Minneapolis school shooting: Survivors identified as community rallies behind victims

What happened at Annunciation Catholic School

A quiet weekday Mass turned into chaos when a 23-year-old former student opened fire through the church windows at Annunciation Catholic School in Minneapolis. Two children were killed: 8-year-old Fletcher Merkel and 10-year-old Harper Moyski. Eighteen others were injured, including 15 children and three adults. The gunman died by suicide at the scene.

The names, the ages, the setting—morning worship inside a school church—have left families and neighbors reeling. As of Friday afternoon, seven survivors remained in the hospital. Hennepin Healthcare was treating six patients: four children listed in satisfactory condition, one adult in serious condition, and one child in critical condition. Children’s Minnesota reported one additional child in its care, with the condition not released.

Fletcher was at Mass with two of his siblings, who were not hurt. His father, Jesse Merkel, spoke publicly for the first time on Thursday and did not sugarcoat his pain. “Because of the actions of a coward,” he said, “Fletcher’s family will never be allowed to hold him, talk to him, play with him, and watch him grow into the wonderful young man he was on the path to becoming.” The family asked people to remember Fletcher’s love for fishing, cooking, sports, and friends—and to offer empathy, not pity. “Give your kids an extra hug and kiss today,” they added.

Friends and parishioners have been leaving drawings, candles, and flowers near the church steps for Fletcher and Harper. Harper’s family has asked for privacy. Teachers say the school day rhythm—singing, prayer, and kids’ chatter—was replaced this week by silence and sudden hugs in hallways.

Another student, a girl named Sophia, survived and is expected to pull through. People who know her called her “luminous” and “bright.” Doctors say a clearer picture of her recovery will come in the days ahead. For now, families check phones for updates, hold each other tighter, and wait.

City officials praised fast, selfless acts inside the church. Community Safety Commissioner Todd Barnette highlighted “children who protected their friends from gunfire” and “school and faith leaders who ran into the church and the scene without worrying about their own safety.” First responders moved wounded children out of pews, stabilized them, and rushed them to trauma care within minutes.

Police named the shooter as 23-year-old Robin Westman, a former student at the school. Investigators are still working on motive. Assistant Chief Christopher Gaiters confirmed officers have spoken with Westman’s mother but did not share details. Reports indicate the shooter posted a manifesto on YouTube before the attack. Authorities are reviewing digital footprints as part of the case and have warned against circulating graphic content.

Here’s where things stand right now:

• Two children killed: 8-year-old Fletcher Merkel and 10-year-old Harper Moyski.
• Injured: 18 total, including 15 children and three adults.
• Hospitalizations: seven remain hospitalized; one child is in critical condition.
• Suspect: a 23-year-old former student who died by suicide.
• Community response: multiple vigils; verified fundraisers have raised hundreds of thousands of dollars.
• Investigation: motive under review; police have spoken with the suspect’s mother.

Community leaders are urging people to channel grief into practical help. Donations to vetted funds are covering hospital co-pays, therapy, travel costs, meals, and future memorials. Faith groups have opened sanctuaries for prayer and quiet reflection. At the Minneapolis Basilica this week, clergy called the names of victims and lit candles until the altar glowed.

Gov. Tim Walz extended condolences and said he spoke with President Donald Trump, who offered federal support. City hospitals activated mass casualty protocols, which bring in extra trauma surgeons, pediatric specialists, and mental health teams. Parish officials at Annunciation told families what many already felt: “No words can capture what we have gone through, what we are going through, and what we will go through in the coming days and weeks. But we will navigate this—together.”

Parents who were in the pews when the gunfire started describe a jumble of instincts: grabbing children, hitting the floor, scanning exits. Kids later told counselors they were confused by the sound—some said it was like slammed doors, others like fireworks. Teachers guided students to side aisles and sacristy rooms. Parish staff locked interior doors and kept a count of who was safe as police moved through the building.

Inside Hennepin Healthcare, staff worked two tracks at once: physical trauma and emotional shock. A triage nurse explained, in simple words, what “satisfactory,” “serious,” and “critical” mean to families. Chaplains stood with parents who were alone, and social workers tracked down relatives, insurance contacts, and case managers. Across town, Children’s Minnesota readied pediatric surgeons and a child-life team trained to help kids process trauma without forcing conversation.

People want to know why. Police have offered no motive yet. Investigators often need to map a suspect’s timeline hour by hour—phones, laptops, search histories, and old messages. Family interviews help fill gaps. So do school records and prior contacts with law enforcement, if any exist. That work takes time, and not every answer is satisfying. In this case, officers say they’re being careful and deliberate because the victims are children, and the setting was a place of worship.

A word about the online swirl: officials say to be wary of armchair profiles or fake fundraisers. In past cases, scammers copied victims’ photos and launched bogus campaigns within hours. Families here chose verified fundraisers, and local parishes are steering people to those. If you’re unsure, look for organizers directly tied to victims’ families or schools, and check whether a campaign is linked through official channels.

Mentors, coaches, and catechists have been visiting hospital rooms, handing out notes drawn in crayon. Some kids are asking blunt questions—“Will the bad guy come back?”—and adults are answering in clear, short sentences: no. Counselors suggest keeping routines where possible, limiting exposure to violent videos, and letting children set the pace for talking. If nightmares persist or stomach aches don’t fade, pediatricians can connect families with trauma-informed care.

At the church, workers removed broken glass and draped cloth over damaged sections while investigators finished their measurements. Parish leaders plan to reopen the sanctuary when it feels right, not on a set schedule. For now, smaller prayer circles meet in classrooms and rectory spaces. The school’s fence has turned into a living message board—rosaries, paper hearts, and soccer scarves tied to wire mesh, fluttering in the wind.

Neighbors who didn’t know the victims have been showing up anyway. They bring baked lasagnas, Target gift cards, stuffed animals, and gas money for families driving to and from the hospital. Local businesses have pitched in too—free coffee for nurses, catering for vigils, a barbershop offering haircuts before visitations. It’s a Midwestern thing, folks say: show up, say little, keep doing the next useful task.

The shock cuts across faith and politics. Some ask for stricter safety measures at schools and churches. Others focus on mental health services, or on keeping the focus on the children rather than the shooter. Those debates will come, but most people in Minneapolis this week are resisting the pull to argue online. The shared project, for now, is bearing the weight together.

Grief counselors say kids remember how adults behave more than what they say. That’s why vigils matter. A crowd holding candles, a choir humming a familiar hymn, a pastor’s voice catching at the microphone—these moments tell children that their sadness is real and that it belongs to all of us. The community isn’t rushing past it. They’re staying with it, side by side.

Police will share more when they can. That includes any verified writings by the suspect and a clearer view of how the attack was planned. Until then, officials ask people to steer clear of speculation and not to spread graphic clips. The focus, they say, should be on the families—on Fletcher’s love of fishing and cooking, on Harper’s light in her classroom, on Sophia’s fight to heal, and on the classmates who shielded each other when they shouldn’t have had to.

If you’re looking for a way to help, there are a few simple steps. Give to vetted funds. Offer rides, meals, or childcare to families juggling hospital visits. Check on teachers who are holding up a lot right now. And if your child was part of the Mass or knows someone who was, ask open questions, then listen. It doesn’t have to be complicated to be kind.

Hospitals, heroes, and a city in mourning

Mass casualty events strain every part of a city, from trauma centers to school pickup lines. Minneapolis moved quickly. Hospitals activated emergency staffing. The city coordinated with state leaders and federal partners after Gov. Walz’s call with President Trump. Faith groups handled vigils and grief rooms. Volunteers took on the logistics—parking, meals, tissues, spare phone chargers.

Kids who were there will process the day in different ways. Some will want to talk nonstop. Others will go quiet. Both are normal. Pediatric teams often encourage parents to keep bedtime routines steady, check on eating and sleep, and let teachers know if a child needs breaks during the school day. Simple reassurances help: you’re safe, the adults are here, and we will handle this together.

The school’s leaders have promised careful steps ahead. They’re working with counselors, parish staff, and law enforcement to map out support for the coming weeks. That includes a plan for memorials that center the victims, not the attacker. It also includes spaces where students can cry, draw, or sit silently—no forced sharing circles, just options.

People in Minneapolis have been through hard weeks before, but this one is different. The place—inside a church at a school—hits a very tender nerve. The phrase many residents are using is simple and plain: this is not who we are. They’re proving that in small ways every day: holding doors for strangers, writing notes to nurses, and keeping vigil for families stuck in hospital waiting rooms.

There’s a lot we don’t know, and it will take time. What we do know is this: two children are gone, others are fighting to recover, and an entire city has decided that the names we repeat will be theirs. The Minneapolis school shooting will be studied by investigators and debated by policymakers, but in living rooms and pews, the story is about Fletcher and Harper, and the classmates and teachers who ran toward one another when it mattered most.