It was a scene that began like any other routine emergency call for first responders, but what unfolded on Canfield Mountain in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, on the morning of Sunday, June 30, was anything but ordinary. It ended in tragedy. Two respected public servants—John Morrison, Battalion Chief with the Coeur d’Alene Fire Department, and Frank Harwood, Battalion Chief with Kootenai County Fire and Rescue—were fatally shot in what authorities are now calling a premeditated ambush. A third firefighter, David Tysdal, a Firefighter/Engineer with the Coeur d’Alene Fire Department and member of IAFF Local 710, remains in critical condition after sustaining serious injuries in the same attack.
At the center of this deeply disturbing incident is Wess Roley, a 20-year-old resident of Coeur d’Alene. According to Kootenai County Sheriff Robert Norris, Roley intentionally ignited a brush fire on the remote slopes of Canfield Mountain in an apparent effort to lure firefighters to the scene, before opening fire on them in sniper-style fashion. When law enforcement arrived at the location, they found Roley deceased from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. The recovered evidence—a flint fire starter, rifled shotgun slugs, and additional ballistic fragments—suggested not just preparation, but calculated execution. Among the weapons Roley had access to, according to his family, were a shotgun and a long rifle, though officials have not confirmed which of these was used in the ambush.
The implications of this violent act are as far-reaching as they are harrowing. This was not just an assault on three individuals—it was a direct and deliberate attack on the very concept of public service, an ambush that targeted the selfless responders whose job is to face danger, not from hostile intent, but from nature’s chaos: wildfire, wind, drought. That the fire itself was an intentional decoy makes the event not only tragic but tactically chilling.
Investigators are now working through layers of forensic and personal history in their effort to piece together what led to this act. Early reports indicate that there was a brief verbal exchange between Roley and the responding firefighters before he opened fire. While details of that exchange remain under wraps, its existence suggests the ambush was not entirely from the shadows; it had a human face, a human voice—perhaps a final moment of hesitation or deception.
Sheriff Norris confirmed that federal agencies, including the FBI and ATF, are actively assisting in the investigation, a measure typically reserved for incidents with hallmarks of domestic terrorism, premeditation, or targeted violence against government personnel. Though no manifesto or written declaration was found on Roley’s person or at the scene, and while no formal motive has yet been identified, the facts suggest a level of planning and intentionality that far exceeds a spontaneous act.
Who was Wess Roley, and what led him to orchestrate such a violent assault?
Those questions are now central to the investigation. According to his grandfather, Dale Roley, Wess had recently expressed an interest in pursuing a career in wildland firefighting. He had been working in the family’s tree service business, which gave him regular exposure to forestry work. “He wanted to be a fireman,” said the elder Roley. “He was doing tree work and he wanted to be a fireman in the forest. As far as I know, he was actually pursuing it.” That statement now echoes with tragic irony: the profession he claimed to admire became the stage for an act of violence that ended the lives of two actual career firefighters and nearly a third.
Dale Roley noted that Wess had been living in his car in the weeks leading up to the ambush, an indication of possible housing insecurity, emotional instability, or both. Though the two reportedly spoke weekly, Wess had lost his phone, and they had not been in contact during the crucial month before the attack. Social media posts suggest Wess had recently vacationed in Hawaii with his mother, indicating a volatile personal trajectory—shifting between moments of normalcy and potential crisis.
Public records further reveal a troubled family history. In 2015, when Wess was just 10 years old, his mother filed for divorce from his father, citing domestic abuse that included threats involving a sniper rifle and arson—alarming parallels to the methods employed in the ambush. Though a protective order was initially granted, it was later modified after the father challenged the allegations. The long-term psychological impact of growing up in such a household is unknown, but in retrospect, it raises disturbing possibilities.
From a tactical standpoint, the elements of the attack align with textbook definitions of an asymmetric ambush. The fire created a false flag emergency—a low-risk callout for responders who, under normal circumstances, would expect to face flames, not firearms. The positioning of the shooter, the weapons used, and the initial feigned interaction with the victims all point to premeditation rather than impulsivity.
For the fire service community, the loss of Battalion Chiefs John Morrison and Frank Harwood represents more than a casualty count. These were high-ranking, experienced officers—men whose lives were defined by leadership, mentorship, and operational excellence. Morrison and Harwood were not new to the dangers of their profession, yet nothing in their careers would have prepared them for being hunted in the field by someone posing as a civilian.
Their deaths bring to mind other rare but devastating incidents in which first responders are targeted, echoing a growing concern among public safety experts that even those who risk their lives to save others can become symbolic targets of rage, alienation, or pathology. In this case, the attacker had no criminal record cited in the report and no known ideological affiliations, leaving open the possibility that mental health deterioration, isolation, or internalized resentment could have been at play.
Meanwhile, David Tysdal, the injured firefighter who survived the ambush, remains hospitalized and in critical condition. His path forward, both physically and emotionally, will be long and uncertain. The fact that he is still fighting for his life brings a tentative note of hope amid the grief, though it also highlights the trauma and complexity of surviving such a targeted attack.
As Coeur d’Alene and Kootenai County grieve, a broader public safety discussion begins to take shape. The event has already prompted internal reviews within local fire departments regarding tactical response protocols, situational awareness in isolated locations, and inter-agency coordination in the face of potentially hostile incidents. In an age where false 911 calls have increasingly been used to bait law enforcement into ambushes, Sunday’s events may now force fire departments—long presumed to be neutral responders—to consider similar risk assessments.
Authorities will undoubtedly continue combing through digital evidence, including cell phone data, online behavior, and personal communications that may offer insight into Roley’s state of mind. Even absent a formal manifesto, patterns may emerge—suggesting either a descent into delusion, a quest for notoriety, or an unresolved personal vendetta.
The community’s mourning will not be short-lived. Memorials will be held. Bagpipes will play. Departments will don black bands over their badges. But the deeper reckoning will be in how public safety institutions—from fire departments to 911 dispatch centers to sheriff’s offices—learn from this moment. How do you protect those whose job it is to walk into danger without expecting to become targets? How do you train for the unthinkable without surrendering to fear?
At a national level, this incident could shape conversations around occupational risk for first responders, mental health interventions for at-risk individuals, and even fire service policies for remote call responses. The FBI and ATF’s involvement further underscores the seriousness of the attack—not only as a local tragedy but as a case study in how seemingly small-scale incidents can carry high-impact psychological and tactical consequences.
For now, the names John Morrison, Frank Harwood, and David Tysdal stand as pillars of both tragedy and valor. Their actions, even in their final moments, reflected the creed of all firefighters: to answer the call, no matter the cost. Their legacy—etched now not only in department rosters but in the very conscience of Coeur d’Alene—will endure long after the smoke on Canfield Mountain clears.