by Wally Lamb
“I heard Louise’s voice.”
“The librarian?”
Maureen nodded. “She was speaking to someone. A man. I heard her telling him that I’d been in the break room when she and her aide went to hide. And the man called out to me. He said the building had been secured and that if I was able, I should come into view. ‘It’s all right, Mrs. Quirk,’ I heard Louise say. And so I opened the cabinet door a little more and saw the man—a member of the SWAT team, I guess he was. He was wearing a helmet and big, thick glasses—safety glasses, I guess. And then I saw Louise, and the art teacher who had called 911. And so I swung the door open and got out. And the man had each of us, one by one, place our hands on his shoulders and follow him out of the library. He told us not to look at anything around us—to look just at the back of his helmet—and so that was pretty much what I did. I saw a little. There was glass all over the floor, and it crunched underneath my shoes, and I saw that the carpet had gotten scorched. And, out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the students, sitting at a computer. He must be dead, I figured. Why else would he be just sitting there? His computer was still on. I didn’t look at anything else. A part of me wanted to ask the SWAT man if we could go to Velvet’s table, but I was too afraid. I didn’t want to see her dead, and I didn’t want to make the man mad.
“And then, out in the hallway, another of the SWAT guys had to frisk us. He was apologetic, but we were saying, ‘That’s okay! That’s okay! We understand!’ He frisked me first, and while he was frisking the others, I noticed bullet holes in the wall and dents in the lockers, from where the bullets had hit. And there were black scorch marks on the wall and the ceiling, from the bombs, I guess. And bullet casings all over the floor. The officer had us write down our names, addresses, and phone numbers in a little notebook. He told us the police would question us later, but that right now we needed to go down the stairs and walk directly out of the building. He said there’d be officers just outside who would escort us safely off the school property. And then I remembered my purse. It was still inside the break room. I didn’t want to go back in there, but I needed my purse, so I asked the man if he could get it for me. He said no, no, my purse was evidence—that the library was a crime scene and everything in it was evidence. And I said, ‘Well, but my car keys are in my purse.’ And he said all the cars in the parking lots were part of a crime scene, too, and that no one was going to be able to claim their cars for a while. ‘Just go down the stairs and out the building,’ he said. He sounded a little mad, a little impatient, and it scared me. So that was what we did, the four of us—Louise, her aide, the art teacher, and me. And when we got to the bottom of the stairs, I stopped to look around the cafeteria. The ceiling sprinklers were on, and the kids’ backpacks were all over the floor, floating in water. And there was a kind of burnt chemical smell in the air. And then the fire alarm shut off. It had been going for hours, and suddenly it was quiet. You know when people say, ‘The silence was deafening’? That’s what it was like. All you could hear was the sound of the sprinklers. It was like a light rain, like it was raining inside the cafeteria. The sprinklers. And…and what sounded like birds chirping.”
“Birds?” Sergeant Cox asked.
“I know it wasn’t birds,” Maureen said. “But that’s what it sounded like.”
“Cell phones,” Detective Chin said.
The three of us looked over at him. His water glass was empty. He’d hardly said a word. “Cell phones,” he said again. “Ringing in the students’ backpacks. Parents trying to reach their kids.”
Sergeant Cox asked Maureen if she and the others were escorted off the school grounds once she was outside. Mo nodded. “The four of us got into a cruiser, and they drove us to Clement Park. There were people everywhere—parents, kids. Everyone was crying, hugging each other. Two or three of the kids were hysterical. I didn’t speak to anyone. I just kept walking, through the park. And then, at the other end, I saw the library and said to myself that I’d go in there.”
“The public library?”
“Yes. So I went in, and went to the women’s room. And I started seeing and hearing everything I’d seen and heard that morning, when those boys…walked in and started laughing and yelling…. And I thought I was going to have to throw up, but I was too afraid to close the stall. I didn’t want to be closed in, even if I was going to vomit. And then I did vomit, with the door open. And later, I heard that people were meeting their kids at Leawood, so I walked to Leawood, and I thought, I’ll walk in and Velvet will be there, or I’ll be there and she’ll walk in and see me. But…”
A LITTLE BEFORE NOON, MAUREEN and I drove over to Leawood Elementary School. Most of the family members who’d been there the night before had made it back. The D.A. arrived at about twelve fifteen. True to his word, he had a list. He said he would read the names of all the deceased—those who had died outside and inside the school. As he read from his list, fathers and mothers clamped their eyes shut, nodding in anguished resignation, but no one screamed out. No one wailed.
“Lauren Townsend, Rachel Scott, Kyle Velasquez, John Tomlin, Cassie Bernal, Daniel Mauser, Daniel Rohrbaugh, Corey DePooter, Isaiah Shoels, Steven Curnow, Kelly Fleming, Matthew Kechter, William ‘Dave’ Sanders, Dylan Klebold, and Eric Harris.”
Maureen and I looked at each other. We approached the D.A. Waited while several of the others asked him questions about the removal and reclaiming of their sons’ and daughters’ bodies. At last, he turned to us.
“What about Velvet Hoon?” Maureen asked.
He looked again at his list. Shook his head. “Is she your daughter?”
I told him she was an emancipated minor, a former student.
“She was there,” Maureen said. “In the library.”
He consulted his list again, twisted the hairs of his mustache. “Ma’am, at this point in time, we’ve examined every square inch of that school,” he said. “If her name’s not on this list, then she got out.”
chapter eight
EXCERPTS FROM DYLAN KLEBOLD’S JOURNAL, 1997:
“Fact: People are so unaware…well, Ignorance is bliss I guess…. I swear—like I’m an outcast, & everyone is conspiring against me…The lonely man strikes with absolute rage.”
Excerpts from Eric Harris’s journal, 1998:
“I will sooner die than betray my own thoughts, but before I leave this worthless place, I will kill whoever I deem unfit…. I want to burn the world, I want to kill everyone except about 5 people…. I’m full of hate and I love it.”
Posting on Eric Harris’s AOL Web site, 1998:
“YOU KNOW WHAT I HATE!!!? Cuuuuuuuuhntryyyyyyyyyyy music!!!…
YOU KNOW WHAT I HATE!!!? People who say that wrestling is real!!…YOU KNOW WHAT I HATE!!!? People who use the same word over and over again! Read a fucking book or two, increase your vo-cab-u-lary fucking idiots…. YOU KNOW WHAT I HATE!!!? STUPID PEOPLE!!! Why must so many people be so stupid!!?…YOU KNOW WHAT I HATE!!!? When people mispronounce words! And they don’t even know it to, like acrosT, or eXpreso, pacific (specific), or 2 pAck. Learn to speak correctly you morons…. YOU KNOW WHAT I HATE!!!? STAR WARS FANS!!! GET A FasaaaaaRIGGIN LIFE YOU BORING GEEEEEKS!…My belief is that if I say something, it goes. I am the law, if you don’t like it, you die. If I don’t like you or I don’t like what you want me to do, you die. If I do something incorrect, oh fucking well, you die. Dead people can’t do many things like argue, whine, bitch, complain, narc, rat out, criticize, or even fucking talk. So that’s the only way to solve arguments with all you fuckheads out there. I just kill!…Feel no remorse, no sense of shame…. I will rig up explosives all over a town and detonate each one of them at will after I mow down a whole fucking area full of you snotty ass rich mother fucking high strung godlike attitude having worthless piece of shit whores. I don’t care if I live or die in the shoot-out. All I want to do is kill and injure as many of you as I can, especially a few people. Like Brooks Brown.1…From now on, I don’t give a fuck what almost any of you m
utha fuckas have to say, unless I respect you which is highly unlikely, but for those of you who happen to know me and know that I respect you, may peace be with you and don’t be in my line of fire. For the rest of you, you all better hide in your house because im comin for EVERYONE soon and I WILL be armed to the fucking teeth and I WILL shoot to kill and I WILL fucking KILL EVERYTHING! No I am not crazy, crazy is just a word, to me it has no meaning, everyone is different, but most of you fuckheads out there in society, going to your everyday fucking jobs and doing your everyday routine shitty things, I say fuck you and die. If you got a problem with my thoughts, come tell me and I’ll kill you, because…god damnit, DEAD PEOPLE DON”T ARGUE!”
Excerpt from a “mea culpa” school essay by Eric Harris, describin what he learned after he and Dylan Klebold were arrested for breaking into and stealing equipment from a parked van on January 30, 1998. Shortly after the theft, Harris and Klebold were approached and later brought into custody by Officer Tim Walsh of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office, who was on patrol and noticed the boys, parked not far from the break-in, examining the stolen goods.
“After a very unique experience in a real live police station being a real live criminal, I had lots of time to think about what I did…. As I waited, I cried, I hurt, and I felt like hell…. My parents lost all respect and trust in me and I am still slowly regaining it. That experience showed me that no matter what crime you think of committing, you will get caught, that you must, absolutely must, think things through before you act, and that just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. To this day I still do not have a hard realistic reason why we broke into that car, but since we did, we have been set on a track that makes it mandatory for me to be a literal angel until March of 1999.”
Excerpt from Eric Harris’s journal describing his private reaction to the van break-in:
“Isn’t America supposed to be the land of the free? How come if I’m free, I can’t deprive a stupid fucking dumbshit from his possessions if he leaves them sitting in the front seat of his fucking van out in plain sight and in the middle of fucking nowhere on a Fri-fucking-day night? NATURAL SELECTION. Fucker should be shot.”
Videotaped boast of Eric Harris:
“I could convince them that I’m going to climb Mount Everest, or I have a twin brother growing out of my back. I can make you believe anything.”
Excerpt from Eric Harris’s journal entry dated April 26, 1998:
“Once the first wave starts to go off and the chaos begins, V opens fire and I start lobbin’ the firebombs. Then I open fire, V starts lobbin’ more crickets. Then if we can go upstairs and go to each classroom we can pick off fuckers at our will. If we still can we will hijack some awesome car, and drive off to the neighborhood of our choice and start torching houses with Molotov cocktails. By that time cops will be all over us and we start to kill them too! We use bombs, fire bombs, and anything we fucking can to kill and damage as much as we fucking can…. I want to leave a lasting impression on the world.”
Excerpt from Eric Harris’s journal on the December 1998 day fellow Columbine student Robyn Anderson purchased weapons for Klebold and Harris at a gun show:
“We…have…GUNS! We fucking got em, you sons of bitches! HA! HA HA HA! Neener! Booga Booga. Heh. It’s all over now. This caps it off, the point of no return.”
Excerpt from Dylan Klebold’s February 1999 creative writing class assignment, a short story about an assassin who kills unsuspecting victims as they emerge from a bar:
“I not only saw in his face, but also felt emanating from him power, complacence, closure, and godliness…. The man smiled, and in that instant, through no endeavor of my own, I understood his actions.”
Dialogue voiced by Eric Harris in a late 1998 video, in which he plays the part of a professional hit man for “Trenchcoat Mafia Protection Services.” The video was submitted in fulfillment of an assignment for Harris’s Government and Economics class, in which students were to design and promote a product or service:
“If you ever touch him again, I will frickin’ kill you! I’ll pull out my shotgun and blow your goddamn head off! Do you understand, you worthless…piece…of crap?”
Dialogue voiced by Dylan Klebold, in the “Trenchcoat Mafia Protection Services” video:
“If you bother him again, I will rip off your goddamn head and shove it so far up your friggin’ ass, you’ll be coughing up dandruff for four frickin’ months!”
Scrawled by Eric Harris in a fellow student’s yearbook:
“I hate everything unless I say otherwise, hey don’t follow your dreams or your goals or any of that bullshit, follow your fucking animal instincts, if it moves kill it, if it doesn’t, burn it. Kein mitleid!!!”2
Dylan Klebold, asking the traditional questions at the Klebold family’s seder, Passover 1999, as is customary for the youngest at the table:
“Why is this night different from all other nights? Why do we eat only matzoh on Pesach? Why do we eat bitter herbs at our Seder? Why do we dip our foods twice tonight? Why do we lean on a pillow tonight?”3
Exclamation of Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris when they got strikes in bowling class:
“Sieg Heil!”
Sardonic off-camera comment of Eric Harris during videotaped shooting practice at Rampart Range, March of 1999. A closeup shows a shooter’s hand, bloody from shotgun kickback.
“Guns are bad. When you saw them off and make them illegal, bad things happen.”
Comment by Dylan Klebold during the videotaped shooting practice at Rampart Range. A closeup shows a bullet-shattered bowling pin.
“Imagine that is someone’s fucking brain.”
From Eric Harris’s journal, April 3, 1999:
“Months have passed. It’s the first Friday night in the final month. Much shit has happened. VoDKa has a TEC–9, we test fired all our babies, we have 6 time clocks ready, 39 crickets, 24 pipe bombs, and the napalm is under construction…. Feels like a goddamn movie sometimes. I wanna try to put some bombs and mines around this town too, maybe. Get a few extra frags on the scoreboard. I hate you people for leaving me out of so many fun things. And no, don’t fucking say ‘Well that’s your fault’ because it isn’t, you people had my phone #, and I asked and all, but no no no don’t let the weird looking Eric KID come along. Ooh fucking nooo…”
Dylan Klebold’s last journal entry, April 18, 1999:
“About 26.5 hours from now, the judgment will begin. Difficult but not impossible, necessary, nerve-wracking and fun. What fun is life without a little death? It’s interesting, when I’m in my human form, knowing I’m going to die. Everything has a touch of triviality to it.”
From Eric Harris’s journal:
“It’s my fault! Not my parents, not my brother, not my friends, not my favorite bands, not computer games, not the media, it’s mine.”
Scrawled on the page for Mother’s Day 1999 in Eric Harris’s academic day planner:
“Good wombs have born bad sons.”
April 20, 1999, itinerary written in Eric Harris’s day planner:
5:00 Get up
6:00 meet at KS
7:00 go to Reb’s house
7:15 he leaves to fill propane
I leave to fill gas
8:30 Meet back at his house
9:00 made d. bag set up car
9:30 practice gearups
Chill
10:30 set up 4 things
11: go to school
11:10 set up duffel bags
11:12 wait near cars, gear up
11:16 HAHAHA
Final entry in Dylan Klebold’s math notebook:
Walk in, set bombs at 11:09, for 11:17
Leave,
Drive to Clemete Park. Gear up.
Get back by 11:15
Park cars. Set car bombs for 11:18
Get out, go to outside hill, wait.
When first bombs go off, attack.
have fun!
Eric Harris’s laughing adv
ice to classmate Brooks Brown outside Columbine High School, shortly before the shooting began, April 20, 1999:
“Brooks, I like you now. Get out of here. Go home.”
As Harris and Klebold, wearing black trench coats and carrying a backpack and duffel bag, stand together at the top of Columbine High School’s west exterior, the order by one to the other to begin shooting, as reported by a witness, 11:19 a.m., April 20, 1999:
“Go! Go!”
Klebold or Harris, between 11:19 and 11:23 a.m., during which time they killed students Rachel Scott and Daniel Rohrbough and injured students Richard Castaldo, Sean Graves, Lance Kirklin, Ann Marie Hochalter, Mark Taylor, and Michael Johnson outside the school, as reported by a witness:
“This is what we always wanted to do! This is awesome!”
Klebold or Harris, before entering the school library, 11:29 a.m., as reported by a witness:
“Are you still with me? We’re going to do this, right?”
Written on pipe bombs thrown inside the school:
“VoDKa Vengeance”
Miscellaneous taunts of Klebold and Harris, laughing and shouting in the library while killing students Kyle Velasquez, Steve Curnow, Cassie Bernal, Isaiah Shoels, Matt Kechter, John Tomlin, Lauren Townsend, Kelly Fleming, Danny Mauser, and Corey DePooter, and injuring students Evan Todd, Dan Steepleton, Makai Hall, Patrick Ireland, Kasey Ruegsegger, Mark Kintgen, Valeen Schnurr, Lisa Kreutz, Nicole Nowlen, Jeanna Park, Jennifer Doyle, and Austin Eubanks, as reported by witnesses and recorded on a 911 call, 11:29 to 11:36 a.m.:
