It used to be that when a killer emerged in America, we found out who the man was before we began to enshroud him in myth. But with Luigi Mangione, the lead suspect in the killing of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson, that process was reversed. The internet assumed it already knew everything about Thompson's killer before a suspect had even been identified, let alone arrested.

Within hours of the shooting, social media was churning out a mythologized version of the masked man. In his anonymity, he became an instant folk hero, portrayed as a crusader for universal healthcare, a martyr willing to risk it all to send a message to America's insurance giants with "the first shots fired in a class war." A Reddit forum offered up dozens of laudatory nicknames to crystalize his mythology: the Readjuster, the Denier, the People's Debt Collector, Modern-Day Robin Hood. "I actually feel safer with him at large," one tweet a day after the shooting said; it received 172,000 likes. A surveillance image of the suspect moved some to comment that he was "too hot to convict" and prompted comparisons to Jake Gyllenhaal and Timothée Chalamet. In New York City, a "CEO-shooter look-alike competition" was held in Washington Square Park. Surely, the internet assumed, the suspect shared left-wing ideas about the cruelties of privatized healthcare.

Then the man himself appeared — and he didn't fit into any of the neat categories that had already been created to describe him. On X, he followed the liberal columnist Ezra Klein and the conservative podcaster Joe Rogan. He respected Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and retweeted a video of Peter Thiel maligning "woke"-ism. He took issue with both Donald Trump and Joe Biden. He played the cartoon video game "Among Us," posted shirtless thirst traps, quoted Charli XCX on Instagram, and had the Goodreads account of an angsty, heterodox-curious teenage boy: self-help, bro-y nonfiction, Ayn Rand, "The Lorax," and "Infinite Jest." Yes, he seemed to admire the Unabomber. But mostly, this guy — a former prep-school valedictorian with an Ivy League education and a spate of tech jobs — was exceedingly centrist and boring. A normie's normie. He wasn't an obvious lefty, but he wasn't steeped in the right-wing manosphere either. His posted beliefs don't fit neatly into any preestablished bucket. In his 261-word manifesto, which surfaced online, he downplayed his own qualifications to critique the system. "I do not pretend," he wrote, "to be the most qualified person to lay out the full argument."

That didn't stop the denizens of social media from pretending to be the most qualified people to lay out exactly who Mangione is. He's "fundamentally anti-capitalist" and "just another leftist nut job." Or he's "a vaguely right-wing ivy league tech bro." Or he was invented by the CIA, or maybe Mossad, as a "psyop." The reality of Mangione — his messy, sometimes contradictory impulses — allowed everyone to cherry-pick the aspects of his personality that confirmed their original suspicions. In the attention economy, patience is a vice.

The rush to romanticize killers is nothing new. A quarter century ago, we cast the Columbine shooters as undone by unfettered access either to guns or to the satanic influences of Marilyn Manson and Rammstein. A decade ago, we debated the glamorization of the Boston Marathon bomber, gussied up like a rock star on the cover of Rolling Stone. But social media has sped up the assumption cycle to the point where we put the killer into a category before police have found the killer. Perhaps there's a "great rewiring" of our brains that has diminished our capacity to understand each other, as the social psychologist Jonathan Haidt suggests in "The Anxious Generation" — a book Mangione had retweeted a glowing review of.

Mythmaking is easier, of course, when it's unencumbered by reality. The less we know about a killer, the more room there is to turn him into something he's not. From what we have learned so far, Mangione is a troubled Gen Zer who won the privilege lottery at birth and ascribed to a mishmash of interests and beliefs. We will surely learn more about him in the coming days, weeks, and months. But now that we know who he is, it will be hard, if not impossible, to let go of our initial assumptions. Instead, we'll selectively focus on the details that fit tidily into the myths we've already created. In the digital-age version of "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance," the legend was already printed by the time the facts came along.

Scott Nover is a freelance writer in Washington, DC. He is a contributing writer at Slate and was previously a staff writer at Quartz and Adweek covering media and technology.

On Wednesday, moments after the news broke that Brian Thompson, the CEO of UnitedHealthcare, had been fatally shot in Midtown Manhattan, social media unleashed a barrage of caustic commentary about his death. In lieu of condolences, Americans from all walks of life shared barbed jokes, grim memes, and personal anecdotes about their own experiences with giant insurers like UnitedHealthcare.

On Facebook, UnitedHealthcare's statement about the murder of its chief executive elicited 46,000 reactions — 41,000 of which employed the laughing emoji. The company quickly turned off comments on the post, but hundreds of users shared it with arch commentary.

"The amount of laugh reacts on the original post speaks volumes lol," one user wrote.

"My thoughts & prayers were out of network," wrote another.

While the motive behind Thompson's murder remains unknown, the internet treated it as an occasion for ghoulish schadenfreude. America's health insurance system is so broken and cruel, people openly declared, that the death of one of its most powerful executives merited nothing but scorn and derision. "He was CEO when he was shot," read one tweet that received more than 120,000 likes. "Preexisting condition. Claim denied."

"The UnitedHealthcare CEO might be the most celebrated death on this app since Henry Kissinger," wrote another user on X.

Given the nature of social media, where the most provocative and emotion-laden commentary is engineered to rise to the top, it's not surprising that platforms from TikTok to Reddit would be filled with hateful invective. What's striking, however, is how the backlash revealed the depth of the bitterness toward health insurers. In the face of a man being gunned down in the street, people didn't keep their feelings toward insurers in check; rather, they seized on it as a moment to vent their rage. Everyone from right-wing influencers to tenured Ivy League professors responded to Thompson's killing by posting about what they saw as the injustices of America's health insurers. Even on LinkedIn, one of the internet's last bastions of civility and professionalism, hundreds of business executives, HR leaders, and tech managers shared deeply personal stories about how they and their loved ones had suffered at the hands of a healthcare bureaucracy that often delays and denies reasonable claims.

In one exchange, a hospital executive acknowledged that many Americans are fed up with health insurers. "As healthcare security professionals, we know that many see healthcare as a target for their anger," he wrote. "Family members who have lost a loved one may feel as though a physician, healthcare facility, or insurer is responsible for that loss."

Jill Christensen, a former vice president at Western Union, responded to the post by forcefully rejecting its wording. "In many instances, it's not feel, it's ARE responsible for that loss," she wrote. "I was diagnosed with Stage 4 cancer and UHC denied every claim. While today's event is tragic, it does not come as a surprise to the millions of people — like myself — who pay their OOP costs and premiums, only to be turned away at their greatest time of need."

The joking language of the internet has become a standard way for Americans to process tragic events, whether the September 11, 2001, attacks or the July 2024 assassination attempt on Donald Trump. But Thompson's murder sparked something different: an unparalleled public reckoning with one of the country's largest and most profitable industries. "When you shoot one man in the street it's murder," wrote one user on X. "When you kill thousands of people in hospitals by taking away their ability to get treatment you're an entrepreneur."

To some observers, the outpouring of ire also appeared to have an immediate effect on the industry itself. One day after Thompson's murder, Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield announced that it was rescinding a controversial plan to limit coverage for anesthesia. "When patients become financially responsible because a health plan cuts how much they pay providers, that's what breeds all this anger," Marianne Udow-Phillips, a former Blue Cross executive, told Axios. An Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield spokesperson told Business Insider, "It never was and never will be the policy of Anthem Blue Cross Blue Shield to not pay for medically necessary anesthesia services. The proposed update to the policy was only designed to clarify the appropriateness of anesthesia consistent with well-established clinical guidelines."

The storm of invective surrounding Thompson's killing will soon subside, as online malice always does. But it's also possible that the CEO's death will mark an inflection point in the debate over America's privatized system of health insurance. On X, one user drew a direct line between the callousness of the internet's response to Thompon's murder and an industry that makes it hard for many Americans to receive the medical treatment they need.

"All jokes aside," the user tweeted, "it's really fucked up to see so many people on here celebrating murder. No one here is the judge of who deserves to live or die. That's the job of the AI algorithm the insurance company designed to maximise profits on your health."

Scott Nover is a freelance writer based in Washington, DC. He is a contributing writer at Slate and was previously a staff writer at Quartz and Adweek covering media and technology.