by Jeff Kass
The Harrises, apparently, had thought through the presentation of Eric’s life they would give, but it did not seem canned, according to Thomas. Katherine Harris talked more than her husband.
“They had a lot of photos with them,” Thomas said. “They passed them around and let us look at them and I think at least the sense that I got is that they were very passionate about wanting us to understand that this was a young man not unlike most young men. That he wasn’t some diabolical monster, or that he had been causing trouble throughout his life and was somehow, was a bad seed, so to speak. That’s the impression I got. Lots of family photos, and birthday parties, and soccer pictures, and places they’d lived, photographs of places they’d lived.
“And I think we were; I think all of our position was we were very respectful of just wanting to listen and let them say whatever they wanted to say. I remember very few questions being asked. They just narrated mostly, cause I think all of us viewed it as a starting point. We were just getting started with what ultimately might be a series of interviews. It just hasn’t happened that way, but nobody seemed to be in a big rush or in a big hurry: ‘Well, let’s get on to what happened when he got to high school, and what happened the weekend before [Columbine].’ Nobody did that. Everybody was very patient.”
Investigators asked small-time questions, such as clarifying when the Harrises moved from one place to another. Wayne Harris talked about being a military family, and that Eric was often the new kid in school.
“Did that seem to cause any problems for him” someone asked.
“No, not that we were aware of,” Wayne said. “I mean, he seemed to adjust very well.”
But the story stopped at Columbine High.
“And I think primarily it stopped because we were getting into current events and they were . . . they and their lawyers were a little bit unsure of whether . . . how and whether they wanted to proceed so, plus we’d been going for a couple of hours,” Thomas said. “It was, I think during parts of it, very emotional. I mean they were very distraught. I think both the Harrises expressed dismay at how this . . . how their son could have been involved in this. I would describe them as agonized. Physically, they appeared to really to be in agony over all this.”
Wayne Harris groaned whenever events at Columbine were mentioned. “It was just like complete disbelief,” Thomas said.
Katherine Harris, Thomas believes, cried at one point. “Obviously, in conflict about, I think, some mixed feelings,” he said. “I mean, she obviously loved her son a great deal but obviously was pretty much aware of what he’d done but very conflicted over, ‘How could this be?’ I mean, ‘How could he have done these things?’”
∞
In September, 2000 I called Wayne Harris at Flight Safety Services in the suburb of Englewood and asked some questions. He recalled receiving an introductory letter from me but was not ready to talk. “I’ll tell you, we’re not really in a position to do anything with that right now,” he said. “We think there’s a lot of stuff to go on before we can even think about anything like that. So, we’re just not going to be able to do anything at all right now with that, I don’t think.”
I asked him if legal issues were getting in the way of him speaking. “Yeah, there’s probably a lot of things involved, and I think that’s probably a real big part of it,” he replied.
I asked Wayne if he could at least talk about Eric’s life without directly commenting on Columbine. “Well, I tell you, we really haven’t, uh, considered anybody writing a book on this yet,” he said. “You know, it’s probably going to be done, but we’re just not able to really think about that right now.”
Was there anything else he might want to speak about right now? “No, not right now. I really don’t think so,” he replied.
I hoped something would change that would allow him to talk. “Well, I hope so,” he said.
∞
The public still wanted to hear from the Harrises. And the police wanted to hear more. But the Harrises didn’t want to be prosecuted, or make civil litigation against them any easier. Thomas came up with a compromise.
If the Harris attorneys talked about the family, Thomas could garner details but could not use that information against the Harrises themselves because it was hearsay. “He [the lawyer] can say what if Mr. Harris said this, this, this, and this and this. Well then I can at least analyze it and say, ‘If that’s what he was going to tell me, then I would not; that would not be the subject of a criminal prosecution,’” Thomas explained.
Thomas memorialized his proposal in an undated letter to Harris attorneys Ben Colkitt and Abe Hutt in an attempt to broker another meeting. Immunity is not mentioned, but alluded to.
“We are at a stage now that you have requested some assurances from me with respect to my use of statements made by your clients,” Thomas wrote in a letter cc’d to Sheriff Stone and Division Chief Kiekbusch. “I have discussed this issue internally and with the Sheriff’s Office. It is our position that I am not in a position to make any promises or concessions with respect to statements made by your clients. I only know general details of what might come out of further discussions. One possible alternative is to have the attorneys provide information rather than having actual statements by the clients. If you have any other suggestions I would consider them.”
On January 30, 2001 Thomas met with Hutt and Colkitt, and about a month later penned a letter to them regarding “complete interviews with the Harrises.”
“I have struggled over this issue and arranging such a situation for a good portion of the last year and a half,” Thomas wrote on February 21, 2001. “Obviously, I, the Sheriff’s Department and the community are interested in everything that the Harrises have to say and to contribute to our understanding of the events of April 20, 1999. But, I continue to be concerned about what it is they want from this office and the situation it creates.”
Thomas repeated the key quandary: “What benefit do I and this office derive from an agreement that no statements by Wayne or Kathy Harris would ever be used against them in a criminal case? I do not know the surrounding circumstances concerning the possible discovery and subsequent destruction of a pipe bomb in 1998 by Wayne Harris.”
There of course were—and are—other questions. Did the Harrises know about Eric’s writings? His weapons?
Thomas also repeated the idea that the Harris attorneys could relay the sensitive information: “How did Eric and Dylan manage to build the bombs, apparently at the Harris home, without the knowledge of the Harrises?” he added, but also noted, “As you know, I have never threatened any of the parents with criminal prosecution nor do I possess sufficient information or evidence to suggest that any criminal prosecution would be considered or would be appropriate.”
As of August 2001, Thomas told me, he had spoken with the Harris attorneys “no less than ten times.” He often spoke with Colkitt and Hutt, with both of them on speakerphone. He called them “very good lawyers” and added, “I think they’ve given up on me saying I won’t ever prosecute. I really think the Harrises want to tell their story and I think they will through civil lawsuits [filed by victims’ families].”
Yet Thomas also pegged the civil lawsuits as holding up his attempts to talk to the Harrises. “The civil case has interfered to a large extent with us carrying on those conversations, so I don’t know if it will ever happen or not to be honest,” he said.
I asked Thomas if immunity was the holdup. “It’s still there. It’s still an issue,” he said, but added, “And I won’t describe it as immunity because that’s a problem. We have a little semantic difference here.”
He returned to the alleged father-son pipe bomb incident to illustrate the potential parental liability. “The one extreme is that he [Wayne Harris] finds this thing and he says, ‘Eric, what the hell’s going on? What is this?’ And he says, ‘Ah, I was just playing around, it’s a science project
. I was reading in a book about how the ancient Chinese were making rockets and that’s really what I had in mind, but I got kind of carried away and I made this thing to see if it would explode. And I thought it’d be pretty fun.’ And dad says, ‘You idiot. You know, what kind of idiot are you, I mean, you know, you’re not supposed to be doing stuff like this. We’re going to go destroy this. And I don’t want you ever doing anything like that again!’ That’s one extreme,” Thomas says. “The other extreme which I will tell you I don’t think happened is, ‘What are you doing? Oh, I’m building this pipe bomb because I’m going to take it to school and I’m going to blow up a bunch of people because I hate ‘em. I hate ‘em!’ And dad says, ‘Fine, you know, go ahead, go do what you want to do.’ That didn’t happen . . . But I don’t know. I don’t know when it happened exactly. I don’t know the circumstances. I don’t know what kind of pipe bomb it was, I don’t know how it ties in with other things that we know in this case. So for me to say, ‘Mr. Harris you can come forward and you can tell me all of these things, and I don’t know what you’re going to tell me, but I’ll tell you in advance that I will never use this in a criminal prosecution,’ I can’t do it.’ And I told him I can’t do it.”
“As impossible as it might sound,” Thomas adds, “what position would I be in if Mr. Harris said, ‘I spent the weekend building pipe bombs with my son?’”
The Harrises, from what we know, never talked to police again.
∞
When the Harrises made news in December 2001, the situation again seemed to reveal as much about them as the sheriff’s department. The occasion was the Rocky Mountain News and the local alternative weekly Westword reporting on previously undisclosed writings of Eric that showcased more of his plans for killing. An unnamed source or sources quietly gave the media the documents, which appeared to have come from the sheriff’s department. Yet the sheriff hinted that it may have been the Harrises themselves who surreptitiously released the information, although it contrasted with their quiet nature and fights against public records. There was also no clear reason the Harrises would want the material public. The Harrises sent out a statement saying they “were horrified by the unexpected publication of their son’s journal entries and drawings,” and that it might cause copycat incidents.
They also said, “On April 20, 1999, the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department seized numerous papers and other items from the Harrises’ home. In June, 2001 the sheriff’s department furnished Mr. and Mrs. Harris with a copy of some of the papers that had been taken from their home. The copies which Mr. and Mrs. Harris received from the sheriff’s department in June differ in appearance in many respects from the copies published by the Denver media.”
Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the Harris’ remarks was their stated fear that Eric’s writings could spawn copycats. That was a bit duplicitous given that they were so tight-lipped about information on their son that could explain what made him tick and realistically prevent other school shootings.
∞
After Columbine, Katherine Harris’ parents, Richard and Elaine Pool, still lived in the unassuming house in quiet south Denver where their girls grew up. A man in a plaid, wool shirt, dark pants, and straight, neatly combed gray hair answers the door. “No, I’m not interested,” he says when asked if he would like to speak about his family.
Eric’s birthday falls eleven days before Columbine, and Pool neighbor Steve Ferguson recalls Dick attending a party for Eric sometime in the two weeks before the shootings. On the day of Columbine, Ferguson got home around 6:00 p.m. and saw a small platoon of cars he recognized as belonging to relatives. He had a feeling it was due to the shootings—why else would so many people gather on a Tuesday night? But he didn’t know the exact connection.
Ferguson, who was then in his forties, says he didn’t go over to the Pool’s home that day but waited, he thinks, two days before contacting them. He called from work.
“I said, ‘Elaine, so what’s going on? I noticed the cars over there the night of Columbine,’” Ferguson says as he sits in his house across the street from the Pools. “I said, ‘Did something tragic happen to a grandson or granddaughter?’
“And at that time, Elaine said, ‘Yes, I had a grandson that was killed, that was killed in the Columbine shootings.’ And I expressed my condolences, and extended my sympathy and that kind of stuff.”
“Which one was he?” Ferguson asked.
Elaine broke down and said: “My gosh, he was the killer.”
Ferguson asked the name of the grandson. “Harris,” his grandmother said. “His name is Harris.”
The weekend after Columbine, Ferguson was doing chores outside his house. Dick came over with tears streaming down his cheeks.
“He was emotionally shot, and uh, he tried to explain a little bit what was going on, and that kind of stuff,” Ferguson recalls. “‘Dick,’ I said, ‘You don’t have to explain.’”
“Again, I extended my condolences and my feelings,” Ferguson added. “I said Dick, this has got to be tearing you apart type of thing. And he acknowledged that, and he just said it’s tough. I really cannot remember verbatim what he said, but he said it’s eatin him alive. He said he can’t sleep.”
Dick told Mary Ferguson, “It will never be the same for us, ever.”
After Columbine the waving, the smiling, and the visits to the Ferguson house stopped. “They were just different people,” Steve said.
Steve does not believe the Pools mentioned their grandson ever again, and it was about three years before they looked like they were back to normal, at least on the outside. Mary Ferguson says the Pools seemed to have fewer family gatherings at their home after Columbine. And every year for the anniversary, Dick and Elaine travel out of state to get away from reporters. Mary does not want to say where. “It’s kind of like an unspoken word,” she says. “When April comes around every year, he [Dick] says, ‘You know we’re leaving, for this week.’”
∞
Just before 9:00 a.m. on August 9, 2002, Wayne Harris shows up at federal district court in Denver for his deposition in the Luvox case. I do, but don’t, recognize him at first. His face is longer and thinner than the official military photo used as a default “mug shot” of him after the shootings. His build also seems thinner than his military photo would let on. He is an iteration of his former self.
His hair and mustache are white. He is dressed in a dark slacks with a cell phone attached to his belt. A dark and light striped polo shirt hangs on him loosely, and he looks more like a pro-golfer than a man about to enter a deposition. This also throws me off.
Once inside the courthouse, I find myself sharing the row of urinals with him in the men’s bathroom.
“Are you Wayne Harris?” I ask.
“What makes you think that?” he says and chuckles.
I say he looks like Wayne Harris. There is a pause, and I ask if he is here for depositions. He says he is there for a lot of things. A very lawyerly response. I suppose he should know by now.
Yet his demeanor is almost cheery, as if he enjoys the verbal jousting. I ask if he thinks Luvox caused the Columbine shooting. “I think it will all come out,” he says.
I ask if there’s anything else he wants to say. No, he says. I ask if he thinks he’ll ever talk. “Oh no,” he adds, although the possibility still seems open.
The Solvay depositions are closed to the public, but a photographer and I wait outside the courthouse. When the depositions are done, Wayne Harris and one of his attorneys come barreling out of the courthouse a little after 1:30 p.m. as if to avoid us. The photographer snaps some pictures. The attorney and Harris, wearing his sunglasses, storm across the courthouse patio, hit the crosswalk, and luckily have a walk sign. The photographer gets in front of them, snaps a few more pictures, and moves out of the way. Harris and the attorney never say a word.
A Victim’s T
ale
Isaiah Shoels, one of the few black students at Columbine, had a grand reputation. The eighteen-year-old was funny, kind-hearted, and always surrounded by others. “If you didn’t like Isaiah, you had the problem,” says his father, Michael Shoels.
As a child, Isaiah overcame heart surgery. As a teen, he lifted so many weights he was almost as wide as he was 4'11". Friends called him “Little Man.”
A popular image of Isaiah shows him in a football photo from Lakewood High School, which he attended before Columbine. Isaiah is posing on bended knee with a helmet tucked under his arm. He is wearing a dark blue football jersey with Lakewood and the number fifty-two printed across his chest in orange. He stares straight ahead in the photo, neither smiling nor frowning. Maybe there is a hint of amusement in his face. It is the same photo that has been incorporated into his tombstone.
His family called him ‘Saiah. He was a comedian who liked Eddie Murphy and performed skits poking fun at his parents, brothers, and sisters. He made videos of himself mocking strippers and dancers. That humor helps his mother Vonda deal with his death. “I can hear Isaiah in my mind saying, ‘Mom, why are you so down?’” she says.
Isaiah liked all kinds of music, except heavy metal and rock, and Michael says he was grooming him to take over the family music business, Notorious Records, which specialized in rap, R&B, and funk. Michael had all the confidence in Isaiah’s smarts. “If ever there should have been a black president, he would have been the one, because he could deal with anybody in the world. Not only in America, I’m talking about anywhere in the world,” Michael says, in his trademark hyperbole.
Isaiah himself talked about death. “Just roll me out butt-naked” in a casket he would joke, saying his body looked too good to wear clothes. But even that was ended by a shotgun blast. “They couldn’t roll him out butt naked,” Michael says. “They messed his chest up.”
On Saturday April 17, 1999, three days before the shootings, Isaiah and his parents were traveling in the family van. As the Shoels recount it, Isaiah asked them, “What would you do if someone shot down all your children?”
