Eric’s grades were up, and his teachers were happy. He would end the fall semester with glowing comments on his report card about a positive attitude and cooperation. Dylan was still tanking. On November 3, he brought Kriegshauser another progress report. Calculus was no better, and now he had a D in gym, too. It was just tardiness, he explained.
You will get there on time, meaning not one minute late, Kriegshauser demanded. That better be a passing grade by next session.
By their next session, the grade had dropped to an F. Kriegshauser confronted Dylan on the situation, and Dylan tried to weasel out. There was a pattern, Kriegshauser said. Dylan wasn’t even trying. The comments from his calculus teacher showed a bad attitude. He wasn’t making use of his class time effectively. What was going on there? Dylan said he’d been reading a book in class. Kriegshauser was incredulous. Dylan wasn’t much of a smooth talker. Listen to yourself, Kriegshauser told him. Think about what you’re saying. You are minimizing everything. You’re full of excuses. You sound like you think you’re the victim.
Kriegshauser said there would be consequences if Dylan’s efforts didn’t change. That could include termination. Termination would translate to multiple felony convictions. Dylan could find himself in prison.
Eric manufactured three more pipe bombs: the Charlie batch. Then he halted production until December. What he needed was guns. And that was becoming a problem.
Eric had been looking into the Brady Bill. Congress had passed the law restricting the purchase of most popular semiautomatic machine guns in 1993. A federal system of instant background checks would soon go into effect. Eric was going to have a hard time getting around that.
“Fuck you Brady!” Eric wrote in his journal. All he wanted was a couple of guns—“and thanks to your fucking bill I will probably not get any!” He wanted them only for personal protection, he joked: “Its not like I’m some psycho who would go on a shooting spree. fuckers.”
Eric frequently made his research do double duty for both schoolwork and his master plan. He wrote up a short research assignment on the Brady Bill that week. It was a good idea in theory, he said, aside from the loopholes. The biggest problem was that checks applied only to licensed dealers, not private dealers. So two-thirds of the licensed dealers had just gone private. “The FBI just shot themselves in the foot,” he concluded.
Eric was rational about his firepower. “As of this date I have enough explosives to kill about 100 people,” he wrote. With axes, bayonets, and assorted blades, he could maybe take out ten more. That was as far as hand-to-hand combat would get him. A hundred and ten people. “that just isn’t enough!”
“Guns!” the entry concluded. “I need guns! Give me some fucking firearms!”
45. Aftershocks
Milestones were hard. First day of school, first snowfall, first Christmas, first anything. All the ugly memories, all the feelings of helplessness swelled back to the surface.
The six-month anniversary was unnerving. Surveillance video of the killers roaming the cafeteria had just been leaked to CBS. The network led its national news broadcast with the first of footage inside the building during the attack. Eric and Dylan strolled around brandishing their weapons. They picked up abandoned cups from the tables and casually enjoyed a few sips. They shot at the big bombs, and terrified kids scurried away.
“It’s one thing to hear or read about it, and another thing to see it,” Sean Graves’s mother said. She cried while she watched. She made herself sit through it—she needed to know. She was coming to terms with inevitability. “I wish it wasn’t out,” she said. “But I knew that it was going to come out. It was just a matter of time.”
Her son took a pass. Sean did his homework in the other room.
Sean was semiparalyzed—one of the critically injured kids. Everyone was watching their progress. Anne Marie Hochhalter was struggling. She went to school for physics class, and a tutor taught her the rest at home. Her family had just moved into a new house, outfitted by volunteers to accommodate her wheelchair. Anne Marie was fighting her way toward walking again. A few days before the six-month anniversary, she finally moved her legs—one at a time, three to four inches high. It was “a tremendous, tremendous achievement,” her dad, Ted, said. But the pain was still excruciating.
The six-month anniversary jitters made it harder. Rumors were rampant: Eric and Dylan couldn’t have done it alone. The TCM is still active—they could strike again at any moment.
October 20, the six-month mark, seemed like the perfect moment. On October 18, a fresh rumor surfaced: a friend of Eric and Dylan’s who had worked on their school videos told someone he was going to “finish the job.”
The next day, police raided his house, searched the premises, and arrested him. His parents cooperated. He was charged with a felony and held on a $500,000 bond. He was put on suicide watch. He was seventeen.
The kid made a brief appearance in juvenile court on Wednesday, in leg shackles and a green prison uniform. He faced Magistrate John DeVita, the same man who’d sentenced Eric and Dylan a year and a half earlier. Because the suspect was a minor, his name was withheld and the record sealed. But DeVita confirmed the police had found an incriminating journal. “That was the basis for the allegation,” he said. A diagram of the school was also recovered, but no signs of activity to carry anything out. In the twelve-page diary, the boy lamented his failure to help Eric and Dylan with their troubles. He contemplated suicide. He wrote about it. He talked about it when they came to arrest him.
That same day, the six-month anniversary, 450 kids called in sick. Why set foot in that deadly school? More drifted out all day. By the closing bell, half the student body was gone. Three of the critically injured kids, Richard Castaldo, Anne Marie Hochhalter, and Patrick Ireland, stuck it out. Sean Graves stayed home and baked chocolate chip cookies with friends. “I didn’t want to risk it,” he said.
Thursday, 14 percent were still out. The normal absentee rate was 5 percent.
The tension subsided. On Friday, attendance was back near normal. Anne Marie Hochhalter and her dad went to Leawood Elementary that morning to thank fund-raisers and accept donations raised on her behalf. Around ten A.M., Anne Marie’s mother walked into an Alpha Pawn Shop south of Denver. She asked to see a handgun. The clerk offered several options; she looked at them through the glass case. She settled on a .38-caliber revolver. That one. While he got started on the background check, she turned her back to the counter and loaded. She had brought the ammo with her. First she fired at the wall. The second shot entered through her right temple.
Paramedics rushed Carla June to Swedish Medical Center, the same hospital that had treated Anne Marie. Carla June died a few minutes later. A counselor who had worked with the family came by the house to notify the family. Anne Marie answered the door, and the counselor asked to talk to Ted. “I started to breathe really fast,” Anne Marie said later. “I just had an ominous feeling.”