Volunteers rose early to plant knee-high American flags on Freeport’s main drag. Snipers watched from rooftops as mourners gathered to honor his life ahead of a private funeral on Friday.
Compradore, who celebrated his 50th birthday last month, grew up in a blue-collar community on the Allegheny River. He graduated from Freeport High School, home of the Yellowjackets, and married his former classmate Helen. Together, they raised two daughters.
“Best Family Man and Best Girl Dad” His condolences.
His cousin, Cindy Villella, 58, praised the father’s qualities. Comperatore: That’s what comes to mind when I think of doting dad.
“So honest,” she intoned into the crowd, “so caring.”
She summed up her feelings in one word: shock.
For nearly three decades, Comparatore worked at the plastics plant in Butler County’s Forest Hills, rising from maintenance supervisor to project engineer. In his spare time, he served in the US Army Reserve and as a volunteer firefighter.
Fire trucks surrounded a black van that carried the computer’s body down a country lane to the lab hall. Christina Moss, 44, said she was touched by the show of solidarity.
Flowers also fell. The orange and purple roses, the craft business owner noted, were especially beautiful. While waiting in line to pay his respects, Moss scanned a note from one of the bouquets.
“I don’t know you…” wrote the well-wisher from Texas.
“A lot of people here don’t know him, but the compassion you feel — it’s so heartfelt.”
His Christian faith guided his life, the obituary said. Every Sunday, Compartore worshiped at Cabot Church. Then he might be hunting, fishing or walking his two Dobermans, said his brother, Steve Warheid.
Megapolitics was another interest of his. He loved Trump, Warheid said, and was happy to attend Saturday’s rally. The gunfire, minutes before Trump’s stump speech, shattered that euphoria. Comprador threw himself on his wife and daughters, and Helen died trying to protect them from Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro (D).
“Corey is the best of us,” Shapiro said this week at a news conference near the Butler Farm Show, a rural venue known for tractor-pulling contests and funnel cakes before the assassination attempt.
The gunman — who was shot and killed at the scene — was a 20-year-old man who had driven from a nearby Pittsburgh suburb. Thomas Matthew Crooks, a registered Republican, climbed atop the American Glass Research Building outside the rally’s security perimeter and crouched on its sloped roof with an AR-style rifle. He fired eight shots, officials said, killing Compador, seriously wounding two bystanders and wounding Trump’s right ear.
Three days later, he wrote, Trump called the Compador’s widow to see her on facebook. (Biden was the first president he called, he told the New York Post, but he declined to speak with him. her husband’s political views.)
“He was very kind,” she wrote of Trump, “and said he would continue to call me in the coming days and weeks.”
Helen invited 76-year-old Lt. Col. John Blasek to set up a special electronic billboard outside Thursday’s gathering, she said, as she inspected her handiwork. (People in town know he owns some, he added.)
“Praying for Cory Compradore and his family,” the billboard flashed, showing a photo of Compradore next to an illustration of Jesus placing his hands on Trump’s shoulders.
“Something like this has to happen…” Plesk said. “America is in trouble.”
Across this Republican stronghold dotted with Trump signs, residents gathered in churches, restaurants and backyards throughout the week.
They held a candlelight vigil at Lernerville Speedway on Wednesday evening, gathering at the dirt race track near the birthplace of the comprador. Despite the rain, hundreds sat on wet bleachers and held or lit votive candles. Mobile phones.
“This is not a political event,” organizer Kelly McCollough told the crowd. “There is no room for hatred here.”
Marisa Timko, a 25-year-old veterinary technician in a Buffalo Township Volunteer Fire Company hoodie, nodded.
She went to high school with Comparator’s daughter, Kaylee, and they were both cheerleaders. Once, after a soccer game, some girls needed a ride home, so Kaylee called her dad.
Timko said he’ll never forget it: The musician pulled up in his blue Ford pickup truck, the driver ready to play — even though the cheerleaders lived in the opposite direction.
“He would do anything for his daughters,” she said.
Were they listening to country music that night? Christian rock? Timko doesn’t recall, but Kaylee once told her that Comprador’s favorite song was “I Can Only Imagine.” So, upon hearing the news, he ordered glass art for his old friend featuring the lyrics:
I will dance for you Jesus
Or are you silent in awe?
A few rows back, Jessica Day folded her hands in prayer. Comprador attended his church, the 48-year-old nurse said. There he was in the pew every Sunday with his family. Even though Tay didn’t know him well, she said, she could tell he was devoted to Jesus.
“But even if you don’t believe in God, you can believe in this,” she said, gesturing to friends, neighbors and strangers who frolicked in the rain.
She was wearing a pink hoodie she had bought at a fundraiser for a teenage boy in the city with a brain injury.
“That’s what we do here,” she said. “We unite each other.”
