by Jeff Kass
The event, Dylan says, will be the most “nerve-racking fifteen minutes of my life, after the bombs are set and we’re waiting to charge through the school. Seconds will be like hours. I can’t wait. I’ll be shaking like a leaf.”
For Eric, “It’s going to be like fucking Doom. Tick, tick, tick, tick Haa! That fucking shotgun is straight out of Doom!”
They turn to those who will survive the massacre.
“I hope people have flashbacks,” Eric says.
Then there are those who wronged them.
“You’ve given us shit for years,” Klebold explains. “You’re fucking going to pay for all the shit. We don’t give a shit because we’re going to die doing it.”
They envision the huge bombs for unsuspecting victims in the cafeteria.
“Isn’t it fun to get the respect that we’re going to deserve?” Eric says.
Indeed, the target shooting and video warm-ups are not enough. “More rage. More rage,” Eric says at one point. “Keep building it on.”
∞
The first tape rolls on March 15, 1999, nine days since Eric and Dylan filmed the Rampart Range shooting spree with Mark Manes and Phil Duran. Acknowledgments are in order. Knowing their audience, Eric and Dylan also address their remarks to “you detectives.”
“Oh, I’d like to make a thank you to Mark and Phil,” Dylan says. “Very cool. You helped us do what we needed to do. Thank you. Hope you don’t get fucked.”
“Yeah, you know it’s not their fault,” Eric chimes in. “I mean, they had no fucking clue.”
“We used them,” Dylan says. “Like you use a horse to carry shit.”
If it hadn’t been them, it would have been someone else over twenty-one. Leave Manes and Duran alone, Dylan adds.
“We would have gone on and on,” Eric says. “We would have found some way around it, ’cause that’s what we do.”
“Don’t blame them and don’t fucking arrest them for what we did,” Dylan says.
“Don’t arrest any of our friends, any of our co-workers, any of our family members,” Eric says.
They expect stricter gun laws to be discussed after Columbine but say it will only create a black market. More laws, Dylan adds, isn’t the answer.
They mention Brandon Larson, a Columbine High football player. “You will find his body,” they say. (Larson was not killed and says he had no problems with Eric and Dylan, although he may have been an unwitting symbol of the social or sports hierarchy.)
“We’re proving ourselves,” they add.
According to Time, “At one point Harris gets very quiet. His parents have probably noticed that’s he’s become distant, withdrawn lately, but it’s been for their own good. ‘I don’t want to spend any more time with them,’ he says. ‘I wish they were out of town so I didn’t have to look at them and bond more.’”
Eric recalls his mom’s thoughtfulness, bringing him candy and Slim Jims. “I really am sorry about all this,” he says.
“But war’s war,” he adds.
“This goes to all my family: I’m sorry I have so much rage,” Dylan says “You made me what I am. Actually, you just added to what I am.”
Dylan says his older brother Byron and his friends constantly “ripped” on him. Even his extended family treated him poorly. “You made me what I am,” he says. “You added to the rage.”
Dylan even remembers the Foothills Day Care center, where he felt the “stuck-up” kids hated him. He hated them back. “Being shy didn’t help,” he says. “I’m going to kill you all. You’ve been giving us shit for years.”
Columbine High also took its toll. “If you could see all the anger I’ve stored over the past four fucking years,” Dylan says.
Eric talks about how people made fun of his face, his shirts, and his hair when he was growing up. He complains about his father and says whenever the family moved—five times—he had to start “at the bottom of the ladder” and had no chance to earn any respect.
Then it’s Dylan’s turn. He says of his parents, “They gave me my fucking life. It’s up to me what I do with it.”
Eric shrugs. “My parents might have made some mistakes that they weren’t really aware of in their life with me, but they couldn’t have helped it.” He knows what’s in store for them. “They’re going to go through hell once we’re finished. They’re never going to see the end of it.”
Eric quotes the same Shakespeare line found in his day planner on the date for Mother’s Day: “Good wombs hath borne bad sons.”
Dylan tells how his parents taught him self-awareness and self-reliance. “I appreciate that,” he says, but adds, “I’m sorry I have so much rage.”
Dylan continues: “You can’t understand what we feel; you can’t understand no matter how much you think you can.”
Eric plays with a pair of scissors. Dylan mixes candy and whiskey in his mouth. He holds up a piece of candy and says, “Hey guys, it’s a house.”
“Fuck you, Walsh,” Dylan says, in reference to the deputy who busted them for the van break-in.
Harris mentions shooting some “Christianic bitches” in the head. But they love Robyn Anderson. “Thanks to the gun show, and to Robyn,” they say. “Robyn is very cool.”
Eric talks of carrying his gym bag, the “terrorist bag,” into the house with a gun butt sticking out. Mom assumed it was his BB gun.
Dylan backs out of the room and pretends to be Eric’s mom. Eric waves at the camera. “Hi, mom,” he says.
Dylan recalls his parents walking into his own room as he was trying on his trench coat to see if he could hide a shotgun. “They didn’t even know it was there.”
Dylan imagines how his parents will feel: “If only we could have reached them sooner, or found this tape.”
“If only we would have searched their room,” Eric adds. If Mom, Dad, or anyone else had asked more probing questions, “We would’ve been fucked,” he adds.
“We wouldn’t be able to do what we’re going to do,” Dylan says.
The camera tours Eric’s bedroom arsenal. The tape is shut off.
∞
Filming resumes on March 18, “in the middle of the night.” They wonder: Should they attach nails to pipe bombs “Echo” and “Delta”?
They swerve to a different topic. “Religions are gay” and are for “people who are weak and can’t deal with life.”
They return to time bombs, bombs with tripwires, and diversionary bombs, maybe a reference to the bombs they will actually end up dropping a short distance from Columbine the day of the shootings to distract police. The “fucking fire department is going to be busy for a month,” they say.
They seem to return to Deputy Walsh, who is white, but discuss the “nigger that stopped us that day.” They talk about spics, how black people speak in Ebonics, and how students in bowling class thought of the pins as particular ethnic groups to help them bowl better.
“World peace is an impossible thing,” they say. Bomb-making information is on the Internet. “Mrs. X, Y, Z bought our guns.”
“Only two weeks left, and one more weekend,” they say, and “it is coming up fucking quick.”
They discuss credit card fraud, and Eric raises his hand as if he has done it.
They wouldn’t be anywhere without their “tests.” They need a lot more napalm, but may just use oil and gas, a combination that is “one hell of a mental picture.” People might catch fire.
Graduation, they predict, will be a “memorial service with lots of people crying,” including a candlelight memorial.
Eric has one hundred cartridges and ten loaded magazines but needs lasers for his rifle. “You guys are lucky it doesn’t hold more ammo,” they say.
There is still “a lot of shit to do.” Dylan needs to get his pants, fill his magazines, and get pouches for his shells.
They talk a
bout shopping at Radio Shack, where Harris will say the supplies are for special effects in a movie. “We are, but we aren’t, psycho,” they say.
∞
Concrete details of the “basement tapes” began emerging in November 1999 when lead Columbine investigator Kate Battan read a one-minute excerpt of Eric and Dylan thanking their gun suppliers at the sentencing for Mark Manes. The Denver Post at that point described the videos as “visual suicide notes” and a “memorial tape.” They are in fact one of the finest views into the minds of the killers. An invaluable tool for police, journalists, mental health experts, and anyone in a position to catch the warning signs of a school shooter—in other words, everyone.
Of course, the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office didn’t see it like that. That November, spokesman Steve Davis said the tapes did not contain startling information. “Everybody’s got this idea that there’s this huge, juicy stuff,” he told me for a story in the Chicago Tribune.
But of course, the sheriff didn’t want to release the tapes. Sheriff John Stone did show them exclusively to Time magazine before he even showed them to victim families, but claimed the journalists did not have permission to mention, or quote from, the tapes. The magazine said that wasn’t true, as its cover story, anchored by the tapes, hit newsstands in December 1999.
In maybe one of the most bizarre paths of a piece of evidence, the tapes were then shown to journalists, victim families, the Klebolds, and select others such as law enforcement officials. Their contents were extensively reported in the media and later summarized in official police reports released by the sheriff. But lawsuits quickly put the tapes under wraps. They have never been seen publicly since.
In 2006 Jefferson County Sheriff Ted Mink was given the latitude to show the tapes but declined. Numerous school shootings have occurred since Columbine, but Mink believed the tapes could cause copycats.
∞
On the basement tapes, Eric and Dylan sense what will happen to the videos: “Klebold asked Harris if he thinks the cops will listen to the whole video,” according to the sheriff’s own summary. “They then discuss that they believe that the video will be cut up into little pieces, and the police will just show the public what they want it to look like.”
Eric and Dylan want to distribute the videos to four news stations, and Eric wants to email copies of his journal. Eric seems to refer to a book about Doom, describing it as his life’s work and wanting to get it published.
∞
The auteurs film another tour of the guns and arsenal in Eric’s basement. It is sometime before April 1. Eric will soon be eighteen. He poses, sans shirt, with his shotgun and carbine on a sling.
“My parents are going to fucking Passover,” Klebold says.
“You’re Jewish?” Eric asks angrily.
Dylan now seems scared of Eric. Apparently, they had never discussed the issue.
Dylan pans to a window. “You can’t see it, it’s buried there,” he says. “That’s why it’s called a bunker.”
The camera stops.
∞
The camera restarts from a car dashboard, and Harris appears to be driving alone. It is dark outside, and raindrops fall on the window. Amidst loud music, Eric mentions “the Blackjack crew.”
“Sorry dudes, I had to do what I had to do,” Eric says, and adds, “It is a weird feeling knowing you’re going to be dead in two and a half weeks.”
Harris isn’t sure if they should do “it” before or after prom. He wishes he could have re-visited Michigan and old friends. He becomes silent and appears to start crying. He reaches over to the camera and shuts it off.
∞
Monday, April 11. “Reb’s Tape.” Eric is in the driver’s seat. They are on their way to get more gear.
“Directors will be fighting over this story,” Dylan says. The camera is turned off and on again. Eric is again driving and smoking what he calls his “birthday cigar.” They have purchased two large fuel containers and three propane bottles. The camera is turned off.
The camera is turned on. Eric appears to be alone and the camera rests on something, maybe his knee, and he stares into the lens. His headboard appears behind him. He talks about the cops who may make his “parents pay.” He says his mother and father are the “best parents” but he would have gotten around anything they tried to do this past year.
“There’s no one else to blame but me and Vodka,” he says.
Eric adds that it’s been tough recently. His parents have been hard on him for putting off insurance and the Marine Corps.
“This is my last week on earth,” he says.
“To you coolios [cool people] out there still alive, sorry I hurt you or your friends,” Eric adds. This is total KMFDM, and there are seven and one-third days left. Then he says, “fucking bitches” and rattles off a list of names. He’s going to be “one tired motherfucker come Monday and then Boom! I’ll get shot and die.”
Eric films his planning book, which he describes as the “Writings of God,” and a drawing of backpacks labeled “Napalm.” Eric calls the pending rampage a “suicide plan.”
∞
April 17. The day of prom. Dylan’s bedroom. He is wearing black army pants and a black T-shirt with Wrath printed across the front in red, the same shirt he will die in. Dylan attaches a tan ammo pouch to his waist and a green pouch to his right shin. He puts a sawed-off shotgun into a pants cargo pocket. The TEC-9 pistol is on a sling hanging over his shoulder. He talks about how he didn’t want to go to prom with Robyn Anderson, but his parents are paying for it.
“Since I’m going to be dying,” he adds, “I thought I might do something cool.”
They talk about practicing the next couple nights. Dylan thanks “Mr. Stevens,” an apparent reference to his Stevens shotgun. Dylan adds, “He knew I was fucking buying it,” an apparent reference to one of the gun dealers who depended on Anderson’s ID.
Dylan puts on his trench coat but says he looks fat with all the gear on. He figures he’ll have to take the coat off during the shootings because it gets in the way of swinging the TEC-9, which has a shoulder strap. But he doesn’t want to take off the coat because he likes it.
“Fucking snow is gay,” they say, and hope the “shit” clears out by Tuesday. Harris says he needs dry weather “for my fires.” The tape goes out.
Senior Projects
For Eric Harris, going to college and majoring in computers was a maybe. The military was another option. Probably taking his cue from Doom’s main character, Eric had long wanted to be a Marine. (He once wrote that he wanted a job to “blow up things.”) And he literally dreamt of the military. Loaded with gear, he walked through a deep forest one night as flares flew through the air and cast shadows. Eric emerged onto a beach full of dolphins, whales, and stars as a voice said, “Watch out for the flares and have a swell time.” Then Eric himself got launched into the stars.
So Eric must have thought it was divine intervention—and a scene right out of Doom—when the Marines found him his senior year. Specifically, it was Staff Sgt. Mark “Gonzo” Gonzales. Thirty years old at the time of Columbine, Gonzales had started out as an embarkation specialist, ensuring that planes were properly loaded before missions. Over the years, he had been based in Norfolk, Virginia; Okinawa; and Camp Pendleton, California. He had been in eighteen countries but had never seen combat.
To progress in the Marines, Gonzales needed to sign up for a “special assignment.” His first choice was drill instructor. “Unfortunately,” he says, he was chosen to be a recruiter in 1998. But he adds, “My mom was happy.”
A good recruiter is like a good salesman, and Gonzales was selling the branch of the military with a reputation for gung-ho. “Every young man or woman is different,” Gonzales says. “They all have different needs. You just try to relate it to what you know about the Marine Corps.”
In an interview shortly after Columbine, Gonzales wears a short-sleeve khaki shirt, blue, creased dress pants, and a buzz cut. His build is firm and trim. He does not want the interview, which takes place in the conference room of a Denver recruiting office, to be tape-recorded. The room is adorned with televisions, videos, flags, black cushion chairs, and maps of Colorado.
Gonzales figures he had brought forty-seven recruits into the Marines, seven of them women. In Texas, Gonzales had lots of walk-ins who wanted to sign up. In Colorado, he had only one. Cruising malls and county fairs in uniform was part of his strategy. So was setting up tables at high schools. “We’re basically just like a counselor in high school,” he said of recruits. “Trying to improve their circumstances.”
Gonzales focuses on those ages seventeen to twenty-nine. Some recruiters will walk up to anyone and everyone, although he shies away from the overweight because they probably won’t meet the fitness standards.
Gonzales is also a Columbine High School graduate, class of 1987. That was part of the reason he was recruiting in the area. As a military recruiter, he had access to a list of local high school students. That’s how he called Eric Harris on Friday, April 2, 1999, eighteen days before Columbine. They had a twenty-minute phone interview as Gonzales did a pre-screening. He asked about medical background, divorce, mental health, counseling, prescription drug use, along with height, weight, and any use of glasses. Eric said he had had a broken nose and broken wrist when he was younger; Gonzales didn’t recall how they happened.
Eric did not let on to seeing a psychologist or taking prescription medication, an obstacle to joining the Marines, whether he knew it or not. “You run into that a lot of times because the kid might be embarrassed to tell you,” Gonzales says. “It’s kind of impersonal to give it over the phone.”
Eric told Gonzales he worked at Blackjack and liked computers, soccer, and weapons. Nothing out of the ordinary, Gonzales thought. Eric said his grades were A’s and B’s. “He’s very smart,” Gonzales adds.
Gonzales asked what Eric’s parents thought about him joining the Marine Corps. “They wouldn’t mind,” he said.
