourth-grader got a snow day on a March Monday 25 years ago in his rural Poconos hometown of Kresgeville, Pa.
When his parents left for work that morning, Kocher went next door on Hideaway Hill Road to the home of Richard and Trudy Ratti, where kids from the neighborhood had gathered.
A first-grader, Jessica Carr, 7, challenged Kocher to a bout of "Spy Hunter," a video game in which players spray enemies with machine guns mounted on a speeding car.
Kocher must have thought he had an advantage. He was older, and he knew his way around guns.
His father, Keith, was a hunter and, like many country kids, the boy had been introduced to firearms. He favored camouflage clothing, and some called him Little Rambo.
But the younger girl was good at the game, and Kocher got mad when she beat him.
He was still steamed early that afternoon when Trudy Ratti ran the kids outside to play in the snow. Some of them jumped on the family's snowmobile, but Kocher stomped home.
Alone there, he went to the second-floor master bedroom, retrieved a hidden key and unlocked his father's gun cabinet, lined with 10 firearms. He removed a .35-caliber Marlin rifle, found the proper ammo in a separate locked drawer, and loaded a cartridge into the chamber.
Kocher opened a window, removed the screen and leveled the rifle on the noisy snowmobile moving slowly across the Ratti yard, 100 yards away. He found his target in the scope and squeezed off a shot.
The boy replaced the window screen, returned the rifle to the cabinet, and put the shell casing back in the ammo box.
A few minutes later, Richard Ratti phoned and ordered young Kocher to return to his house. Little Jessica Carr had been shot while riding on the back of the snowmobile, Ratti said, and they feared a sniper was loose in the area.
He was worried about Kocher's safety.
The Ratti home was a scene of emotional bedlam, with kids wailing and praying over their friend, who lay dying in the living room. As Kocher walked past, he calmly said, "If you don't think about it, you won't be sad." He sat down and played a video game by himself.
Later that afternoon, a state police trooper noticed a halfmoon-shaped cut on Kocher's forehead — a wound from the recoil of the rifle scope, it turned out.
Investigators found the boy's blood on the rifle and near the bedroom window redoubt. Two days after the shooting, the Allentown Morning Call announced to the world the latest American crime outrage: "9-Year-Old Arrested in Killing."
No one so young had ever been charged as an adult with murder, and the case prompted national skull sessions about judicious punishment for kids who commit vile acts — and about justice for their victims.
As legal adversaries debated whether Kocher should be treated as a boy or a man, the sympathy scale seemed to tip toward the shooter and his parents.
Richard Ratti, whose 13-year-old daughter was on the snowmobile with Jessica Carr, said the pity was misplaced.
"You can't feel as bad for the Kochers as you should for the Carrs," he told a reporter.
Kocher's mind was prodded by psychiatrists who found him to be a normal child, although emotionally removed from his deed. (He dozed off during one early court appearance.)
The political popularity of draconian lock-'em-up laws for both adults and juveniles was at a peak in 1989, the year of the shooting. And Pennsylvania had traditionally meted out long sentences for homicide convictions, whether the killer was an adult or a juvenile.
So Kocher seemed to be in for it when a judge finally ruled, five months after the slaying, that he would be treated as an adult because the shooting had been "willful and deliberate." He faced an automatic life sentence if convicted of murder.
The case bounced from one pretrial appeal to another as Kocher's attorney fought to steer his client into juvenile court, arguing he was "a child of very tender years." In the meantime, Kocher, free on $50,000 bond, attended classes under an assumed name in a distant school district.
Resolution finally came 3½ years after the shooting when Jessica's mother, Donna Teetz, reluctantly signed off on a plea deal.
Kocher, then 13, was convicted of misdemeanor involuntary manslaughter. His sentence was probation until age 21, with no jail time and no permanent record.
Prosecutor James Gregor defended the agreement, saying, "The case was floundering and something had to be done."
Almost immediately, Jessica's mother regretted bestowing her blessing.
"Involuntary manslaughter means it's an accident," she told the media. "It wasn't an accident."
Neighbor Richard Ratti called the deal "a total disgrace."
Teetz's second thoughts festered. In 1993, she went on a TV talk show and said, "He should have gone to jail for life . . . He took my daughter's life, and he gets to be free."
Whether he has lived free or fettered with guilt, Cameron Kocher, now 34, has made no further headlines since gunning down his playmate.
A Nintendo butt-whuppin' ruined Cameron Kocher's day off.
The 9-year-old fourth-grader got a snow day on a March Monday 25 years ago in his rural Poconos hometown of Kresgeville, Pa.
When his parents left for work that morning, Kocher went next door on Hideaway Hill Road to the home of Richard and Trudy Ratti, where kids from the neighborhood had gathered.
A first-grader, Jessica Carr, 7, challenged Kocher to a bout of "Spy Hunter," a video game in which players spray enemies with machine guns mounted on a speeding car.
Kocher must have thought he had an advantage. He was older, and he knew his way around guns.
His father, Keith, was a hunter and, like many country kids, the boy had been introduced to firearms. He favored camouflage clothing, and some called him Little Rambo.
But the younger girl was good at the game, and Kocher got mad when she beat him.
He was still steamed early that afternoon when Trudy Ratti ran the kids outside to play in the snow. Some of them jumped on the family's snowmobile, but Kocher stomped home.
Alone there, he went to the second-floor master bedroom, retrieved a hidden key and unlocked his father's gun cabinet, lined with 10 firearms. He removed a .35-caliber Marlin rifle, found the proper ammo in a separate locked drawer, and loaded a cartridge into the chamber.
Kocher opened a window, removed the screen and leveled the rifle on the noisy snowmobile moving slowly across the Ratti yard, 100 yards away. He found his target in the scope and squeezed off a shot.
The boy replaced the window screen, returned the rifle to the cabinet, and put the shell casing back in the ammo box.
A few minutes later, Richard Ratti phoned and ordered young Kocher to return to his house. Little Jessica Carr had been shot while riding on the back of the snowmobile, Ratti said, and they feared a sniper was loose in the area.
He was worried about Kocher's safety.
The Ratti home was a scene of emotional bedlam, with kids wailing and praying over their friend, who lay dying in the living room. As Kocher walked past, he calmly said, "If you don't think about it, you won't be sad." He sat down and played a video game by himself.
Later that afternoon, a state police trooper noticed a halfmoon-shaped cut on Kocher's forehead — a wound from the recoil of the rifle scope, it turned out.
Investigators found the boy's blood on the rifle and near the bedroom window redoubt. Two days after the shooting, the Allentown Morning Call announced to the world the latest American crime outrage: "9-Year-Old Arrested in Killing."
No one so young had ever been charged as an adult with murder, and the case prompted national skull sessions about judicious punishment for kids who commit vile acts — and about justice for their victims.
As legal adversaries debated whether Kocher should be treated as a boy or a man, the sympathy scale seemed to tip toward the shooter and his parents.
Richard Ratti, whose 13-year-old daughter was on the snowmobile with Jessica Carr, said the pity was misplaced.
"You can't feel as bad for the Kochers as you should for the Carrs," he told a reporter.
Kocher's mind was prodded by psychiatrists who found him to be a normal child, although emotionally removed from his deed. (He dozed off during one early court appearance.)
The political popularity of draconian lock-'em-up laws for both adults and juveniles was at a peak in 1989, the year of the shooting. And Pennsylvania had traditionally meted out long sentences for homicide convictions, whether the killer was an adult or a juvenile.
So Kocher seemed to be in for it when a judge finally ruled, five months after the slaying, that he would be treated as an adult because the shooting had been "willful and deliberate." He faced an automatic life sentence if convicted of murder.
The case bounced from one pretrial appeal to another as Kocher's attorney fought to steer his client into juvenile court, arguing he was "a child of very tender years." In the meantime, Kocher, free on $50,000 bond, attended classes under an assumed name in a distant school district.
Resolution finally came 3½ years after the shooting when Jessica's mother, Donna Teetz, reluctantly signed off on a plea deal.
Kocher, then 13, was convicted of misdemeanor involuntary manslaughter. His sentence was probation until age 21, with no jail time and no permanent record.
Prosecutor James Gregor defended the agreement, saying, "The case was floundering and something had to be done."
Almost immediately, Jessica's mother regretted bestowing her blessing.
"Involuntary manslaughter means it's an accident," she told the media. "It wasn't an accident."
Neighbor Richard Ratti called the deal "a total disgrace."
Teetz's second thoughts festered. In 1993, she went on a TV talk show and said, "He should have gone to jail for life . . . He took my daughter's life, and he gets to be free."
Whether he has lived free or fettered with guilt, Cameron Kocher, now 34, has made no further headlines since gunning down his playmate.
The 9-year-old fourth-grader got a snow day on a March Monday 25 years ago in his rural Poconos hometown of Kresgeville, Pa.
When his parents left for work that morning, Kocher went next door on Hideaway Hill Road to the home of Richard and Trudy Ratti, where kids from the neighborhood had gathered.
A first-grader, Jessica Carr, 7, challenged Kocher to a bout of "Spy Hunter," a video game in which players spray enemies with machine guns mounted on a speeding car.
Kocher must have thought he had an advantage. He was older, and he knew his way around guns.
His father, Keith, was a hunter and, like many country kids, the boy had been introduced to firearms. He favored camouflage clothing, and some called him Little Rambo.
But the younger girl was good at the game, and Kocher got mad when she beat him.
He was still steamed early that afternoon when Trudy Ratti ran the kids outside to play in the snow. Some of them jumped on the family's snowmobile, but Kocher stomped home.
Alone there, he went to the second-floor master bedroom, retrieved a hidden key and unlocked his father's gun cabinet, lined with 10 firearms. He removed a .35-caliber Marlin rifle, found the proper ammo in a separate locked drawer, and loaded a cartridge into the chamber.
Kocher opened a window, removed the screen and leveled the rifle on the noisy snowmobile moving slowly across the Ratti yard, 100 yards away. He found his target in the scope and squeezed off a shot.
The boy replaced the window screen, returned the rifle to the cabinet, and put the shell casing back in the ammo box.
A few minutes later, Richard Ratti phoned and ordered young Kocher to return to his house. Little Jessica Carr had been shot while riding on the back of the snowmobile, Ratti said, and they feared a sniper was loose in the area.
He was worried about Kocher's safety.
The Ratti home was a scene of emotional bedlam, with kids wailing and praying over their friend, who lay dying in the living room. As Kocher walked past, he calmly said, "If you don't think about it, you won't be sad." He sat down and played a video game by himself.
Later that afternoon, a state police trooper noticed a halfmoon-shaped cut on Kocher's forehead — a wound from the recoil of the rifle scope, it turned out.
Investigators found the boy's blood on the rifle and near the bedroom window redoubt. Two days after the shooting, the Allentown Morning Call announced to the world the latest American crime outrage: "9-Year-Old Arrested in Killing."
No one so young had ever been charged as an adult with murder, and the case prompted national skull sessions about judicious punishment for kids who commit vile acts — and about justice for their victims.
As legal adversaries debated whether Kocher should be treated as a boy or a man, the sympathy scale seemed to tip toward the shooter and his parents.
Richard Ratti, whose 13-year-old daughter was on the snowmobile with Jessica Carr, said the pity was misplaced.
"You can't feel as bad for the Kochers as you should for the Carrs," he told a reporter.
Kocher's mind was prodded by psychiatrists who found him to be a normal child, although emotionally removed from his deed. (He dozed off during one early court appearance.)
The political popularity of draconian lock-'em-up laws for both adults and juveniles was at a peak in 1989, the year of the shooting. And Pennsylvania had traditionally meted out long sentences for homicide convictions, whether the killer was an adult or a juvenile.
So Kocher seemed to be in for it when a judge finally ruled, five months after the slaying, that he would be treated as an adult because the shooting had been "willful and deliberate." He faced an automatic life sentence if convicted of murder.
The case bounced from one pretrial appeal to another as Kocher's attorney fought to steer his client into juvenile court, arguing he was "a child of very tender years." In the meantime, Kocher, free on $50,000 bond, attended classes under an assumed name in a distant school district.
Resolution finally came 3½ years after the shooting when Jessica's mother, Donna Teetz, reluctantly signed off on a plea deal.
Kocher, then 13, was convicted of misdemeanor involuntary manslaughter. His sentence was probation until age 21, with no jail time and no permanent record.
Prosecutor James Gregor defended the agreement, saying, "The case was floundering and something had to be done."
Almost immediately, Jessica's mother regretted bestowing her blessing.
"Involuntary manslaughter means it's an accident," she told the media. "It wasn't an accident."
Neighbor Richard Ratti called the deal "a total disgrace."
Teetz's second thoughts festered. In 1993, she went on a TV talk show and said, "He should have gone to jail for life . . . He took my daughter's life, and he gets to be free."
Whether he has lived free or fettered with guilt, Cameron Kocher, now 34, has made no further headlines since gunning down his playmate.
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