by Jeff Kass
He used words like “pussy” and “prick,” either failing to recognize, or ignoring, they were inappropriate for a class essay. The essay itself tells of a man who kills “preps” and looks a lot like Dylan. He is 6'4", left-handed, and wears a trench coat. He carries a knife, duffle, and two guns. Like the Columbine shootings, the avenger also parks his car near the scene of the showdown, and uses diversionary bombs to distract police.
The one and one-fourth page paper was written in the form of one huge paragraph:
The town, even at 1:00 a.m., was still bustling with activity as the man dressed in black walked down the empty streets. The moon was barely visible, hiding under a shield of clouds, adding a chill to the atmosphere. What was most recognized about the man was the sound of his footsteps. Behind the conversations & noises of the town, not a sound was to be heard from him, except the dark, monotonous footsteps, combined with the jingling of his belt chains striking not only the two visible guns in their holsters, but the large bowie knife, slung in anticipation of use. The wide-brimmed hat cast a pitch-black shadow of his already dimly lit face. He wore black gloves, with a type of metal spiked-band across the knuckles. A black overcoat covered most of his body, small lines of metal & half-inch spikes layering upper portions of the shoulders, arms, and back. His boots were newly polished, and didn’t look like they had been used much. He carried a black duffel bag in his right hand. He apparently had parked a car nearby, & looked ready for a small war with whoever came across his way. I have never seen anyone take this mad-max approach in the city, especially since the piggies had been called to this part of town for a series of crimes lately. Yet, in the midst of the nightlife in the center of the average-sized town, this man walked, fueled by some untold purpose, what Christians would call evil. The guns slung on his belt & belly appeared to be automatic hand guns, which were draped above rows of magazines & clips. He smoked a thin cigar, and a sweet clovesque scent eminated from his aura. He stood about six feet and four inches and was strongly built. His face was entirely in shadow, yet even though I was unable to see his expressions, I could feel his anger, cutting thru the air like a razor. He seemed to know where he was walking, and he noticed my presence, but paid no attention as he kept walking toward a popular bar. The Watering Hole. He stopped about 30 feet from the door, and waited. “For whom?” I wondered, as I saw them step out. He must have known their habits well, as they appeared less than a minute after he stopped walking. A group of college-preps, about nine of them, stopped in their tracks. A couple of them were mildly drunk, the rest sober. They stopped, and stared. The streetlights illuminating the bar & the sidewalk showed me a clear view of their stare, full of paralysis & fear. They knew who he was, & why he was there. The second-largest spoke up “What’re you doin man.. why are you here?” The man in black said nothing, but even at my distance, I could feel his anger growing. “You still wanted a fight huh? I meant not with weapons, I just meant a fist fight cmon put the guns away, fuckin pussy!!” said the largest prep, his voice quavering as he spoke these works of attempted courage. Other preps could be heard muttering in the backround; “Nice trench coat dude, that’s pretty cool there.” “Dude we were jus messin around the other day chill out man” ”I didn’t do anything, it was all them!!” “cmon man you wouldn’t shoot us, were in the middle of a public place” Yet the comment I remember the most was uttered from the smallest of the group, obviously a cocky, power hunger prick. “Go ahead man! Shoot me!!! I want you to shoot me!! Heheh you wont!! Goddam pussy” It was faint at first, but grew in intensity and power as I heard the man laugh. This laugh would have made Satan cringe in Hell. For almost half a minute this laugh, spawned from the most powerful place conceivable, filled the air, and thru the entire town, the entire world. The town activity came to a stop, and all attention was now drawn to this man. One of the preps began to slowly move back. Before I could see a reaction from the preps, the man had dropped his duffel bag, and pulled out one of the pistols with his left hand. Three shots were fired. Three shots hit the largest prep in the head. The shining of the streetlights caused a visible reflection off of the droplets of blood as they flew away from the skull. The blood splatters showered the preps buddies, as they were to paralyzed to run. The next four preps were not executed so systematically, but with more rage from the man’s hand cannon than a controlled duty for a soldier. The man unloaded one of the pistols across the fronts of these four innocents, their instantly lifeless bodies dropping with remarkable speed. The shots from that gun were felt just as much as they were heard. He pulled out his other pistol, and without changing a glance, without moving his death-stare from the four other victims to go, aimed the weapon out to the side, and shot about 8 rounds. These bullets mowed down what, after he was dead, I made out to be an undercover cop with his gun slung. He then emptied the clip into two more of the preps. Then, instead of reloading & finishing the task, he set down the guns, and pulled out the knife. The blade loomed huge, even in his large grip. I now noticed that one of two still alive was the smallest of the band, who had now wet his pants, and was hyperventilating in fear. The other one tried to lunge at the man, hoping that his football tackling skills would save his life. The man sidestepped, and made two lunging slashes at him. I saw a small trickle of blood cascade out of his belly and splashing onto the concrete. His head wound was almost as bad, as the shadow formed by the bar’s lighting showed blood dripping off his face. The last one, the smallest one, tried to run. The man quickly reloaded, and shot him thru the lower leg. He instantly fell, and cried in pain. The man then pulled out of the duffel bag what looked to be some type of electronic device. I saw him tweak the dials, and press a button. I heard a faint, yet powerful explosion, I would have to guess about 6 miles away. Then another one occurred closer. After recalling the night many times, I finally understood that these were diversions, to attract the cops. The last prep was bawling & trying to crawl away. The man walked up behind him. I remember the sound of the impact well. The man came down with his left hand, right on the prep’s head. The metal piece did its work, as I saw his hand get buried about 2 inches into the guy’s skull. The man pulled his arm out, and stood, unmoving, for about a minute. The town was utterly still, except for the faint wail of police sirens. The man picked up the bag and his clips, and proceeded to walk back the way he came. I was still, as he came my way again. He stopped, and gave me a look I will never forget. If I could face an emotion of god, it would have looked like the man. I not only saw in his face, but also felt eminating from him power, complacence, closure, and godliness. The man smiled, and in that instant, thru no endeavor of my own, I understood his actions.
Teacher Judith Kelly peppered the paper with her comments. “Great details,” and “well done,” she said of the first few lines describing the nighttime scene. “Quite an ending,” she put after the final line.
But Kelly also included this note: “I’m offended by your use of profanity. In class we had discussed the approach of using *!*! Also, I’d like to talk to you about your story before I give you a grade. You are an excellent writer/storyteller but I have some problems with this one.”
Dylan replied, according to Kelly, “It’s just a story.” In a statement provided to police on the day of Columbine, Kelly called the untitled essay “the most vicious story I have ever read.” About two weeks later, Kelly again talked to police. She said she had spoken to Dylan’s parents “at length” about the essay. “Kelly stated that they did not seem worried and made a comment about trying to understand kids today,” according to the summary of her interview. Kelly added she had made a copy of the essay for Dylan’s counselor, Brad Butts.
Eric, in his own way, also was telegraphing via school projects. Kelly noted that he “frequently makes machine-gun gestures and writes Marine type creative stories.”
Dream analysis in Tom Johnson’s psychology class was optional and anonymous. In one that Eric did, he and Dylan drove up a narrow, “dirty” ro
ad to the top of a hill in Eric’s Honda. Lots of others, mostly from bowling class, were also trying to get up the road. There was “lots of honking, yelling, aggressive driving,” Eric recalled. They got to the top, but people who Eric didn’t like were taunting him and Dylan. Fights broke out, then gunfire. Eric and Dylan needed help. In a reverse image of the actual Columbine shootings, SWAT officers rescued Eric and Dylan. SWAT were then shot at, and a “sheriff guy” in a Ford Bronco drove Eric and Dylan away to a small mountain town.
∞
Dylan was accepted into the University of Arizona and left with his parents on Thursday, March 25 for a four-day road trip to visit the school. Tom and Sue told police they did not notice anything unusual and “that Dylan would not like to dwell on decisions and he appeared to feel comfortable with his decision of going to the University of Arizona,” according to a police summary of their interview.
He had picked out a dorm room by the cafeteria and was going to study computers. “He was looking at the girls and talking about them; it was something he had never really done before. He would nudge his dad and say, ‘Ooo, she was gorgeous; did you see her?’” according to Brooks Brown’s book.
Robyn Anderson thought Dylan was going to Arizona because he liked the desert; Devon Adams because it was his ticket out of Colorado. “He had the best time ever,” Devon says of his visit to Arizona. He invoked his trademark humor and had pictures of himself hugging a cactus. “He was getting on with his life,” Devon says. “Past high school. Past all that stuff. I mean, graduation was in what? A month?”
Sue Klebold gushed to Judy Brown about Dylan attending college. She was protective of Dylan leaving for a big campus, but he was also going to prom, and coming out of his shell. He seemed happy and on his way.
∞
Dylan discussed his plans to attend the University of Arizona with Peter Horvath, the dean who had disciplined him. Some kids told Horvath that going away to college also meant getting away from their parents. But not Dylan. “He was looking forward to it, you know, that it’s a great opportunity for him and it was probably where he would go,” Horvath said. “That he’d worked hard for that opportunity and stuff. Like any normal kid would be excited about that chance.”
Although on February 20, 1999, Horvath had a different type of conversation with Eric and Dylan. They approached him in the cafeteria and told him that another student was parking too close to one of their cars and was “mouthy” with them. Horvath says Eric and Dylan were “very polite, respectful and calm about the situation.” It seemed to be nothing more than “verbal sparring” but Eric and Dylan feared it might escalate to their cars being vandalized. Horvath said the conflict was not Eric and Dylan versus the jocks—the other student was not a “jock.” But for Horvath, the story is more evidence that Eric and Dylan did not hold a grudge against him. Even though he had earlier suspended them, they still trusted him with their problem. Their beef was with “the system.”
“The rapport we [the school] had with them and the rapport I had with Dylan was never negative. He’s smart enough, he understands that you’re in a position doing what you’re supposed to be doing but it’s not you that’s doing it, it’s the system that having you do what it needs to do. So he never would hold that against you,” Horvath says. According to Horvath’s police report, “[He] passed on the information to [the other student’s] counselor, who addressed the complaint.”
One month before Columbine, a teacher suspected Dylan had been smoking pot and Horvath had to call him in. But Dylan hadn’t been smoking, Horvath concluded: He didn’t have any on marijuana him, he didn’t smell like marijuana, and he was acting normal. “No way was he under the influence of marijuana,” says Horvath, who notes that some teachers are more “paranoid” about these sorts of things than others.
Around the same time, Dylan’s one-time fan, technology teacher Richard Long, had a problem with Dylan. Students had to pay for more than ten pages of printouts in the computer lab, and lab assistant Peggy Dodd said Dylan had broken the rule. She confronted him and he called her a bitch. Dodd told Long, who called Dylan into his office to ask what happened.
“Well, that bitch,” Dylan started.
That was all Long needed to know. He stopped Dylan mid-sentence.
“You can’t talk like that,” Long said. “You’re never going to be allowed on the computers again.”
“Well, you know, it doesn’t matter,” Dylan said. “It doesn’t matter.”
∞
Seventeen-year-old junior Susan DeWitt was with her father when she approached police shortly after the shootings and told them she knew Eric Harris. She had been at his house on Saturday, three days before Columbine, on a date.
Susan was a receptionist at the Great Clips hair salon in the same strip mall as Blackjack and had known Eric for three months—since January. She often shuttled in and out of the pizza joint to pick up orders for people at Great Clips, and he seemed nice.
Eric eventually figured out Susan’s name and began asking her friends if she liked him. A couple times, he went to Great Clips to ask for her.
The Friday before Columbine, Susan was in Blackjack to pick up an order; she gave Eric her number. He said he would call after she got off work—her shift ended at nine p.m. Eric later called her house but got Susan’s mom. She thought Eric seemed nice, until she told him that Susan wasn’t there. Eric seemed somewhat angry, but mom gave Eric Susan’s pager anyway.
Eric paged her with the line to his bedroom and they talked for about a half hour. Susan said she was at a friend’s house. Eric talked about computers and how he stopped hanging out with certain friends after hearing they were talking about him and making fun of him. But he didn’t seem mad. They made plans for Saturday.
Turns out Susan wasn’t the only Great Clips employee Eric pursued. Tanya Worlock, who also attended Columbine, told police Eric asked her out about ten times, but she always said no because she had a boyfriend. “She didn’t believe Eric was a psycho about asking her out, but he was persistent,” according to her interview with police. “He was very nice and courteous when he’d ask but he didn’t take no for an answer.” Worlock said Eric also asked out another Great Clips employee.
That Friday night, Eric slept at Dylan’s. Tom and Sue told police they had not seen Eric at their house for six months, but they recalled him bringing over a stuffed black nylon duffle bag he had to carry with both hands. Tom assumed it was a computer. Eric left the next morning without the bag. Tom said he never saw it again, nor did he look for it.
Saturday, April 17 was prom. Various friends say Eric was turned down by a few prospective dates, that they tried to play matchmaker, but to no avail. Eric ended up spending part of prom night at home with Susan DeWitt. He was supposed to call her in the early afternoon, but finally rang around 6:30 p.m. She agreed to go over to his house and watch a movie. She lived only about five minutes away and got to Eric’s house about 7:00 p.m. His parents had just gone out to dinner for their twenty-ninth wedding anniversary. Eric’s black trench coat was lying on the stairs.
They watched Event Horizon, the same science fiction movie that Wayne Harris had to retrieve from the sheriff’s office after Eric was arrested for the van break-in. They watched the movie straight through in the basement. The movie ended about 9:30 p.m., and Eric let his dog out and back in. They made small talk, and Eric repeated his anger at a former friend who had betrayed him. He called him a jerk, but didn’t make any threats. He seemed more hurt than angry.
Eric’s parents got back around 10:00 p.m. and Susan talked with them for about five minutes. They seemed nice, and Wayne Harris said he got his hair cut at the Great Clips where Susan worked. The parents went upstairs, and Eric asked if Susan wanted to listen to music. They went into his bedroom, downstairs in the basement.
It was just about Eric’s last chance to get some before Columbine.
Susan recalled a poster of the blonde, one-time MTV host Jenny McCarthy, and other band posters. Ticket stubs from concerts and movies were stapled around the window. Eric had CDs he had made on his computer, and soccer jerseys hanging up. They listened to soft tunes, although Eric favored more head-banging stuff. Susan didn’t notice anything suspicious. Eric didn’t talk about jocks, politics, or blacks. Around 10:30 p.m., Susan’s sister paged her to “get home.” She stuck around for about thirty more minutes and at one point, Eric put his arm around her. When she left, he kissed her on the cheek as a way of saying goodbye.
The next day, Wayne Harris came into Great Clips. He said hello, calling Susan by name, and seemed happy. Susan thought Eric got along well with his parents.
∞
About two weeks before senior prom, Robyn Anderson asked Dylan to go with her. He asked her the exact date. She told him, Saturday April 17, and he seemed lost in concentration, wrapping his mind around that day. Then he said yes.
Robyn was on a church trip in Washington D.C. for the week before prom and got back in town the afternoon of the dance. When she called Dylan he was on the computer, but they made plans. She would pick him up at his house so Tom and Sue Klebold could take photos. When she got there, the parents talked about future plans for school, and videotaped her and Dylan. Dylan wore a tux, Robyn a blue dress.
Robyn then took Dylan to her friend Kelli Brown’s house to catch their limo. The prom group included about a ten others, including Dylan’s buddy, Nate Dykeman. They went to dinner at Bella Ristorante in Denver, where Dylan had a large salad, a seafood dinner, and dessert. When Dylan wanted to have a smoke, he went outside with Nate and they talked about the recent Arizona trip. Dinner ended around 9:30 p.m.
Throughout the night, Dylan acted normal and seemed to be in a good mood. At prom he danced with Devon Adams and made plans to see The Matrix on Wednesday, April 21st, which still perplexes her. “It could mean that they had planned [the shootings] and didn’t have a set date or something like that, you know,” she says. “It could mean anything. But it seems ‘cause Dylan never ever wanted to disappoint me. That was why he came to my birthday and confirmation party, even though he didn’t want to. I mean, he didn’t like disappointing people. Like every time he and his parents would get in a fight, he felt so bad because he had disappointed his parents. He always felt bad because he had disappointed them in some way to make them angry at him. And I mean, that’s what’s like so weird about him making a date with me on a Wednesday when, if he knew that Tuesday, you know, this was going to happen.”