Now they flocked by the hundreds to the first of two gatherings for Friday’s private funeral, where his casket stood inside.
Comperatore, who celebrated his 50th birthday last month, spent his life in this working-class community on the Allegheny River. He graduated from Freeport High School, home of the Yellowjackets, and married his former classmate Helen. They had two daughters together.
“The quintessential family man and the best dad to girls,” his obituary read.
His niece, 58-year-old Cindy Villella, admired those paternal qualities. That was what came to mind when she thought of Comperatore: Affectionate Father.
“So genuine,” she said as she walked into the meeting, “and so caring.”
She summed up her feelings in one word: shock.
For nearly three decades, Comperatore worked in a plastics factory in the wooded hills of Butler County, rising from maintenance supervisor to project engineer. In his spare time, he served in the U.S. Army Reserve and as a volunteer firefighter — “the first one to run into a burning building,” recalled Buffalo Township Fire Chief Kip Johnston.
His Christian faith guided his life, the obituary said. Comperatore attended Cabot Church every Sunday. Afterward, he likely went hunting, fishing or hiking with his two Dobermans, his brother Steve Warheit said.
MAGA politics was his other passion. He loved Trump, Warheit said, and was excited to attend Saturday’s rally. Minutes into Trump’s speech, that joy was interrupted by gunfire. Comperatore threw himself on his wife and daughters, Helen told Pennsylvania Gov. Josh Shapiro (D), and died trying to protect them.
“Corey was the very best of us,” Shapiro said this week at a news conference near the Butler Farm Show, a rural venue known for tractor pulling competitions and funnel cakes before the assassination attempt.
The gunman — shot dead at the scene — was a 20-year-old man who had driven from a nearby Pittsburgh suburb. Thomas Matthew Crooks, a registered Republican, had climbed onto the American Glass Research building outside the rally’s security perimeter and crouched on the sloped roof with an AR-style rifle. He fired eight shots, authorities said, killing Comperatore, seriously wounding two other spectators and injuring Trump’s right ear.
Three days later, Trump called Comperatore’s widow to ask how she was doing, she wrote on Facebook. (Biden was the first leader to call, she told the New York Post, but she declined to speak to him because of (her husband’s political views.)
“He was very kind,” she wrote of Trump, “and said he would continue to call me in the days and weeks ahead.”
Helen called Lt. Col. John Placek, 76, to set up a special electronic billboard outside Thursday’s rally, he said as he inspected his handiwork. (People around town know he owns a few, he added.)
“Praying for Corey Comperatore and his family,” read the billboard, which featured a photo of Comperatore next to an illustration of Jesus placing his hands on Trump’s shoulders.
“That something like this happens…” Placek said, his voice trailing off. “America is in trouble.”
In this part of western Pennsylvania, a Republican stronghold dotted with Trump signs, residents have gathered in churches, restaurants and backyards all week.
They gathered Wednesday night for a candlelight vigil at Lernerville Speedway, a dirt track near Comperatore’s hometown. Despite the rain, hundreds of people sat in the damp stands, holding votive candles or lighting their Phones.
“This is not a political event,” organizer Kelly McCollough told the crowd. “There is no room for hate here.”
Marissa Timko, a 25-year-old veterinary assistant wearing a Buffalo Township Volunteer Fire Company hoodie, nodded in agreement.
She went to high school with Comperatore’s daughter, Kaylee, and they had both been cheerleaders. Once, after a soccer game, some girls needed a ride home, so Kaylee called her dad.
Timko said she’ll never forget it: Comperatore pulling up in his blue Ford pickup truck, ready to play chauffeur — even though the cheerleaders lived in opposite directions.
“He would do anything for his daughters,” she said.
Had they been listening to country music that night? Christian rock? Timko couldn’t remember, but Kaylee once told her that Comperatore’s favorite song was “I Can Only Imagine,” a tearjerker from MercyMe about reaching heaven. So as soon as she heard the news, she ordered glass art for her old friend that read:
Shall I dance for you Jesus
Or be silent in awe of You?
A few rows back, Jessica Day folded her hands in prayer. Comperatore had attended her church, the 48-year-old nurse said. He sat in the pews there every Sunday with his family. Though Day didn’t know him well, she said, she could see his devotion to Jesus.
“But even if you don’t believe in God, you can believe in this,” she said, pointing to the friends, neighbors and strangers who had emerged through the downpour.
She wore a pink hoodie, which she had purchased at a fundraiser for a teenage boy from the city who had suffered a brain injury.
“That’s what we do here,” she said. “We unite for each other.”