U.S. Army soldiers salute fallen comrades during the III Corps and Fort Hood Memorial Ceremony at Fort Hood, Texas, on Nov. 10, 2009. The ceremony honored the 13 people killed in the Nov. 5 shooting at the Army post. (Reuters/Jessica Rinaldi)
Seventeen years after an Army psychiatrist opened fire at Fort Hood and killed 13 people in 2009, the families of three victims continue to build lives around the memories, values and lessons left by their fathers, daughters and spouses.
“It builds character, kid.” Keely Cahill Vanacker still remembers her father, Michael Cahill, saying the words with a playful punch to her arm whenever something upset her during her teenage years.
Cahill spent 23 years in the Army National Guard as an infantryman before earning a bachelor’s degree in psychology and training as a physician assistant, where he cared for fellow soldiers.
“My dad really valued people, and he touched a lot of lives,” Vanacker said.
Vanacker grew up in a military family and lived throughout the country. Wherever they went, she watched her father treat patients with compassion and fairness.
Michael Cahill served in the Army National Guard for 23 years before becoming a physician assistant. (Courtesy of Keely Vanacker)
“If you were living at a rural Texas post and struggling to afford asthma medication, my dad would find a way to help you get it,” she said.
For Cahill, helping others was a lifelong calling. His service continued after he left the military, when he worked as a civilian physician assistant at Fort Hood.
Amy Krueger’s decision to serve was shaped by the aftermath of the Sept. 11, 2001, terrorist attacks.
“I’m going in.”
That was what Amy told her mother, Jeri Krueger, on the afternoon of Sept. 11.
Amy was then attending the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay’s Sheboygan Campus.
“Going in?” her mother recalled asking.
“I’m joining the Army, Mom.”
Jeri doubted that her daughter could personally make a difference in the fight against terrorism.
“Oh, Amy, you can’t take on bin Laden all by yourself,” she told her.
“Watch me,” Amy replied.
The following day, Amy visited a recruiter. She eventually became Army Staff Sgt. Amy Krueger.
“When Amy said she was going to do something, she did it,” her mother said.
After deploying to Afghanistan in 2003 and serving at Bagram Airfield, Amy returned home and continued her training as an Army mental health specialist. She also completed Emergency Medical Technician and Certified Nursing Assistant programs while studying psychology.
Amy Krueger joined the U.S. military after the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks. (Jeri Krueger)
“She wanted to help people through difficult experiences,” Krueger said. “Psychology was definitely something she would have excelled at.”
Amy volunteered for a second Afghanistan tour in 2008. Between deployments, friends and relatives welcomed her home.
Even when she was stateside, service remained central to Amy’s life.
One day, while Jeri was at work, Amy sent her a photograph of a new tattoo that had taken hours to complete.
“I said, ‘I don’t like it,’” Krueger recalled.
Amy assumed her mother was simply expressing the usual parental disapproval of a new tattoo.
Jeri explained that it was not necessarily the tattoo itself that troubled her, but its message.
“I feel like it’s a bad omen,” she told Amy.
Amy dismissed the concern with a laugh.
The tattoo showed an American flag across Amy’s back, beside a firearm and a soldier’s hat. It read: “All gave some. Some gave all. Sacrifice.”
Jeri knew her daughter intended to keep serving. Still, the tattoo left her with a feeling she could not shake.
“I always thought she had a feeling she might not come back,” Krueger said. “That tattoo kind of says that. I think she was prepared to fight and do what she had to do, but she didn’t know whether she would return.”
By October 2009, Amy had been assigned to Fort Hood ahead of a December deployment. She would never leave for that mission.
Amy was not the only service member at Fort Hood preparing to deploy. Staff Sgt. Justin DeCrow was there ahead of an assignment in Iraq.
Justin had wanted to join the Army from an early age, inspired by his father, Daniel J. DeCrow, a Vietnam veteran. Justin later became a satellite communications instructor, earning a reputation for hard work and for lifting the spirits of those around him.
“His positive attitude and humor helped others get through tough times,” said Justin’s wife, Marikay DeCrow.
When fellow soldiers struggled, Justin stayed behind to teach, support and encourage them. He refused to accept failure.
That same warmth defined his family life. Justin and Marikay had known each other since childhood because he was friends with her brother. Their relationship deepened after she invited him to her senior prom, and the two soon became inseparable.
“From that time on, we were together,” Marikay said. “When he looked at me, all I saw was the love he had for me. I couldn’t imagine my life without him.”
When their daughter, Kylah, was born, Justin could not return home to meet her until she was 6 weeks old.
Justin DeCrow was one of the 13 people killed at Fort Hood in 2009. (Courtesy of Marikay DeCrow)
Justin learned about Kylah’s birth a day later, when he was finally able to call Marikay at the hospital.
“He was ecstatic to have a daughter,” she said. “We might have had one five-minute phone call each day.”
Those calls became a vital connection, giving Marikay brief but precious moments with Justin while they were separated.
The distance continued when Justin began Advanced Individual Training in South Carolina. Marikay traveled back and forth nearly every other weekend to keep the family together.
“Sometimes we only had a day; sometimes he was allowed to spend the night with us,” Marikay said. “Every trip mattered so much to all of us. He spent every minute he could holding Kylah. Leaving him each time was incredibly hard.”
As Kylah grew, Justin remained devoted to her. Marikay says his values live on through their daughter.
“I see so much of Justin in Kylah,” she said. “She is witty and funny, and she cares deeply about the people around her.”
Neither knew how meaningful those visits would become—the final moments they would share before Justin reported to Fort Hood.
On a Thursday at Fort Hood’s Soldier Readiness Processing Center, U.S. Army Maj. and psychiatrist Nidal Hasan opened fire. Thirteen people were killed and 31 others were wounded.
Hasan was driven by Islamic extremism and opposed the U.S. military presence in Afghanistan and Iraq.
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE: Could Meghan Markle’s Health Affect the Child Abuse Probe? Palace Confidential Examines
Among the dead were retired Chief Warrant Officer 2 Michael Cahill, Staff Sgt. Amy Krueger and Staff Sgt. Justin DeCrow—three people remembered for their military service, personal convictions and devotion to family.
For their relatives, the attack began a second ordeal: trying to reconstruct what happened and how their loved ones spent their final moments.
For Vanacker, the early effort to understand the shooting was marked by fragments and uncertainty. Witnesses were hospitalized or dispersed around the country, and many of Cahill’s colleagues had not seen what happened to him.
She did not receive a clear account until a memorial service, when a soldier who had shared a cubicle with Cahill approached her.
He said the day had begun like any other until gunfire erupted down the hallway.
“And all of a sudden, your dad just got up, and then he was gone,” Vanacker recalled him saying.
Cahill was working as a civilian physician assistant at Fort Hood when the 2009 shooting occurred. (Courtesy of Keely Vanacker)
Vanacker spent nearly a year waiting for a fuller account of what had happened to her father.
“I was trying to understand what happened and whether he had been shot while helping someone,” she said. “Was it something like that? For a while, everything remained unanswered, and you were trapped in this strange waiting game.”
During the pretrial proceedings, she learned that Cahill had left the examination room, grabbed a chair by its legs and charged Hasan. The act of courage reflected the “character” he had spent his life teaching his children.
In August 2013, a military jury convicted Hasan on all 42 counts and unanimously imposed the death penalty. Hasan has spent 13 years on military death row.
In 2015, after Congress expanded Purple Heart eligibility, military victims of the massacre received the medals. Eligible civilian victims, including Cahill, received the Secretary of Defense Medal for the Defense of Freedom.
On Oct. 2, President Donald Trump approved Hasan’s sentence, and acting Army Secretary Adam Telle ordered that the execution be carried out by firing squad on Dec. 3.
It would be the first U.S. military execution since 1961 and the first military firing-squad execution since 1945.
“When I received the email saying President Trump had signed the execution order, I felt a kind of relief. All I could do was cry,” Marikay said. “I have waited 17 years to hear this.”
Some have questioned the execution method, but Marikay said the manner of Hasan’s death mattered less than ensuring he faced the penalty.
“He deserves the death penalty. This is justice,” she said. “This man destroyed our lives. Justin never got to watch Kylah grow up, graduate, walk her down the aisle or hold his beautiful granddaughters. We were supposed to grow old together.”
Vanacker and Krueger said Hasan’s execution was not necessary for their own sense of closure.
“He was already dead to me, and I didn’t think about him,” Vanacker said. “An execution was not something I personally needed for closure.”
Krueger expressed much the same view. “I never think about him. He died a long time ago,” she said.
Both women also questioned whether executing Hasan could satisfy the very ambitions he had pursued.
“He wanted to be a martyr, and that didn’t happen,” Krueger said. “So when this happens, does it fulfill what he wanted?”
President Donald Trump said the execution of convicted Fort Hood shooter Nidal Hasan would not be livestreamed, reversing an earlier Pentagon announcement that the event would be broadcast publicly. (Aaron Schwartz/Getty Images; Bell County Sheriff’s Office via Getty Images)
“He carried out that shooting in a way designed to draw attention and make him a martyr, and we have played right into his hands,” Vanacker said.
The dispute intensified after War Secretary Pete Hegseth said the administration intended to livestream the execution.
“We’ll make sure people can watch it publicly because people need to understand that there are serious consequences for these types of actions,” Hegseth said.
The families said they first learned of the livestream proposal through the announcement.
“It feels like a slap in the face—disrespectful,” Krueger said. “I’m sure he didn’t intend it, but somebody should have said, ‘Wait a minute. Families are going to be affected by this.’”
Before Trump announced on Truth Social that the planned livestream had been canceled, Vanacker warned that the administration’s handling of the execution could put it at risk.
“Hegseth’s obsession with barbaric optics probably put this execution in danger,” Vanacker said. “Our tragedy is not your entertainment.”
She urged Congress to prohibit livestreamed military executions through the National Defense Authorization Act.
“I hope they put a ban in the NDAA so it can never even be considered or offered again,” she said. “Livestreaming an execution should never be an option.”
Krueger said she felt relieved after the livestream plan was withdrawn.
“I’m so, so grateful that President Trump took it down. That’s a good thing,” she said.
Victims’ families may witness Hasan’s execution, and Marikay already knows where she will be on Dec. 3.
“When the date was announced, I knew I would be returning to Fort Hood one last time,” she said. “This is closure. I’m ready for it to be over.”
For these families, Nov. 5 remains a deeply personal day—one centered not on Hasan, but on the people they lost.
Krueger remembers Amy as lively and strong, with a gift for passing that strength to others. Today, those memories continue to sustain her mother.
“I hate the ideology that led him to do what he did,” Krueger said. “But do I hate him? He was a human being influenced by the beliefs of his leaders, and he still had the free will to carry out something so devastating and destructive.”
To honor Amy’s legacy, her family holds an annual fundraiser for a scholarship in her name at the local high school.
The event reflects Amy’s personality by keeping the mood upbeat: It is a bar crawl called Krueg’s Crawl.
“It’s a bar crawl with prizes, so it’s fun,” Krueger said.
This year’s event was held on Halloween and included a costume contest, continuing the celebration of Amy’s life.
When Nov. 5 arrives, the family keeps its remembrance private.
“We generally do the same thing,” Krueger said. “We gather, go to the cemetery, talk about her and remember her. We’re doing that again this year.”
Vanacker and her family maintain their own traditions by visiting Cahill’s gravesite.
“We go, leave flowers and spend time remembering him,” she said.
During the first anniversary, Vanacker drew strength from the four-word phrase her father had used to comfort her throughout childhood: “It builds character, kid.”
“This year feels a little different,” Vanacker said. “With all the other distractions around us, it honestly makes things harder. There are more emotions pulling at us this year.”
The renewed attention surrounding the case has reopened painful memories, but the families say the tragedy has also brought them closer.
“We’ve become like a family,” Krueger said. “There was one year, and then the 10-year anniversary, when seeing them and being together meant so much to me.”
Three families forever changed by the Fort Hood shooting remain connected, drawing strength from the service, compassion and values their loved ones left behind.