Columbine

by Jeff Kass

  “For the time being, my clients’ legal energy is substantially directed at trying to settle the remaining Columbine lawsuits,” Lozow continued, then added the somewhat vague admonition: “My information is that your ‘journalistic efforts’ have succeeded in making that effort even more difficult than it should be.”

  The letter proceeded, without naming names, “Likewise, we have reports from people in Susan Klebold’s past that you have contacted. My clients have been told that you have been intrusive and abrasive. You should know that my clients will utilize their legal options to remedy excesses perpetuated against them on the heels of the Columbine tragedy.”

  The next paragraph was the last: “The Klebolds are committed to maintaining some semblance of privacy and dignity in the aftermath of Columbine. Notwithstanding your efforts, we will continue to maintain that purpose throughout.”

  I wrote back to Lozow on September 18, and cc’d the Klebolds. “The Klebolds can play an important role in furthering the world’s understanding of what has happened at Columbine, and across the country,” I noted. I said I would be happy to clear up any misunderstandings with people I had tried to speak with. Neither Lozow nor the Klebolds wrote back.

  In October 2002 I worked with two other reporters to break the story on the sealed diversion files of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold for the News. The Klebold attorneys responded by sending a subpoena to me and my colleague, Kevin Vaughan. We went to court, where the judge indicated that the Klebolds had issued the subpoena under the wrong Columbine case, and would have to re-file. It does not appear they ever did.

  The Harrises: Immunity

  Before police came to his home the day of Columbine, Wayne Harris called 911. “This is Wayne Harris, my son is Eric Harris, and I’m afraid that he might be involved in the shooting at Columbine High School,” the call begins.

  “Involved how?” the police dispatcher asks.

  Harris: “He’s a member of what they’re calling the Trench Coat Mafia.”

  Dispatch: “Have you spoke with your son today, Mr. Harris?”

  Harris: “No, I haven’t . . . Have they picked up anybody yet?”

  Dispatch: “They’re still looking for suspects.” And later: “Your son is with who? What gang?”

  Harris: “They’re calling them the Trench Coat Mafia . . . I just heard that term on television.”

  ∞

  Lakewood Police detective Stan Connally is a tall, thin Texan whose accent still comes through. A former attorney who was fifty-four when Columbine struck, he has short, tussled gray hair and a matching mustache. A homicide investigator since 1994, he was dispatched to the Harris home the day of Columbine.

  Sitting in a small interrogation room at Lakewood police headquarters a year after the shootings, Connally is dressed in a tweed sport coat with a Western-style yoke across the chest. He is wearing a white button down shirt, and the chest pockets have the same distinctive ‘V.’ Connally has on khakis and a dark paisley tie. He shrugs when asked what he was wearing the day of Columbine and sweeps his hands over his body: “This is what I wear everyday,” is the message. Connally is sure he wasn’t wearing a blue blazer. He doesn’t own one.

  Connally doesn’t recall who alerted him to the shootings that Tuesday. But he turned on the television and the gravity of what was happening hit him. His words are matter of fact, but still convey the seriousness. “I thought, ‘If there’s somebody in school shooting, somebody’s going to get hurt.’”

  Once at the Harris home, Connally met up with a group of police officers from the Sheridan police department, another Denver suburb. Connally had to consider that Eric Harris had rampaged through Columbine, escaped, and was now at home. He gladly accepted a heavy bulletproof vest—not the thinner type some officers wear under their shirts—from a Sheridan officer. He put it on over his shirt and tie, but under his sport coat. A shutter inside the home flickered. Officers now knew someone was inside, and police took up positions around the house.

  Lt. John Iantorno and Detective Grierson Wheeldon, both of Sheridan police, had been at the back of the house and now joined Connally in front. The next step, simple yet intense, was for Connally to walk up and knock on the front door. “We introduced ourselves from behind a rifle,” he says.

  He talked himself into the house. “I did seek to impress on them the gravity of the moment and the fact that we were there for an ongoing, violent situation and we really did not want to be trifled with.”

  He spoke with Wayne and Kathy Harris, and Kathy’s twin sister, Karen Shepard. Connally recalls the dress of the three as “tasteful.” Nothing stood out. Same for the house. But, “My feeling is our arrival was not unanticipated.” The Harrises appeared similarly to the Klebolds. “Maybe shockey is a good word; disbelieving but maintaining a facade,” Connally says.

  The Harrises also mirrored the Klebolds in other ways. Wayne Harris said “the press” had already been at their door, and the family was now waiting for their lawyer. The Harrises were “reserved,” and “volunteered to intercede with their son if he were in fact involved with the ongoing situation,” according to Connally’s written report.

  Wayne, meantime, gave Connally a quick bio of Eric. Eric was looking forward to graduation and wore a black duster every day but had no interest in celebrating Hitler’s birthday, as far as Wayne knew. “[Eric’s] interest in ‘explosives’ and firearms was no more than you would expect from a person looking forward to joining the Marine Corps,” Connally wrote after talking with Wayne, although Eric’s rejection from the Marines was all but final. Wayne said he had no reason to believe Eric would be involved in Columbine.

  Officer Wheeldon’s report paints a slightly different picture. He indicates the Harrises were “uncooperative,” and initially forbid police to enter. Connally walks the line when asked whether he agrees. “I’m not sure it’s one hundred percent,” he says, “and I’m not sure it’s too far off either.” The Harrises answered questions but with the most basic information and little elaboration, Connally says. He would have liked more. But he doesn’t begrudge them. He himself says of the police, “Here’s a group of armed strangers and I’m not sure I would have been completely embracing of their entry.”

  The Harris home has three levels: a basement, ground floor, and top floor. After officers were inside, Kathy Harris took Wheeldon through the top floor. Then he asked about the basement. That included Eric’s room, Kathy Harris replied. Wheeldon and another Sheridan police officer, Greg Miller, began walking toward it. “I don’t want you going down there,” Kathy said. Officers again explained that as an issue of public safety, they had to investigate. Kathy Harris relented. Wheeldon continued downstairs and, with gun drawn, entered Eric’s bedroom. On the bed, he saw a clear plastic bag with shotgun shells. The other items police eventually took from Eric’s room included fireworks and/or suspected bomb material, a sawed-off shotgun barrel, an air rifle with a sawed-off barrel, a page from the Anarchist’s Cookbook titled “household substitutes,” and objects with apparent bullet holes through them. There were books on the Nazis, and a tape of Apocalypse Now was in the VCR.

  From the kitchen, officers took Eric’s class schedule, which was attached to the refrigerator with a magnet. From the dining room table they took high school photos of Eric, his graduation announcements, and addresses on where to send them. A drawer on the living room table with more of Eric’s high school data also became part of the investigation. A computer from the second story was dismantled and carted away. From the backyard shed agents took two white PVC pipes as possible pipe bomb material. The house was not “cleared” until 12:10 a.m. on April 21, 1999.

  Police and the fire department also had to contend with a suspected bomb, and gas vapors that may have reached explosive levels. Maybe Eric meant to kill his own parents. Maybe he meant to blow up the officers he suspected would arrive at his home. Regardless, the home and entire
block at one point was evacuated and the bomb squad was called in.

  As the Harrises and their police escorts waited outside, Kathy Harris’ sister approached officer Wheeldon. She said the family feared retaliation from the parents of the murdered children. But Wheeldon wrote in his report that “neither Mr. nor Mrs. Harris appeared upset or surprised of [sic] what was happening.”

  ∞

  Photos of the Harrises, like the Klebolds, emerged when they attended federal district court in Denver for lawsuit depositions in 2003. Wayne Harris, wearing dark pants, a blue dress shirt, and tie, had clearly aged compared to his military photo. At fifty-four, his nose was sharp, his hair snow white and mostly bald on top. Katherine Harris wore dark slacks and a black, scoop-neck T-shirt under a short-sleeve button down with flowers. She was also fifty-four, and has the softest look to her face of all the parents.

  Before we got to fully see what the Harrises looked like, we got a feel for them. They were less cooperative than the Klebolds, allegedly pushing for immunity before agreeing to talk with authorities. They were also more of an unknown. Their public statements were thinner and briefer than the Klebolds. Their attorneys were even less open, rarely speaking with the media. And no one, it seems, spoke out on behalf of them, at least since they had moved back to Colorado. Who were their friends? The same was true of their son. Hardly anyone who knew Eric admitted to liking him, or being friends with him.

  Yet the Harrises also fought a little less over Eric’s legacy. They allowed his autopsy to be released without a court fight, and did not sling subpoenas at reporters. If the Klebolds made more noise about wanting to figure out what went wrong and offered some words here and there, the Harrises were more stoic. Although some wondered if they just had more to hide. Like the Klebolds, the first words from the Harrises came the day after Columbine, when they released a statement: “We want to express our heartfelt sympathy to the families of all the victims and to all the community for this senseless tragedy. Please say prayers for everyone touched by these terrible events.”

  After the shootings, the Harrises went to a nearby Marriott and would not return to their home until Memorial Day, about a month later. On Friday April 30, 1999, the same day the Klebolds had their sit-down with law enforcement, Jefferson County Chief Deputy District Attorney Mark Pautler announced the Harrises had backed away from talking unless they were given immunity. “We’re not giving anybody immunity.” Pautler said. A face-off was now forming.

  The immunity issue, at one point, became wrapped up in an odd letter writing problem. While victim families started receiving letters from the Klebolds about a month after the shootings, the Harrises soon learned that similar letters they had sent out were stalled. The Harrises had sent their letters through the school district, which handled Columbine mail. The letters were then forwarded to the sheriff’s office, which said it was uneasy delivering them but unable to connect with the Harris attorney to return the letters. Attorney Benjamin Colkitt said he knew of no attempt by the sheriff to reach him.

  Kathy Harris was “livid” according to a family friend. She would deliver the letters to victim families herself if she had to, and the letter incident made her chances of cooperating with police less likely. “This is not right,” she said. “We’re extremely upset.”

  The injured were eventually able to pick up the Harris letters at the sheriff’s department (although six months after Columbine, the Denver Post reported that families of those who were killed had not received letters). One letter, to injured victim Mark Taylor, read, “Please accept our heartfelt wishes for a full and speedy recovery from your injuries. There are no words to express the tragic events of that day. We would have given our lives to prevent them.

  “May you have the strength and the support to continue your healing process.”

  It was signed, “Sincerely, Wayne, Kathy and Kevin Harris.”

  By August after the shootings, there was a turnaround. The sheriff and Jefferson County District Attorney now said the Harrises had never sought immunity and a meeting was close at hand. John Kiekbusch, by then a sheriff’s division chief whose reputation was later questioned given the false information the department released, said a conversation with the Harris attorneys early on may have been “misinterpreted as a request for immunity.”

  “The bottom line was the Harrises’ attorneys were concerned about any kind of legal exposure for their clients,” Kiekbusch added.

  And the proposed interview with the Harrises was always more about Eric, not any potential criminal behavior on behalf of his parents, Kiekbusch explained to the media. “Generally we want to explore Eric’s personality,” he added. “We would want to know about his activities, his friends, what he had to say about various aspects of his life.”

  Kiekbusch also said, “We’ve told them [the Harrises] that we want to get as much information as we can on the Columbine case itself. But we’ve also appealed to them on the basis that the information may help prevent this kind of thing from happening again.”

  District Attorney spokeswoman Pam Russell said, “In the midst of all that confusion [after the shootings] it’s possible there was a misunderstanding.”

  District Attorney Dave Thomas, Russell added, had talked with Harris attorney Ben Colkitt several times about setting up a meeting. “Immunity is no longer an issue,” Russell said. “They are not seeking immunity . . . somewhere along the way, that has no longer been an issue.”

  ∞

  Before the Harrises talked with police, they mingled with neighbors. In September, they attended a neighborhood bonfire around a portable barbecue pit in the cul-de-sac meant to build community in the wake of Columbine. In the hectic months following the shootings, neighbors had little time to speak to each other. Now the Harrises were among those gathering around cookies and drinks in the middle of the street.

  Neighbor Michael Good had wondered how he could ever look at the Harrises again after the shootings, and was bothered that they had not spoken with authorities. But he also thought there might not be an explanation for what happened. Or at least that the Harrises didn’t have one. He had read and heard they were “typical parents trying to do the right thing for their kids.”

  Good, then a forty-two-year-old firefighter and father of four, also thought Columbine could happen to him. He didn’t know what his kids were doing every moment of every day. As for the gathering, he said about a dozen people were there, and he only talked to the Harrises after the barbecue. “They’re not the ones that pulled the trigger,” he said, and added, “We all feel very badly for them too.”

  For a newspaper story on the barbecue, the Harris attorneys issued a statement: “Wayne and Kathy Harris have been devastated by what their son, Eric, did. They continue to grieve for all of the victims and their families. Hopefully, there will come a time when they feel they are ready to speak publicly about their son and the horrible acts that he committed, but now is just not that time.”

  The stars finally aligned for a formal sit down with police on October 25, six months after Columbine. The Harrises, their attorneys, and a private investigator met with Kiekbusch, Sheriff John Stone, undersheriff John Dunaway, lead Columbine investigator Kate Battan, and District Attorney Dave Thomas. Thomas also recalls sheriff’s Sgt. Randy West attending.

  But we wouldn’t learn much more. “The Harrises answered detective’s questions, and all parties anticipate that future meetings will take place,” according to a sheriff’s press release. “No further details about any of the meetings will be made available, including time, date, place and content. No further information is available.”

  As time went on, the sheriff’s department would only seem more secretive. In November 2000, Jefferson County District Judge Brooke Jackson forced the sheriff to release eleven thousand pages of police reports. The documents sometimes provided great detail, down to the type of clothing various students wore the
day of Columbine. The meeting itself with the Harrises had already been made public, but not one official police document mentioned it. Jefferson County spokesman John Masson offered an answer for that: the Harrises, in fact, had questioned police during the meeting. “There was nothing of substance that occurred during the meeting, not enough to generate a report,” Masson said, and added that the sheriff’s department had offered to meet with the Harrises again, “but that offer was never taken up.”

  Yet there was more to be gleaned from the meeting, as the Harrises gave a history of Eric’s life up until Columbine, Dave Thomas says. His account begins to fill in some of the details the sheriff’s office will not discuss.

  The approximately two-hour meeting took place at the law offices of Harris attorneys Ben Colkitt and Abe Hutt; Thomas sat next to Wayne Harris at the conference table.

  “I could have asked questions, and I may have asked one or two, but by and large the questioning was done by the sheriff’s department, and most of it with the Harrises wasn’t question and answer anyway,” Thomas says. “They [the Harrises] basically narrated for a couple of hours.”

  Wayne and Katherine Harris (brother Kevin Harris was not there) came across as “a pretty normal, suburban family who obviously cared about their son, cared about their family, thought they did things the right way,” said Thomas. He thought they were more cautious than the Klebolds. Wayne looked to be controlling his emotions, possibly owing to his military background. Nothing struck Thomas as inappropriate in the way the Harrises acted.

  The Harris attorneys did not make any remarks. But Thomas looked to see if they coached, or impeded, their clients. He says they did not. “There was no humor,” he says of the mood in the room. “There was no lightness at all. It was just a very somber occasion. We were introduced and basically the Harrises did virtually all of the talking.”