Shadows of Hatred: Unraveling the Pawtucket Rink Massacre and the Dark Legacy of Robert Dorgan’s Rampage

The echoes of gunfire still reverberate through the frozen confines of Dennis M. Lynch Arena in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, where a night meant for celebration morphed into a nightmare of blood and betrayal on February 16, 2026. What began as a high school hockey team’s senior night—a heartfelt ceremony honoring graduating players amid cheers, flashing cameras, and the crisp scrape of skates on ice—ended in a hail of bullets that claimed lives and shattered families. Robert Dorgan, a 56-year-old transgender individual who also identified as Roberta Esposito, stormed the stands armed with lethal intent, targeting his own kin in a calculated act of vengeance. As chilling new details emerge from police investigations, court records, and social media trails, a portrait of festering resentment, extremist ideologies, and familial fractures comes into sharp focus. This tragedy, unfolding in mere seconds, has left a community grappling with grief, forcing a nation to confront the toxic brew of domestic discord, mental unraveling, and unchecked hatred that can erupt even in the most ordinary settings.

Picture the scene: the arena buzzing with anticipation around 4 p.m., families bundled against the chill, young athletes gliding across the rink in their jerseys, embodying the raw energy of youth and competition. The Blackstone Valley Knights, a co-op team drawing players from multiple schools, were facing off in a game that doubled as a milestone event. Parents like Rhonda Dorgan, 52, sat proudly in the bleachers, her face alight with maternal pride as she watched her youngest son, 17-year-old Colin Dorgan, captain the team on the ice. Beside her were her parents, Linda and Gerald, and family friend Thomas Geruso, all there to share in the joy. Aidan Dorgan, 23, Rhonda’s eldest son and a recent mechanical engineering graduate, joined them, his presence a testament to the tight-knit bonds that hockey fosters in Rhode Island’s working-class communities.

But lurking amid the crowd was Robert Dorgan, Rhonda’s ex-husband and the father of Aidan, Ava (20), and Colin. Dressed in women’s clothing, Dorgan entered the arena not once but twice, as revealed by newly released surveillance footage. The first time, he scanned the stands, perhaps plotting his approach. He left briefly, then returned with purpose—and firepower. Without warning, he drew two handguns: a Glock 10mm and a SIG Sauer P226, both legally purchased and carried under a Florida-issued concealed permit. The shots rang out like thunderclaps, piercing the air and sending spectators into pandemonium. Screams drowned out the referee’s whistle; players on the ice, including Colin skating backward in a defensive stance, froze in terror before scrambling for cover. In the chaos, a heroic bystander lunged at Dorgan, wrestling him to the ground and disarming him, an act that undoubtedly averted a greater massacre. But the damage was done: Rhonda and Aidan lay mortally wounded, while Linda, Gerald, and Geruso bled from critical injuries. Dorgan, his rampage halted, turned one of the guns on himself, ending his life in a final act of cowardice.

Pawtucket Police Chief Tina Goncalves, addressing a somber press conference the next day, described the incident as a “targeted domestic violence event” with no prior altercation visible on the scene. “There was no indication that there was going to be violence,” she stated gravely, emphasizing that Dorgan had attended numerous hockey games before without incident. Yet, as investigators peel back the layers, a motive steeped in deep-seated animosity emerges. Court records from the couple’s 2021 divorce paint a picture of irreconcilable differences, initially citing Dorgan’s “gender reassignment surgery, narcissistic and personality disorder traits.” These were later softened to standard legalese, but the undercurrents of conflict ran deep. Dorgan’s transition, while a personal journey, reportedly ignited familial tensions, with accusations flying in both directions. In 2020, Dorgan filed complaints against his father-in-law, alleging threats including hiring an “Asian street gang” to murder him and slurs like “There’s no goddam way a tranny is going to stay in my house.” Charges were dropped, but the bitterness lingered, festering like an untreated wound.

Chilling new revelations add a darker dimension to Dorgan’s psyche. Social media posts under the handle “Roberta Dorgano” reveal a descent into extremism. Just a day before the shooting, Dorgan replied to a video praising Adolf Hitler with an anti-Asian slur: “Really nice but a c—k made that song.” He retweeted footage of individuals performing the Nazi “Sieg Heil” salute, and his online rhetoric brimmed with racist and antisemitic venom. Tattoos on his body further unmask this hatred: an SS symbol on his right bicep, emblematic of the Nazi Schutzstaffel, and a Totenkopf “death’s head” skull, a insignia tied to concentration camp guards and now a hallmark of neo-Nazi groups, according to the Anti-Defamation League. These symbols, etched into his skin, speak volumes about the ideological poison that may have fueled his actions. Was this rampage a culmination of personal grievances amplified by radical beliefs? Investigators are probing Dorgan’s digital footprint, including a post defending transgender rights with a veiled threat: “Keep bashing us. But do not wonder why we Go BERSERK.” While not representative of the transgender community, Dorgan’s case highlights how isolation, rejection, and exposure to hate can converge into catastrophe.

The victims’ stories humanize the horror, transforming statistics into souls lost too soon. Rhonda Dorgan, a resilient 52-year-old mother of three, had rebuilt her life post-divorce, focusing on her children’s futures. Friends remember her as warm, supportive, and fiercely devoted— the kind of parent who never missed a game or milestone. Her death leaves a void in the lives of Ava, a 20-year-old nursing student, and Colin, the teenage hockey captain whose world shattered mid-game. Aidan Dorgan, at 23, was on the brink of greatness. A mechanical engineering graduate from Merrimack College in 2025, he had landed a job at General Dynamics Electric Boat in Connecticut after a successful internship. An athlete himself, Aidan captained his high school hockey team in 2021, excelling in lacrosse and football too. Engaged to his girlfriend Starr since October 2025, he posted loving tributes online, like a Valentine’s Day message: “I love doing life with you!”—words now haunting in their finality.

The wounded carry their own burdens. Linda and Gerald, Rhonda’s parents in their 70s, remain in critical condition, their bodies fighting the trauma of bullets meant for vengeance. Thomas Geruso, 58, an assistant principal at Charles E. Shea High School, was simply there as a friend, his dedication to education now a backdrop to his recovery. All were supporting Colin, whose backward skate in the LiveBarn video—frozen in time—captures the innocence stolen that day.

In the aftermath, Pawtucket—a city of 75,000 with deep roots in manufacturing and immigrant communities—has united in sorrow and solidarity. Vigils light up the night, with candles flickering outside the arena, now a somber memorial site adorned with flowers, hockey sticks, and jerseys bearing Aidan’s old number. The Rhode Island Interscholastic League postponed games, instituting moments of silence across the state. Local schools, including Shea’s, offer grief counseling, recognizing the ripple effects on students and staff. “Hockey is family here,” one coach lamented, echoing the sentiment that binds players from rival teams in mutual support.

A GoFundMe initiated by Rhonda’s stepdaughter, Amanda Wallace-Hubbard, has surged beyond $15,000, aiding Ava and Colin with living expenses, education, and the unforeseen costs of loss. “The weight of this loss is something no one should ever have to bear, especially at such young ages,” Wallace-Hubbard wrote, her words a plea for compassion. The family’s joint statement, released February 17, conveyed profound pain: “We are experiencing profound pain and loss,” while requesting privacy amid the media frenzy.

This massacre thrusts Rhode Island into the grim national dialogue on gun violence, the 67th mass shooting of 2026 alone, per the Gun Violence Archive. Despite the state’s stringent laws—universal background checks, assault weapon bans, and red flag statutes—Dorgan’s legal firearms slipped through the cracks. Experts decry the ease of interstate permit reciprocity, with Dorgan’s Florida license valid in Rhode Island. “This highlights the patchwork of regulations that fail to protect,” notes Brady Campaign advocate Kris Brown.

Moreover, the intersection of mental health, domestic strife, and extremism demands scrutiny. Transgender individuals face elevated risks of violence and mental health challenges, with a 2025 Trevor Project survey showing 41% of trans youth contemplating suicide. Dorgan’s story, marred by family rejection and radicalization, underscores the need for inclusive support systems. GLAAD spokespersons stress: “This is about family breakdown and untreated issues, not identity itself.” Calls for enhanced mental health resources in suburban areas like Pawtucket, where access lags, grow louder.

As February 19, 2026, dawns, autopsies and investigations continue, with police withholding details pending family notifications. The arena remains closed, its ice a silent witness to the bloodshed. For survivors like Ava and Colin, the path ahead is fraught with grief, but bolstered by community embrace. Colin’s future—perhaps in hockey or engineering like his brother—hangs in uncertainty, yet his resilience shines. In vigils, residents vow: “We skate forward together.”

This tragedy compels reflection: How do hidden hatreds erupt? Can fractured families be mended before breaking? In Pawtucket’s shadows, answers may emerge, but the scars endure. Rhonda’s warmth, Aidan’s promise—these legacies outlive the bullets. As the rink reopens someday, may it echo not with gunfire, but with the triumphant slap of pucks and the unbreakable spirit of those who remain.