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  no easy answers

  “Brown's discussion of Harris's Web pages, where he made a death threat against Brown, and the police's failure to act on them, makes for chilling reading….[R]eaders interested in a close-up account of the tragedy will want to read this book.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Brown's story is gripping and provocative….Excellent choice for outsider teens wondering if there's a light at the end of the bullying tunnel.”

  —Booklist

  “[The book] gives a perspective no one else could…It shows a side you cannot get anywhere else.”

  —Brian Rohrbough, father of Columbine victim Daniel Rohrbough

  2002

  Lantern Books

  One Union Square West, Suite 201

  New York, NY 10003

  © Brooks Brown and Rob Merritt, 2002

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written permission of Lantern Books.

  Notice

  Brooks Brown was involved in and has personal knowledge of many aspects of the events described in this book. In some instances quotations of conversations in this text are his best recollections of conversations had by or with him, or overheard by him, and may not be verbatim; in other instances quotes are reasonable interpretations of what was said or likely to have been said, consistent with the author's experience of the situation and people involved.

  Rights to the trademarks, product names, or any derivatives of such trademarks or names are neither claimed, intended, nor implied by the author or publisher of this work.

  All efforts have been made to locate and obtain permission from the owners of the photographic images used in this book.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Brown, Brooks.

  No easy answers : the truth behind death at Columbine High School / by Brooks Brown and Rob Merritt.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-59056-031-0 (alk. paper)

  1. School shootings—Colorado—Littleton. 2. Teenagers—United States—Social conditions—20th century—Case studies. 3. Brown, Brooks. 4. Columbine High School (Littleton, Colo.)—Students—Biography. I. Merritt, Rob, 1976- II. Title.

  LB3013.33.C6 B76 2002

  373.788'82—dc21

  2002010415

  www.redwheelweiser.com

  www.redwheelweiser.com/newsletter

  Acknowledgments

  BROOKS BROWN

  Thanks to:

  ROB MERRITT FOR UNDERTAKING SUCH A DIFFICULT TASK WITH ME and helping me through it. Meagan Fishell for sticking by me through all the shit I've gone through. Michael Troutman, Trevor Dolac, Scott Parker, Brendt Scholle, Adam Calhoun, Derek, Jaysen, Jaymz, Ninja, Injun, and Jamin for being the friends you are. My parents, Randy and Judy, for instilling in me early on the ability to endure and care, and for sticking by me when I am most lost. My brother, Aaron, for giving me ways to have fun over the last three years. My cousin Josh for giving me someone to talk to.

  Michael Moore and his entire staff, especially Rehya, for believing in me without having to ask the standard questions. Anne Sullivan at Lantern Books for proving the importance of never giving up. Spike and Brad Xavier, Lou Dog, Bobby B, D-Loc, Richter, Insane Clown Posse, Twizted, anybody killer, Taxman, Pak, and The Wind for proving that people can make good music and not be sellouts.

  Troy Manuello, Eric Kritzer, Jan Jankowski, Susan Caruthers, and the janitors of Columbine High School. You were all that kept me in that school, let alone taught me how to enjoy learning and enjoy people.

  And thanks to anyone I missed. My Juggalos, family, people who mean a lot to me, everyone. I owe a lotta people for getting through the last few years. You should know who you are.

  ROB MERRITT

  Thanks to:

  BROOKS BROWN FOR TRUSTING ME ENOUGH TO BRING ME ON board for such a personal project; Eddie Morris, Andy Paugh, and Jenny Welp for their critical feedback on early drafts; Randy, Judy, and Aaron Brown for their assistance at every step of the way; Brian Rohrbough and Richard Castaldo, not only for helping me understand their losses, but for their refusal to give up in the face of them; Anne Sullivan at Lantern Books, who championed our project from the beginning; Sarah Gallogly at Lantern for her invaluable guidance; and my parents, Richard and Linda Merritt, for their love and encouragement.

  Also, thanks to Pat Dunleavy, David Horton, Ron Smrha, Robert Geuder, Michael J. Peitz, and John and Diane Rosteck for proving that when teachers make the extra effort to touch a student's life and inspire him, it can make all the difference.

  Finally, special thanks go to Jamie Christenson, the most amazing friend and inspiration I ever could have asked for. She loved this project and supported it with everything she had, but she did not live to see its publication. I love her with all my heart. This book is for her.

  Contents

  Part One: Columbine

  Chapter 1: “get out of here”

  Chapter 2: why?

  Chapter 3: normandy

  Chapter 4: video games

  Chapter 5: freshmen at columbine

  Chapter 6: troubles

  Chapter 7: broken glass

  Chapter 8: the web pages

  Chapter 9: suburban life

  Chapter 10: friendship renewed

  Chapter 11: the calm before the storm

  Part Two: Aftermath

  Chapter 12: the nightmare begins

  Chapter 13: rachel

  Chapter 14: no answers

  Chapter 15: I stand accused

  Chapter 16: the families

  Chapter 17: the videotapes

  Chapter 18: anniversary

  Chapter 19: the truth comes out

  Chapter 20: final hope

  Chapter 21: hollow victory

  Chapter 22: little brother

  Chapter 23: where do we go?

  Part One

  COLUMBINE

  1

  “get out of here”

  THE LAST TIME I STOOD IN THIS SPOT, THE WORLD AS I KNEW IT WAS about to be shattered.

  I'm alone on a staircase outside Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. The spot is a quiet one, bordered by concrete recesses that merge into a sidewalk leading up toward the math wing. I've stood here many times before; this place was always secluded enough for me to get in one last quick drag before an administrator would yell at me to quit smoking on school grounds.

  Today it's far away from the pool of media trucks gathered nearby in Clement Park, and from the gymnasium where the big assembly of students and teachers is taking place. It's a good place for me to just stop and think.

  It's also a good place to mourn.

  I haven't stood here since April 20, 1999. I haven't stood here since exactly one year ago this minute.

  For the first two periods of April 20, it had been a typical day at Columbine, no different from any other in the past four years. Finished first hour, went outside, had a cigarette. Went to second hour, where I worked as an assistant to Mrs. Caruthers, the theatre teacher. She handed me some papers to help her review and grade. When the period ended, I went out and had a cigarette.

  Looking around during that smoke break, I realized what a beautiful day it was, especially for April, when in Colorado we're used to rain. The sun was out, the sky was clear and blue, and temperatures were finally warming up after the past few months of winter. I was wearing a white Tshirt and jeans; I hadn't even bothered bringing a coat to school.

  I finished my cigarette and headed for philosophy class. We had a test that day on Chinese philosop
hy. I was never a great student at Columbine, but I felt all right about this particular test. Mr. Kritzer was the kind of teacher who truly understood the material he taught—and knew that allowing students to contribute their own ideas, without being judgmental, is critical in the teaching of philosophy. His approach made me enjoy the class, which in turn made me work harder. I had a good feeling about today.

  That was when I noticed something odd. Eric wasn't there.

  It didn't seem right. My friend Eric Harris skipped class all the time, but he knew this wasn't just a quiz we were taking that morning. The test was going to be worth a good third of our final grade. To miss it was basically to write off the rest of the term.

  I tried to shrug it off as his loss. Still, I was a little concerned. Eric was a good student, and his parents drove him hard when it came to grades. I knew I'd have to give him shit about it the next time I saw him.

  I finished my test and brought it up to the front of the room. The period ended, and off I went to have another cigarette. Then I headed to fourth-hour creative writing.

  Once again, no Eric. This time, no Dylan, either.

  Normally, this wouldn't have seemed that odd. Eric was best friends with Dylan Klebold, and the two of them ditched creative writing all the time. However, they usually had at least one of their other friends from this class with them, too. Today, though, Becca Heins, Nate Dykeman, and I had all showed up for class. Apparently none of us had been invited along.

  I don't really remember what Mrs. Kelly had us do that day. I was already thinking about going home after fourth period and missing my last class. I had stayed up late on my computer the night before, and I was tired. I already had my cigarettes in hand by the time the bell rang to signify the end of the period.

  I had no idea that this would be the last time I would ever attend a class at Columbine High School. That it was the last time I'd ever take a philosophy test, or write a paper for Mrs. Kelly, or grade papers for Mrs. Caruthers, or play dodgeball in gym class.

  The world I knew was about to be altered forever.

  As I took a drag on my cigarette, I was a little surprised to see Eric suddenly pull into the parking lot right in front of me. It seemed strange that he would skip two classes, then suddenly show up back at school.

  Even more bizarre, he was pulling into a spot other than his assigned space.

  I wanted to talk with him. I still couldn't believe he'd skipped philosophy. I walked right up to his car, just as he was getting out, and with a mix of concern and friendly cruelty, I started cussing him out.

  “What the hell's wrong with you, man?” I said. “You weren't in third hour today. You missed the test!”

  I didn't know how to read the look he gave me. It wasn't the “Oh, damn” look of someone who had just realized what was about to happen to his grades, or the look of annoyance that your friends give you when you rib them about a screw-up. This was something very different.

  He laughed at me, as if he couldn't believe I had even brought the subject up. “It doesn't matter anymore,” he said. He pulled a light blue gym bag out of the backseat and set it down on the ground.

  “Yeah, whatever,” I muttered, taking another drag on my cigarette. Eric was a weird guy—cool, but not as good a friend as Dylan. But today he was acting a little stranger than usual.

  Eric stopped. He looked straight at me.

  “Brooks, I like you now,” he said. “Get out of here. Go home.”

  His tone was bizarre—intense, but almost chuckling. I'd never heard him talk that way before.

  That's when I noticed Eric wasn't wearing his hat. A pretty small detail, I suppose; he was wearing his usual attire of black pants and a white T-shirt, so everything else seemed normal. But Eric always wore his hat. Always.

  Eric didn't even hold my gaze after he spoke. He turned his back to me and started pulling another duffel bag out of his back seat.

  “Uh, okay, whatever,” I said.

  Eric didn't say anything else. He wasn't even looking at me anymore. My presence didn't seem to mean anything to him now.

  I took another drag off my cigarette—and that's when I got hit by this uneasy feeling. Didn't know where it came from, but somehow, in the back of my mind, I knew something wasn't right. The hat. Eric's demeanor. The test he'd skipped. I couldn't pin down why alarms are going off in my head. But they were. Something was telling me that I needed to walk away.

  Eric was a very serious person. You didn't screw with him. I knew that from last year, when he'd posted messages on the Internet about how badly he wanted me dead. We had made peace afterwards; I thought all of that was behind us now. But maybe those memories were coming back to unsettle me all over again.

  Whatever the reason, somehow I knew that Eric was not one to be antagonized any further at this moment.

  I didn't say anything else. I walked across the parking lot back down to Pierce Street, still holding the same cigarette I had lit when I walked out of class. I tried to just keep smoking like nothing had happened. Yet deep down, I knew that something was wrong, and that it had to do with Eric.

  Was he going to play a prank? Mess with the school's ventilation system? Shoot paint balls? Set off a pipe bomb in the parking lot?

  I saw an image of Bart Simpson flushing a lit firecracker down the toilet right before Principal Skinner brings his mother in to use the facilities. It had always made me laugh in the past. For some reason it didn't now.

  I finished the cigarette and tossed it. I tried to forget about Eric for a moment and decide whether I was going to skip fifth hour or not.

  Then I heard a loud crack in the distance.

  I looked around. Funny, I thought, that almost sounded like a gunshot. I looked to my left. On the other side of Pierce, there was a whole block of housing construction going on. Had I just heard a nail gun? Maybe. The pounding of nails will echo everywhere. You can't pinpoint where it came from when it's that loud.

  I heard a few more cracks. They sounded different from nails. Couldn't be sure. Then I heard something much louder than what had come before.

  That wasn't any goddamn nail.

  In that instant, I knew something horrible was happening. Panic washed over me, and without even thinking about it, I started moving. I didn't know what was going on, but somehow I knew I had to get as far away from there as possible.

  I heard more loud cracks. Something that sounded like explosions. A bomb. I wasn't walking anymore. I was running on Pierce Street, wanting in that instant to get as far away from Columbine as possible.

  One block. Another. Loud noises coming from behind me, sounds I knew meant unimaginable horror.

  I reached a little green generator next to the sidewalk and sat down for a moment. I could just barely see the front edge of Columbine, at the top of the hill in the distance, and I could still hear the shots.

  “All right—gotta figure out what I'm doing—gotta figure out what I'm doing—”

  I had no idea what I was going to do.

  I tried to calm myself down. Maybe it's a prank, I thought. Maybe it's exactly what I thought before. Maybe Eric tossed a couple of pipe bombs, scared the teachers, and now he's hiding behind a few cars in the parking lot, laughing his ass off.

  If it was a prank, and I ran to someone's house and started screaming that there were bombs and explosions going off at Columbine, what would be the first thing they'd do? Call the cops. If I was wrong, what would happen then? I'd get slapped with a fine. Nailed. You get in trouble real bad for making false reports in Littleton.

  Besides, I thought, maybe I didn't hear anything. Maybe I'm just losing it. Maybe if I just get up and walk back, I'll see that nothing happened and everything's all right.

  Jesus. I didn't know what the hell to think.

  But I couldn't stay there on that generator, out in the open. I knew that.

  I got up and kept moving away from the school. I was three blocks away from Columbine when I reached a concrete bicycle underpa
ss that goes right under Pierce Street. I jumped down off the sidewalk and disappeared into it.

  I'd gone down here to smoke with friends in the past. I'd never done it to try to protect myself.

  My hands were shaking as I pulled out another cigarette. I had to clear my mind.

  I replayed everything from the past ten minutes. The explosions. The shotgun blast. It had to be a shotgun blast. Had to be, had to be . . . I thought back to my conversation with Eric. Had I missed something? A detail, something sticking out of his bag? Anything?

  And then it hit me—the sick realization.

  Eric.

  Son of a bitch.

  I suddenly remembered all the articles I'd read about Jonesboro and Pearl and Paducah, and Kip Kinkel and Michael Carneal and Luke Woodham. I remembered those times when we'd laughed in speech class that Columbine was next. We'd said that if any school was ripe to get shot up, it was ours.

  Now it was happening, and my friend was behind it.

  Oh, man. No. No. Jesus, Eric, what the hell are you doing?

  Christ, I thought. Get it together. Come on. What if I'm the only one who knows? What if the cops don't have a name? I've got to find a phone. I have to get out of here.

  I heard police cars driving overhead as I hurried back out from the underpass. I looked out across the empty lots, to where the closest house was, several hundred yards away.

  Then I heard it. I turned around just in time to see a massive barrage of police cruisers, a dozen of them if not more, thundering north on Pierce toward the school with sirens wailing. If I needed any further confirmation that this was real, I found it when I saw half the police force of Jefferson County descending on Columbine.

  I ran to the first house I saw and started hammering on the door. Nothing. I ran for the next one and did the same thing. I don't know if I was yelling through the door or not. It didn't seem to matter.