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AUTHOR’S NOTE ON SOURCES
I covered this story as a journalist for the New York Daily News, beginning on the afternoon of December 14, 2012. For the purposes of this book, I moved to Newtown. The story recounted here is a combination of my reporting at the time, hundreds of subsequent interviews, hundreds of emails obtained from friends and family members, and police documents, in addition to relying on various media reports I consider reliable.
Anything in quotation marks was either captured on tape, reported by me or other journalists, reconstructed from the memories of survivors, or published in official documents. Passages suggesting thoughts are in italics, and come either from emails, or in most cases, from the memories of the subjects themselves.
Actual names have been used, with the exception of one: the pseudonym Dennis Durant was invented to identify a person close to Nancy Lanza who was a frequent source but did not want to be identified. Due to the sensitive nature of the tragedy, relatives of Adam Lanza who contributed to this story also did not want to be named.
In several instances, conflicting accounts have emerged, including the timeline regarding which classroom Adam Lanza entered first and whether his initial target was Sandy Hook Elementary or Newtown High School. In both instances, and others, I move forward with the best evidence available at the time of this writing.
Quotes from Nancy Lanza and episodes involving her and Adam Lanza are compiled from the recollections of relatives and from emails either obtained or seen. No dialogue was made up for dramatic reasons or for any other purpose.
I refer to the press in the third person to avoid injecting myself into the story. In the initial fog of war, almost all media reports got major elements of the story wrong—myself included.
All time references for the attack are based on law enforcement sources along with recollections from eyewitness testimony, which at times have conflicted.
The morning of December 14, 2012, changed America. As we struggled to understand what could have been done to prevent the bloodshed at Sandy Hook Elementary School and, more important, how to prevent future tragedies, the country soon found itself embroiled in a national dialogue about society’s role.
Much of the debate centered around our access to high-powered weaponry, flaws in our mental health system, school safety protocols, and the violent images that have become increasingly pervasive in today’s culture. Sweeping legislation was discussed, new laws were debated, some laws were even passed, while other legislative proposals will still be debated long after the publication of this book. But while the country continues to debate what to do next, the facts of what led up to the tragedy still remain largely unknown. To have any hope of preventing the next Sandy Hook, we must first know the facts and circumstances that led up to the horrific act.
Who was Adam Lanza? Why did he do this? Could he have been stopped?
This book hopes to inform the debate and provide a broader context.
I believe this is an important story that needs to be told. Hopefully, this book contributes to a better understanding of what happened on that tragic day of December 14, 2012, and as a result better informs us on how to best move forward.
CONTENTS
Author’s Note on Sources
Foreword by Monsignor Robert Weiss
CHAPTER 1: Last Good-byes
CHAPTER 2: The Winter Concert
CHAPTER 3: Adam Lanza’s First Day
CHAPTER 4: The High School Years
CHAPTER 5: Enter Kaynbred
CHAPTER 6: Warning Signs
CHAPTER 7: The Public Servants
CHAPTER 8: Five Minutes, 154 Bullets
CHAPTER 9: First Responders
CHAPTER 10: Something Is Wrong at Sandy Hook
CHAPTER 11: Fog of War
CHAPTER 12: Twenty-six Dead
CHAPTER 13: House of Horrors
CHAPTER 14: The Three Days After
CHAPTER 15: Twenty-six Funerals
CHAPTER 16: The Trial of Nancy Lanza
CHAPTER 17: The Perfect Storm
CHAPTER 18: Glory Killer
CHAPTER 19: The Newtown Effect
CHAPTER 20: A Time to Heal
Afterword
Acknowledgments
FOREWORD
By Monsignor Robert Weiss
When I arrived in Newtown in 1999, I was greeted with a variety of bumper stickers and license plate frames that read: IT’S NICER IN NEWTOWN.
That campaign carried on for several years, reminding us of what this community offers to its citizens. It is a town that has been through many changes in its more than three-hundred-year history, demographically, industrially, and socially. It is a place of quiet and respite where parents can raise their children with strong values and provide many opportunities for their growth and development into responsible and positive adults. It is a community where priorities are very clear, especially in terms of family, friendship, and faith. It is a community in which people choose to live because of who and what we are. And in just about every way, it is still “nicer in Newtown.”
However, on December 14, 2012, the bumper stickers changed to: WE ARE NEWTOWN. WE CHOOSE LOVE as a result of the horrific action of one person that destroyed the lives of too many innocent people forever. There was no single victim as a result of that day; we all became victims.
We looked on in disbelief as more and more grim details emerged about what exactly had happened that Friday morning. The day started like so many others: parents went off to work with a hug from their children knowing that the weekend was almost here, other parents kissed their children good-bye as they put them on the bus or dropped them off at school, still others went about their chores knowing that the holidays were rapidly approaching.
As we all became aware that a horrible tragedy had come our way, rumors ran rampant and people began panicking. Events like this were not supposed to happen in Newtown; these things happened in urban communities, not in a town like ours.
I remember vividly the phone message telling me to come to Sandy Hook Elementary. Once I reached the firehouse, located a few hundred feet from the school, and saw the emergency vehicles and corps of first responders, I approached the front entrance of the building, usually teeming with happy students, and came to a sudden stop as I heard the sound of broken glass under my feet, a sound I still hear on sleepless nights. I stood frozen and quickly realized that I needed to be at the firehouse where the children and families were gathered. There, I found the real heroes of the day, the teachers and staff trying to calm the youngsters and create some order in the midst of chaos. Children ran to me, calling out my name. They were confused and afraid. They were not sure whether they should leave with their parents or stay with their classmates and friends.
And then the moment of reckoning took place as the parents of those students who did not respond to the roll call stood in absolute terror and were invited to enter the firehouse. The reality began to settle in. There continued to be hope. Rumors had it that some of the children had been taken to the hospital and some had run to the police station. Parents were on the phone asking relatives and friends to check anyplace they could think of to see if their child was there and safe. Frustrations and fears mounted as the passing minutes seemed like hours. One mother would begin to cry and another would console her. It was a scene no one could imagine, a
nd certainly no one wanted to be a part of it. Then the announcement came, and one by one, parents, relatives, and friends were left holding tightly to one another, lives irrevocably changed.
Evil had visited our town. If for only a moment, we saw evil face-to-face as the lifeless bodies of twenty children and six committed educators were removed from a building that had been violated by one senseless action. The community was called together to be present for one another.
As I left the firehouse to return to the church and plan a vigil service, I was mobbed by the media. Question after question was thrown at me. Of course, the ultimate question was: Why? Why did this happen? Why did this happen here? Why were the lives of twenty-eight people destroyed? As often as the question was asked, there were no answers. I was also asked if the families were questioning why God would allow this to happen—a question not one person in that firehouse had asked that day. They knew this was not the hand of God. They knew this was evil.
Because we were in the midst of the Christian Advent season, the themes of this holy season became even more important to us: light overcomes darkness and good conquers evil. No matter what the circumstances, no matter how ugly and difficult, this truth was apparent. It only took seconds for the goodness of the community to emerge more fully than ever before—a goodness in each of us, now brimming over for everyone to share. People rushed to be with each other, holding something as simple as a tissue to dry the tears of those who were overwhelmed. As the early darkness of winter began to settle in, the light from candles began to light up the sky, thousands of candles. People gathered wherever they could. Simple shrines filled with flowers and teddy bears and angels began to appear. No one would be alone in this, no one would have to face it without help. We were in it together as a community and we were not going to let one horrifying action destroy who we were. Houses of worship were filled with people just sitting in stunned silence . . . and praying, perhaps for the first time in a long time. Could this be real? Could this really be happening? Where would we go from here?
Wakes and funeral services were planned. People gathered by the thousands to support those families who had lost their loved ones. Every service reflected love and care, the hallmarks of a town like ours. It was unbelievable to witness the outpouring of generosity, shared suffering, and true concern. It became quiet after that, as families retreated to their homes and entered that endless period of their lives filled with grief and mourning.
And then a new challenge emerged as Christmas Day approached. Should we just cancel Christmas this year? Should we extinguish the lights that decked our homes and businesses? Once again, the true nature of the town emerged. Christmas would be celebrated, although perhaps much differently than ever before. It seemed to me that the lights shone brighter, reminding me of the banner that hung on the front of our church: LIGHT OVERCOMES THE DARK!
People attended Christmas services in numbers that I have not seen in years. Families were holding each other more tightly than before. The celebration was about what really mattered in this town: faith, family, and friends. From all over the world, the town was filled with good wishes, gifts, cards, and prayers. We knew we were not alone and that we never would be. People could not do enough to help salve the open wounds that 12/14 had created in us—phone calls just wondering if we were okay, emails inquiring if there was anything that could be done to help, letters from people we will never know just assuring us that they shared our pain and grief. It was amazing, and it was wonderful.
Time has gone on. Some remain frozen in place while others are trying to move forward. Group after group provides support and counseling. Friends and neighbors continue to reach out to the families most affected. The town works diligently to plan for the future and provide a renewed sense of security for its citizens. Schools have reviewed their protocols for events like this to try and stop them from ever happening again, as we assure each other that we are doing the best we can to protect our citizens from harm, especially our children.
For me, this has opened a new horizon about my ministry and my place in this community. We are a community within the community. And I have been blessed to be called pastor of my parish. Our families are strong and their faith enables them to raise children who are grounded in positive morals and values. I am always so proud when I pick up our local town paper and see so many of our parishioners involved throughout the community. We showed the world that in the midst of so much anguish, faith has a place in our lives. We continue to show the world that community is the answer; no one is meant to be alone or forgotten, especially in their times of greatest need.
As a priest, I am privileged to enter into the most sacred and intimate moments of people’s lives, and this tragedy made that blessing even clearer for me. I stood in the midst of the purest love as I watched parents approach the casket of their child, and with tears, placing their hand to push back a lock of hair or place their child’s favorite toy for them to hug all the way to heaven. That is love. That is courage. That is family. That is Newtown at its best.
A town that was once unknown to most of the world has become a part of the litany of towns that have endured tragedies. Smiles may still not be as plentiful as they once were but there are still hugs in the grocery store and words of thanks for just being there for one another. We are still “nice,” and now maybe even “nicer in Newtown” as the bumper stickers originally suggested, but for new reasons. The one thing that I am most certain about is that we did not choose love simply as a result of 12/14; we live love every day.
Monsignor Robert Weiss, pastor
Saint Rose of Lima parish
Newtown, Connecticut
CHAPTER 1
LAST GOOD-BYES
For parents, the chaotic hustle and bustle of getting their children out the door for school on the morning of December 14 was amplified for two reasons: it was a Friday and Christmas vacation was fast approaching.
In the home of JoAnne Bacon, the battle of the morning revolved around a tiny pink dress and a little pair of white boots.
“I want it! I want it! I want it!” pleaded her daughter Charlotte, her cute curly red hair bouncing to emphasize the seriousness of her request. A color has never matched a personality as much as bright pink matched Charlotte’s. She had pink everything, including a pink dresser, and even slept in a big, pink four-poster bed. For the precocious six-year-old, pink wasn’t just a color, it was a way of life.
JoAnne wasn’t having it. The outfit had been bought specifically for the holidays and was the one thing Charlotte couldn’t wear today, she argued. “You’ll just have to pick out something else,” JoAnne resolutely told her daughter.
But Charlotte would not be denied. The back-and-forth continued unabated for several minutes with neither party budging until finally JoAnne, sensing she was outmatched by her daughter’s impressive powers of persuasion, realized the inevitability of the outcome: Charlotte walked out the door wearing the pink dress, white boots, and a large grin plastered across her face.
There were no arguments over what to wear at the home of six-year-old Jesse Lewis; Friday morning meant breakfast at the Misty Vale Deli where, at around 8 A.M., Jesse ordered his favorite breakfast sandwich—sausage, egg, and cheese—and a cup of hot chocolate before school. It had been a late night. Jesse had stayed up to go Christmas shopping with his father, Neil Heslin, buying gifts for friends, family members, and his beloved first-grade teacher, Victoria Soto.
The father and son began their evening of shopping at Stew Leonard’s grocery in nearby Danbury. Jesse had $37 in his pocket, money he had earned by helping his father set bathroom tiles and fix their 1948 Ford tractor in hopes of having it ready for the next Newtown Labor Day parade so they could throw candy from the back. After carefully surveying the aisles, Jesse decided to use his money to buy Christmas ornaments. He picked out an ornament that had the word “Mom” on it for his mother, Scarlett, and a similar one that said “Brother” for his sibling, J.T. He then p
icked out two for his first-grade teacher, one a star-shaped ornament that read “Teacher” and the other in the shape of an apple.
“He put thought into it and was proud of the gifts he picked out,” Neil later recalled.
The next destination was Walmart, where Jesse walked among the rows of toys to show his father the different gifts he hoped would be waiting for him on Christmas morning. He pointed at the Nerf guns, action figures, toy soldiers, and anything that had to do with the military.
The following morning, after finishing up his egg sandwich at the deli and before getting out of the car in front of Sandy Hook Elementary, Jesse turned and embraced his dad, saying, “It’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be okay, Dad.”
Neil didn’t think much of it at the time. Just Jesse being sweet, he figured. Besides, they would see each other soon enough, Neil thought. They had plans to make gingerbread houses together later that day in school.
That Friday at the Barden household seven-year-old Daniel had some extra time before heading off to first grade. He had woken up especially early and had already played a quick game of foosball and devoured a bowl of oatmeal, so his father, Mark, decided it would be a good time to teach his son how to play “Jingle Bells” on the piano.
Mark Barden, a professional musician, sat close to his son on the bench and looked down at the small fingers as they pressed down on the keys.
The family was excited about the holidays and Daniel had already written his letter to Santa. Instead of asking for toys, Daniel just wanted to meet the big guy and his reindeer. “Dear Santa, I just hope you can let me see you with your reindeer. Merry Christmas. Please write back,” he wrote in black marker. “I love you. Love Daniel.”
The Bardens, like so many of their neighbors, were drawn to Newtown by the sterling reputation of the schools. They moved to town in December 2007, when Daniel was two years old, and older siblings James and Natalie were seven and five. The kids were in three different schools with three different bus schedules, which made getting everyone to the right school at the right time a challenge at times. Daniel’s pickup time was the latest and he typically slept in while Mark walked his oldest son down the road for a 6:30 A.M. pickup.
Newtown: An American Tragedy Page 1
