Bloodshed Page 6

  Up at bat is an enormous kid everyone calls Slow Stevie.

  “Watch this,” LeAnn says. “If he hits a home run, which is what he usually does, he’ll walk the bases. Not run. Not jog. Walk every step.”

  “Not a fast walk either,” Kim adds.

  On the third pitch and his second swing, Slow Stevie drives a fastball so far past the right field fence it rolls into the swamp and nobody goes after it.

  And as they described, he drops the bat and starts walking the bases.

  When we approach the three men standing near the concession stand, Hugh Glenn steps toward me and extends his hand. “Hey, John,” he says. “Good to see you. How are you? How’s your dad?”

  “He’s good, thanks,” I say. “Staying busier now than before he retired. Enjoying being a newlywed again.”

  “That’s good. That’s real good. I’m glad to hear that.”

  Like every extroverted politician, Hugh Glenn is warm and friendly and acts as if he not only cares deeply about you, but you’re one of his closest friends. And mostly pulls it off.

  While Glenn is talking to me, Chip is getting onto Kim for not being in her office when he came by earlier and not being at the game when it started.

  “I made sure I stayed here until you got here,” Chip is saying loud enough for Glenn to hear him.

  “Leave her alone,” Glenn says, turning away from me and toward them. “She’s an outstanding SRO, and there’s only one of her. She can’t be everywhere all the time.”

  “No, sir, she can’t. I was just letting her know I had it until she got here.”

  “What you had,” LeAnn says, “is your head so far up the sheriff’s ass you wouldn’t’ve noticed if anything happened anyway.”

  We all laugh as Chip pushes back, trying to defend himself, and Slow Stevie just reaches third.

  “John,” Tyrese says to me, extending his hand. “Good to see you. How you been? Seen Merrill lately? Said he was gonna call me the next time you two headed to the gym for a little b-ball, remind y’all how springy young legs can be.”

  “I’ll make sure he does,” I say.

  “Good, ’cause he says y’all still got game and . . . I’ll have to see that to believe it.”

  Above us, on the second story of the concession stand, its piece-of-plywood window propped open, the press box towers over everything else. At this angle, nearly directly beneath it, I am unable to see the father and son team calling the game, but I can hear them.

  “Tommy Hudson, the right fielder, the hitter. Two outs. One runner on base. He showed bunt. Laid down. Picked up. Nobody covering first . . . and he’s on base.”

  “Hudson snuck one by the Pirates on that one.”

  “Can I speak to you for a minute?” Glenn is saying to Kim.

  She nods. “Sure.”

  The two of them step a few feet away from the rest of us.

  LeAnn says, “We’re gonna step over here and see Zach while you do that.”

  LeAnn starts walking away and, after saying goodbye to Tyrese, I follow her.

  She leads me over to a platform next to the visitors’ dugout, and we climb up it.

  “Hope they built this with big girls in mind,” she says.

  When we reach the top, we find Zach Griffith, the only other sophomore on Kim’s list, videoing the game with one of the school’s cameras.

  LeAnn waves to him.

  “You can talk,” he says. “I’m not recording sound. Just video.”

  “Oh, cool,” she says. “How’s it going?”

  “Seventh circle of hell,” he says.

  “Damn,” she says. “That’s pretty bad. John, Zach. Zach, John. Zach runs our school video production unit. He’s very good.”

  I think of the many videos Harris and Klebold made and make a mental note for us to check Zach’s work.

  “This silliness is just point-and-shoot shit,” he says. “You could train any monkey to do this.”

  The media tower is high above the field and provides a unique perspective on the game and the ant-like individuals swarming around it below. It makes me think of Charles Whitman, the Texas Tower Sniper, who climbed to the twenty-eighth-floor observation deck of the tower at the University of Texas in Austin and started picking off strangers with his hunting rifle—this, after killing his wife and his mother, and three people inside the tower below. Before being shot and killed by Houston McCoy of the Austin police department, Whitman wounded thirty-one people and killed seventeen—sixteen on that day and a seventeenth who died thirty-five years later from injuries sustained back then.

  “Why do it if you hate it so much?” LeAnn asks.

  “Got in trouble. It was this or get suspended. Coach Ace Bighips thinks it’s funny ’cause I hate sports.”

  “What’d he have to do with it?” she asks.

  “He’s the one who decided my punishment. Fucker.”

  She turns to me. “Coach Bowman is not only a coach and teacher and athletic director, he’s also the principal designee. Takes care of most of the discipline around here. Makes more money than anyone in the county—including the superintendent.”

  There’s nothing surprising in that. Coaches are kings in small southern town schools. And many, many are also serving in other positions like athletic director or principal designee.

  “I’m just glad the motherfucker hates me,” Zach says. “I’d hate to be one of the pretty people that gets the Sandusky treatment.”

  That one stops me. He says it in a playful manner, but is it a real accusation?

  As Zach checks his camera, I glance at LeAnn, eyebrows raised.

  She shrugs and shakes her head.

  “Are you saying Coach Bowman has had inappropriate relationships with students?” she asks.

  “Huh? Yeah, no, I was just kidding.”

  “That’s not something to kid about,” she says. “If there’s any truth in it, it needs to be investigated. If there’s not, you could ruin an innocent man’s reputation.”

  “You can’t ruin a coach’s rep. They’re untouchable. Fuckin’ a student would only increase their schoolyard cred, but I was just talkin’ shit. I don’t know anything. We done? I need to get back to shooting the game. I’m missing plays.”

  “Can’t have that, can we?” she says. “Know how important this job is to you.”

  As we reach the bottom of the media platform, Kim is walking up.

  “See why these fine specimens made our lists?” LeAnn says to me.

  I nod.

  “I just hope we haven’t left anyone off who could be the . . .” Kim says.

  “What did Glenn want?” LeAnn asks.

  “Asking what I thought about the probability of us having an actual school shooting,” she says. “Mostly he wanted to know what John thinks. We’re gonna have a meeting in the morning with him and Tyrese and Chip. Said he’d like if you two there too.”

  “Me?” I ask.

  She nods. “He has a lot of respect for you. Think he’s takin’ it more seriously because you are.”

  “Can you be there?” LeAnn asks.

  I nod. “I will be.”

  “Good,” Kim says. “I’m with Hugh on this one. I feel far better about having you involved. Too much at stake . . .”

  “So,” I say, “we’ve seen everyone on your lists except—”

  “The two who made both of our lists,” LeAnn says. “The two most likely to do it. Mason Nickols and Dakota Emanuel.”

  “They’re not here,” Kim says. “I’ve looked all over for them.”

  “Yeah, me too,” LeAnn says. “Even from up on the media tower.”

  “That’s a real shame,” Kim says. “I really wanted John to meet them. They’re definitely our Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold.”

  12

  I don’t want your fuckin’ thoughts and prayers you piece of worthless shit. I want you to do your damn job and keep us safe. You’re a coward, and a whore bought and paid for by the highest political bidder. You’
re paid with blood money, and you have blood on your hands. The blood of the children you not only could have but should have protected.

  That night I dream of Columbine.

  I had spent much of the night after Anna and Taylor and Carla and John Paul were asleep reading about the massacre at the Littleton, Colorado high school and unwittingly took the material into the underworld of dreamscapes and night terrors with me.

  A feeling of floating between disjointed scenes. Observing. Unable to speak, act, influence. Powerless as the unsuspecting victims.

  A bright, sunny Monday on April 20, 1999.

  The day Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold change everything and create a blueprint for school rampage shootings still followed to this day.

  The dream deteriorating into something akin to a drug-induced nightmare. Unmitigated savagery. Unimaginable horror.

  Eric Harris writing his only journal entry for the year. I hate all you people for leaving me out of so many fun things.

  6:15 A.M.

  First-hour bowling class. Eric in attendance, not acting strange.

  Then driving to plant diversionary explosives in a field off Wadsworth Boulevard some three miles from the school.

  Later, at Eric’s house. Somewhere between 10:30 A.M. and 11:00 A.M.

  Videotaping final farewells.

  Eric holding the camera for Dylan.

  Dylan saying, It’s about half an hour before our little judgement day. Just know that I’m going to a better place than here. I didn’t like life too much and I know I’ll be happier wherever the fuck I go. So I’m gone.

  Dylan holding the camera for Eric.

  Eric saying, I just wanted to apologize to you guys for any crap. To everyone I love, I’m really sorry about all of this. I know my mom and dad will be fuckin’ shocked beyond belief.

  11:09 A.M.

  Planting duffle bag bombs in the cafeteria.

  Returning to cars to wait.

  Eric in a long black duster, a backpack filled with pipe bombs, a utility belt holding shotgun shells, pockets stuffed with crickets and 9mm clips.

  Eric carries a 12 gauge Savage-Springfield pump-action shotgun and a Hi-Point Carbine 9 mm semi-automatic rifle.

  Dylan in a Wrath T-shirt, black cargo pants, long black duster, backpack, cowboy boots—a single large caliber copper-jacketed bullet in the right one.

  Dylan carries a 9 mm TEC-9 semi-automatic handgun and a 12 gauge Stevens double-barreled sawed-off shotgun.

  Both boys wore a single glove with the fingers partially cut out to protect their shooting hands, both had a match striker for lighting explosives taped to their arms, and they had seven knives between them.

  11:17 A.M.

  The time Eric calculated the cafeteria will be the most crowded.

  Explosives in place.

  Waiting.

  Eric and Dylan outside the school—one at the west entrance, one at the east, waiting, ready.

  The moments before everything changes, the point just this side of the line that will forever divide before and after Columbine.

  When the bombs begin to explode, those not killed or incapacitated by the blasts will run from the school—out of classrooms and the cafeteria, down the hallways, through the doors . . . and into the gunsights of Eric and Dylan, who plan to pick them off as they do.

  But then . . . nothing.

  Something’s wrong.

  Where is the HaHaHa? Where is our fun?

  No explosions. No easy targets fleeing for their lives into the actual deathtrap designed for them.

  What is it? What happened? Why didn’t the bombs go off? Fuck!

  Whatta we do now?

  Improvise, of course. If the little sheeple won’t come to us, we’ll go to them.

  11:18 A.M.

  Diversionary explosives detonate in the Wadsworth field location. A deputy dispatched, the fire department notified.

  11:19 AM.

  Rachel Scott having lunch with Richard Castaldo in the grassy area next to the west entrance.

  A pipe bomb launched, partially detonating.

  Go! Go!

  Two gunman pulling their guns from beneath their trench coats and shooting at Rachel and Richard. Rachel hit four times, killed instantly. Castaldo hit eight times in the chest, arm, and abdomen.

  Eric removing his trench coat, letting it fall to the ground, aiming his 9 mm carbine down the west staircase toward three students—Daniel Rohrbough, Lance Kirklin, and Sean Graves.

  Then turning, firing at five students sitting on the grassy hillside opposite the west entrance. Michael Johnson hit in the face, leg, and arm. Running. Escaping. Mark Taylor shot in the chest, arms, and leg, falling to the ground, feigning death. The other three getting away uninjured.

  Students at first believing it’s a prank.

  Business teacher Dave Sanders knowing better.

  Dylan, on his way to the cafeteria to check on the explosives, encounters Lance Kirklin.

  Please help me, Lance says.

  Sure, I’ll help you, Dylan says and shoots him in the face.

  As Dylan is doing this, Eric shoots down the steps at students sitting near the entrance to the cafeteria, wounding and partially paralyzing Anne-Marie Hochhalter.

  Eric squealing, This is what we always wanted to do. This is awesome!

  Dylan returns from the cafeteria and he and Eric fire more rounds—this time toward the soccer field. No one is hit.

  They then walk into the west entrance, slinging explosives as they do.

  Art teacher Patricia Nielsen, assigned to hall duty, stepping out asking, What’s all this about, to student Brian Anderson.

  Brian saying he recognizes the boys from his video production class. They’re probably making a movie.

  Nielsen approaching Eric and Dylan.

  Eric leveling his carbine and firing, glass shattering pelting Nielsen with fragments of metal and glass shards.

  Her shouting, Dear God! Dear God! Dear God!

  Inside the school now, in the main hallway, encountering teacher Dave Sanders and a student helper, attempting to evacuate students and secure the school. They turn and run.

  Dylan and Eric firing.

  Sanders is hit twice. The student gets away.

  Smoke. Alarms. Gunfire. Explosions. Chaos. Pandemonium. Confusion.

  A short while later, as Eric and Dylan are distracted with other things, another teacher drags Sanders into the science room where some thirty students are hiding. Sanders is severely injured, bleeding out. A handwritten note appears in the window for the cops and emergency services gathering outside—One bleeding to death.

  Throwing bombs in the hallway, firing more rounds.

  You still with me? Eric says. We’re still doing this, right?

  11:29 AM.

  Eric and Dylan enter the library, Eric yelling, Get up! All jocks stand up! We’ll get the guys in the white hats!

  No one standing.

  Eric saying, Fine, I’ll start shooting anyway.

  He fires his shotgun at a desk. Evan Todd, hiding beneath it, pelted with wood splinters.

  Eric and Dylan walking to the opposite side of the library, shooting, reloading, killing Kyle Velasquez.

  Eric saying, Come on, let’s go kill some cops.

  Dylan and Eric firing out the windows in the directions of the police. Officers returning fire. Eric and Dylan moving away from the windows.

  Firing more rounds at fleeing students and cops.

  Dylan firing a shotgun at a nearby table, injuring three students. Daniel Steepleton, Makai Hall, Patrick Ireland.

  This is for all the shit you put us through, Dylan says.

  Dylan removing his trench coat.

  Eric firing under a desk, hitting and killing Steven Curnow, then doing the same under a nearby desk, hitting and wounding Kacey Ruegsegger.

  Kacey, hit in the neck and shoulder, crying in pain.

  Eric saying, Quit your bitching.

  Eric stepping over to a table
across the way and hitting it with his palm, kneeling, saying, Peek-a-boo just before shooting Cassie Bernall in the head. The weapon recoiling, striking him, breaking his nose.

  Momentarily dazed, Eric hesitates, then eventually turns toward the next table. Bree Pasquale sitting next to instead of under it.

  You want to die? Eric asks, still woozy.

  No, please.

  Eric distracted, but taunting.

  Dylan seeing Patrick trying to help Makai, his head rising above the table, shoots him again, twice in the head, knocking him unconscious.

  Dylan moving again. Another set of tables. Seeing three athletes. Calling to Eric, Hey, Reb. There’s a nigger over here.

  Eric leaving Bree, joining Dylan, the two of them taunting Isaiah Shoels, one of sixteen black students at Columbine, with racist remarks before Eric kneels and shoots him in the chest.

  Dylan kneeling, firing, killing Matthew Kechter.

  Eric yelling, Who’s ready to die next?

  Eric throwing a CO2 cartridge under the table where Daniel Steepleton, Makai Hall, and Patrick Ireland are crouching. Makai grabbing it and throwing it toward the other end of the library.

  Eric then moving toward a set of bookcases, jumping up on one and shaking it, firing more rounds.

  Dylan shooting a display case, then in the direction of the closest table, hitting and injuring Mark Kintgen. Turning, firing again, this time in a different direction, hitting Lisa Kreutz and Valeen Schnurr, and killing Lauren Townsend.

  Valeen Schnurr screaming, Oh my God, oh my God!

  Do you believe in God? Dylan asking.

  I do.

  Why? Dylan asking, then walking away.

  Eric approaching a different table. Two girls crouching beneath. Bending down, looking at them. Pathetic, he says.

  Eric then moving to another table and shooting two rounds, injuring Nicole Nowlen and John Tomlin. Tomlin attempting to get away. Dylan kicking him. Eric taunting him. Dylan shooting him several times and killing him.

  Eric walking back over to where Lauren Townsend lies lifeless. Not far from her, Kelly Fleming, like Bree Pasquale had been, is sitting next to instead of under the table. Eric shooting her in the back, killing her instantly. He then shoots at the table behind her, hitting Townsend and Kreutz again, wounding Jeanna Park.