The Story about Eric and Dylan
Their names will be intertwined forever. Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris. Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold. So many things made them different: Eric aced his classes. Dylan was an unrepentant slacker. Eric lied about his age to woo an older woman he met at the mall. Dylan shyly waited for the right girl. Eric got into flour fights at the pizza joint where they worked. Dylan watched. ''They weren't joined at the hip by any means,'' said Nate Dykeman, the classmate who probably knew them best. But Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold will be remembered for what they shared: A secret sickness and a hatred for their high school, a place where their teen-age angst spiraled into murderous rage. Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold. Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris Four months after they unleashed the deadliest school shooting in U.S. history, killing 12 classmates and a teacher before killing themselves, their families and friends still struggle to understand what went wrong. How did goofy little kids who played baseball, loved their pets and wanted to please their mothers turn into killing machines? In the months since the killings, a clearer picture has emerged of Dylan and Eric's bond, although there are questions that will never be answered. This much is known. Dylan and Eric cemented their fatal friendship at Columbine. Out of a nerdy misery, Eric and Dylan found acceptance in each other, then excitement in concocting bizarre and destructive schemes and finally deadly fulfillment, proving their twisted loyalty with a death pact that horrified the world. Each was the other's reinforcement. If either had doubts about killing a classmate, then another and another and another, all he had to do was glance over at his soulmate, see the approving smile and feel the reassuring sting of the high five. It was mob mentality. A mob of two. Dylan Klebold & Eric Harris. Eric Harris & Dylan Klebold. Something neither would have done alone, they did together. In the beginning When did their friendship begin? No one remembers exactly, although Eric and Dylan met sometime in seventh or eighth grade at Ken Caryl Middle School. The school sits in the heart of Columbine, an unincorporated swath of Jefferson County where an endless maze of cul de sacs, bike paths and chain stores melts into the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Nate Dykeman swears they were already best friends when he moved to Colorado in middle school. ''I met Eric in Spanish class, and I met Dylan at Eric's house one day,'' he said. But Brad Jenkins, who is pictured clowning around with Eric in the middle school yearbook, said Dylan was never part of their group. ''We hung out during school and Eric never mentioned his name or anything,'' Brad said. Dylan was the local boy. He had gone to elementary school in Littleton, and was in a gifted program at Governor's Ranch Elementary School from third through sixth grades. Even though he was surrounded by smart kids, Dylan wowed them with his math skills. Dylan's parents, Tom and Sue, hosted the graduation party for the gifted students. Ken Caryl yearbook pictures show a pudgy boy, soft, with baby fat that would melt in high school as he grew into what Rolling Stone called ''a gawky kid with a big beak and a Jay Leno chin.'' ''He played football and stuff with us every day,'' classmate Jake Cram said. ''He loved baseball and he played baseball a lot. He was a little bit clumsy.'' As for Eric, time and again he was the new kid in town, forced to start over to make friends, a military brat hopscotching the country until his father retired in 1993 and moved his family back to his native Colorado. Eric, too, played baseball. But he was a timid player who wouldn' t swing when it was his turn to bat, said Terry Condo, his Little League coach in Plattsburgh, N.Y. ''He was afraid to strike out and let his teammates down,'' Condo said. ''It struck me as him really wanting to fit in.'' After their move from upstate New York to Colorado, Wayne and Kathy Harris rented a house a few blocks stoplights south of Columbine. The girl next door, Sarah Pollock, walked with Eric to school. She told her mother that Eric was ''preppy and a dork,'' but otherwise nice. Polite, too. New school; new friends Ninth grade. High school. And a remodeled one at that. Eric and Dylan were part of the Class of 1999, the first students who would spend all four years in a bigger and better Columbine, which had undergone a $15 million makeover, its first major renovation since opening in 1973. A ceremony that first day in August 1995 welcomed students to the new Columbine. A new cafeteria, where four years later Eric and Dylan would plant a bomb. A new student entrance, where hundreds of panicked kids would run from Dylan and Eric's gunfire. A new auditorium where SWAT officers would train their weapons on shell-shocked students wading through the flooded room to safety. Soon, Eric had a new friend, Brooks Brown, who lived nearby. They met on the school bus. Brooks had known Dylan since first grade. Eric, Dylan and Brooks began hanging out. On cool fall nights they did what many high school freshmen do: They cheered on their football team. Eric's big brother Kevin, a senior, played tight end and was a kicker for the Columbine Rebels. ''Eric's dad would drive us,'' Brooks said. Dylan drifted away from some of his middle school friends. Christopher Beets was one of them. ''I remember picking up Christopher from high school in ninth grade and Dylan was walking down the street,'' said his mom, Gail Beets. ''I said, 'Gee, you don't seem to be buddy-buddy with Dylan anymore.' And he said, 'Well, he's got new buddies and I'm not into what they' re doing.' '' What Dylan's new friends were into was computer games. They played for hours, sometimes together, sometimes at their own houses, connected by modems, technology and a fascination with games where warriors mowed down enemies with pipe bombs and fire power, where victims never cried and their families never suffered. They shared a wild, dark and disdainful intelligence. They made fun of teachers and students behind their backs and even to their faces, especially those who were computer illiterate. They rolled their eyes at classmates' stupid questions. When Brooks had to write an essay about his childhood, he didn' t choose Disneyland or camping. He wrote about reading Atlas Shrugged by philosopher-novelist Ayn Rand because he considered it ''life altering.' ' When Dylan wanted to put a nasty note in someone's locker, he hacked into the school's computer system to learn the combination. Yet for all their smarts, they were too lazy, too uninterested, to make the honor roll. None pursued sports either, though they were tall enough for a starting lineup that would've made any high school coach proud. Brooks grew to be 6 feet 5; Nate, 6 feet 4 and Dylan, 6 feet 3. Two other friends, Ryan Whisenhut and Chris Morris, were 6 feet 4 and 6 feet 2, respectively. Eric was the shortest of the group. He barely topped 5 feet 8. Still, by all accounts, Eric and Dylan enjoyed their first year at Columbine. And, at 14, they still fit in, at least from a distance. ''That's back when they were just like everybody else,'' classmate Katie Rutledge said. ''They dressed normal, I'd even say preppie.' ' A look 'like he could kill' The unraveling began in their sophomore year. Whether they had problems at home isn't known. Their families aren' t talking. But Eric, especially, felt mistreated at school by a small group of jocks, and ignored by teachers and administrators he believed looked the other way. Eric and Dylan gravitated toward a small circle of students united by their differences. Combat boots and thrift-store grunge adrift in an Abercrombie & Fitch sea. This angry, rebellious group would become known as the Trench Coat Mafia. Even then, Dylan and Eric were on the fringes of the outcast clique. Classmate Kevin Hofstra said he's sure Eric and Dylan could have fit in with other groups, perhaps the super-academic kids. ''Both didn't have a whole lot of friends, but people liked them, '' he said. Eric's anger began to emerge. He even turned it against his friends. Classmate Ryan Whisenhut could never figure out why Eric liked him when they were freshmen, then wouldn't talk to him when sophomore year started. ''He just sort of changed,'' Ryan said. ''He wouldn't say why. He would just sort of give you this look like he could kill you.'' It was a pattern Eric would repeat. He hated his friend Brooks Brown for a while. He argued with Nate Dykeman over a girl. And he had a falling out with classmate Zack Heckler, who thought Eric's pranks were getting out of hand. ''You had to follow him (Eric) or get away from him,'' Zach's mother, Veronica Heckler, would later tell her pastor. But Eric had one friend he never turned on: Dylan. Dylan, the consummate follower. Dylan, who had a much broader circle of friends, but who remained loyal to Eric. ''Dylan,'' Ryan said, ''was the least violent person I've ever known.'' A silent theater soundman Dylan rebelled in quieter, more artistic ways. He was always the boy in the control booth. Early in his sophomore year Dylan joined a quirky, nonconformist crowd that chose theater to express themselves. ''The people that were in the plays, he didn't mind hanging around, '' said Sam Granillo, a senior this fall. ''They were in these plays because they had open minds, and most people in my school don't.'' Theater required commitment. Dylan easily spent a dozen hours a week in rehearsal. All after school, all on his own time. He found his role behind the spotlight, spending long nights hunkered in a cramped room at the back of the school auditorium. He usually ran sound, a job that appealed to his love of anything technical. Chris Logan, who was heavy into theater, ran around with Dylan. Their circle of girls and guys bowled together and went to movies. When Chris threw a Christmas party, Dylan was there. So was Chris' girlfriend, Robyn Anderson. Already she and Dylan had developed a bond. But a melancholy side of Dylan began to appear. Sarah Slater saw the sadness. She handled the spotlight in theater, working side-by-side with Dylan. ''I liked him,'' she said. ''He was really shy, although he wasn' t all that shy with me.'' Too busy to talk during rehearsal or the shows, they spent hours communicating by e-mail when they got home at night. ''We talked about a lot of stuff, mostly about alcoholic beverages and how he hated the school,'' Sarah said. She understood that hatred. With her baggy pants and spiked jewelry, Sarah didn't fit in until she started dressing more conventionally at the end of her freshman year. She worked hard to change her negative attitude and discovered when she did that she enjoyed Columbine. Dylan never did. ''Just when I talked to him, I don't know, it was like he would end the conversation with, '(Expletive) the school,' '' Sarah said. ''If I asked how he was doing, he'd say, 'I wish I didn't go here' or 'I wish I was somewhere else.' '' Sometimes during their online chats, Dylan would say he had been drinking. Sometimes Sarah could tell by his typing mistakes. Sometimes he would invite her to go out drinking. But Nate Dykeman doesn't remember Dylan - or Eric - drinking a lot. He wonders whether Dylan was just trying to impress Sarah, trying to come across as a party animal, trying to make her think he was living up to his nickname, VoDkA. Sarah lost touch with Dylan after she dropped out of theater. But Dylan continued, handling the sound for Go Ask Alice as a junior and Frankenstein as a senior. Last fall, theater students made a video for their beloved drama teacher, Sue Carruthers. Mrs. C, they called her. Dylan was in the video. His brown hair had grown out below his ears. He looked shy, even though Brooks Brown, his friend for 12 years, was behind the camera. Pepperoni and homemade bombs Eric liked pepperoni and green pepper pizza. That's all he would eat during his shifts at Blackjack Pizza. While other employees heaped on a smorgasbord of toppings, Eric didn't budge from his favorites. Eric and Dylan started at Blackjack in the spring of their sophomore year, cooking pizzas for $5.15 an hour. Their buddy Chris Morris, who was in the Trench Coat Mafia, already worked at the strip-mall pizzeria off Pierce Street south of Columbine. Chris had urged them to apply, saying it would be fun. It was a blast. There were flour fights in the kitchen and fireworks in the parking lot. Two co-workers, Kim Carlin and Sara Arbogast, were in the same grade as Eric and Dylan. Sara: ''Eric was nice and talkative and funny and just a cool guy. He never expressed any hate toward anything, just the normal teen- age angst. A lot of people say they don't like school. I said it all the time.'' Kim: ''Dylan and me never got heart-to-heart like me and Eric would. I don't think Dylan fit into us very well. He was too quiet. We would get into massive food fights or water fights. He wasn't into playing with us. If you would ask him something embarrassing he'd turn red and give you this little grin.'' On slow nights, the crew would sit behind the building and set off firecrackers or homemade explosives. ''We used to make dry-ice balls behind the store,'' Kim said. ''You put dry ice and hot water in a 2-liter bottle. It just shoots up. We stole a cone one time when they did road construction in the parking lot. We would see how high we could shoot the cone.'' One night Dylan brought a pipe bomb to work. The manager wrote him up and told him to never do that again. Shortly afterward, Dylan quit Blackjack. Eric stayed. Kim and Sara grew closer to Eric. He complained that some jocks were bullying him. Sara never witnessed any taunting, but she did see classmates give Eric weird looks. She thought it was because of how he dressed. The boy who wore khaki when he started at Blackjack now draped himself in black cargo pants and black T-shirts, just like his friend Chris Morris. But Eric drew the line at wearing a beret like Chris, opting for a baseball cap worn backward. Kim and Sara couldn't understand why their classmates didn't like Eric. ''No one ever gave him a chance,'' Kim said. ''People always looked at me because I would go over and hug him in the morning.'' Sara would tease him about a co-worker he briefly dated. He would call Sara ''Ohzay BooBoo,'' a phrase he picked up from the movie Ace Ventura, Pet Detective. When Eric got his senior pictures taken and whined about how ''stupid' ' he looked, Kim and Sara cooed about how cute he was and helped him choose prints. When Eric harped that girls wouldn't have anything to do with him, Kim and Sara invited him to hang out with them. Sometimes he went bowling, but many times he refused, telling them he thought he wouldn' t fit in. Eric did join Kim and Sara and their friends homecoming night of their junior year. They had skipped the school dance for dinner at the Old Spaghetti Factory in downtown Denver. When they arrived to pick up Eric, they had to wait 10 minutes until his mother got home. ''He didn't want to leave without her knowing where he was,'' Kim said. ''He didn't want her to worry.'' Moving from state to state As teen-agers, Eric's parents traveled some of the same streets he later did. Before Wayne Nelson Harris was a decorated Air Force pilot, he was a local boy. Englewood High School, Class of 1966. Quiet and smart, according to former classmates. Wayne's late father, Walter, worked as a valet at the Brown Palace Hotel. His mother, Thelma, stayed home with Wayne and his older sister, Sandra. Wayne Harris met Katherine Ann Pool in the days of buzz cuts and beehives. She was a Colorado native, too. George Washington High School, Class of 1967. Her father, Richard Pool, was retired military, and ran a hardware store on Holly Street in southeast Denver. The Pools still live in the house where Kathy and her two sisters grew up. Wayne and Kathy had a church wedding at First Presbyterian in Englewood on April 17, 1970. Three years later, Wayne joined the Air Force and it was off to Oklahoma for pilot training. Harris and his young wife crisscrossed the country - Washington, Kansas, Ohio. Their first child, Kevin, was born in 1978 in Washington. Eric David came along three years later while the family was stationed in Wichita, Kan. At his 20-year high school reunion, Wayne Harris wrote that his goal was to ''raise two good sons.'' The highlight of his life, according to the reunion questionnaire, had been the birth of his boys. Kathy Harris stayed home when Kevin and Eric were young, busying herself with military-wives luncheons, volunteer projects and school functions. Former friends in military towns describe Eric as a good kid. Smart. And cute, always cute. By the time Wayne Harris retired from the Air Force, he'd risen to the rank of major and tackled some prestigious assignments as a test pilot and flight instructor. He earned a Meritorious Service Medal for his work on B-1 bombers. Then, like many military bases in the early 1990s, Plattsburgh Air Force Base in New York closed. In 1993, after 20 years of military life, Wayne and Kathy returned to Colorado. Wayne got a job at Flight Safety Services, an Englewood company that makes military flight simulators. Eric's friends said his dad worked a lot. Kathy was hired by Everything Goes, an Englewood caterer. At first, the Harrises rented. Then in May 1996, just as Eric ended his freshman year, they paid $180,000 for a house a few blocks away, the place they finally planned to call home for many years. Two stories, brick, blue-gray trim, it sits on a cul de sac off Pierce Street, straight south of Columbine. Wayne and Kathy drilled the value of homework and hard work into the boys. Kevin Hofstra, who hung around Eric mostly in middle school, said Eric and his brother Kevin always had to do homework before they could goof off. Sports was big, too. Sunday afternoon football on TV, Wayne coaching Kevin's rec-league basketball team. ''His parents were always 100 percent awesome to me,'' said Derek Holliday, a 1996 Columbine graduate who is close to Kevin. ''The Harrises are great parents.'' The family pet, a tiny dog named Sparky, suffered from seizures. Eric sometimes took off work when Sparky got sick. ''Eric loved that dog,'' Nate Dykeman said. At some point in high school, Eric's parents realized their son had problems more serious than they alone could fix. They took him to a psychiatrist, who prescribed Luvox, an anti-depressant used to treat obsessive-compulsive disorder. Eric's bedroom was in the basement. His shelves were lined with boxes of old firecrackers and a collection of miniature cars. A poster with one of his favorite musical groups, KMFDM, was taped to the ceiling. He also liked Rammstein, a German band. Eric, who studied German, would play the group's CDs at Blackjack and translate for his co- workers. KMFDM and Rammstein feature music with brooding and violent lyrics that Eric often copied and sent out to friends through the Internet. Nate didn't visit Eric's house as much as he did Dylan's. No one did. It wasn't as much fun. ''Eric would just get on his computer,'' Nate said. Most of Eric's friends outgrew their fascination with violent computer games. Eric never did. His nickname, Reb, was inspired by a character in one of his favorite computer games, Doom, where the goal is to score high body counts. One of the game's slogans: ''DOOM - where the sanest place is behind a trigger.'' Rebels in $100 coats Eric and Dylan seemed to relish their roles as outsiders. ''The impression I always got from them was they kind of wanted to be outcasts,'' said Dara Ferguson, a senior this fall. ''It wasn' t that they were labeled that way. It's what they chose to be.'' That choice invited taunting by a group of jocks, many of whom graduated in 1998, and were known as bullies throughout the school. Students said they would block the hallways and make underclassmen take the long way to class. Even Kevin Hofstra, co-captain of the soccer team, said he was afraid of them. Eric endured more of the taunting than Dylan. Some of the jocks and their friends pushed Eric into lockers. They called him ''faggot.'' They threw Coke cans at him from their cars. ''They wouldn't pick on Dylan because he was tall and lanky. Dylan was a pretty intimidating looking guy,'' classmate Patrick McDuffee said. ''They picked on Eric.'' Jessica Hughes, a 1999 graduate, defined Columbine this way: ''There's basically two classes of people. There's the low and the high. The low sticks together and the high sticks together, and the high makes fun of the low and you just deal with it.'' A small group of the 1,965 students dealt with it by bonding together in their unhappiness. For the most part, these were bright, crafty kids. Computer whizzes. Video-game masters. The Trench Coat Mafia. The group got its sinister name in the most innocent way. Tad Boles, who graduated last May, was the first to don a so-called trench coat. In fact, Tad's mother, Terri Isaac, bought him two of the long cowboy dusters for Christmas his freshman year. She found the coats on sale at Miller Stockman at Southwest Plaza for $99, and bought one. Three days later, when it was time to wrap the coat, she couldn't find it. ''All I could think of was 'Oh my God, I left the hatchback open on my husband's car and somebody took it,' '' she said. So she spent another $104.79. When she was cleaning closets the following May she found the original duster. Her husband had forgotten he hid it there. By that time, Tad's friends were wearing the coats, too. And kids at Columbine had started calling them the Trench Coat Mafia - a name the group proudly adopted. Eric and Dylan were not even official members. They were just friends of lead Trench Coaters Joe Stair, who graduated in 1998, and classmate Chris Morris. The Trench Coaters resented the social system. They refused to move out of the paths of jocks and their friends in the halls and lunch lines. Their message to the locker-room elite: ''Unless you do something to gain our respect, we're not going to bow down to you.'' ''We didn't actually tell them that,'' Joe said. ''We showed them.' ' Among themselves, there was a lot of grumbling and wild fantasies about blowing up Columbine. No big deal. ''Eighty percent of people talk about how much they hate school, or 'I'm gonna get that person,' '' Joe said. ''But we were never serious.'' Chris Morris was known to be the most vocal in his Columbine hate. Even students who didn't know much about the Trench Coat Mafia knew Chris Morris. Chris disliked many people. But he liked Eric and Dylan. Chris' personality influenced others, particularly Eric, according to some Columbine students. He was a nice guy, all bluff and no violence. ''One time Chris was going to get into a fight and I embarrassed him by saying, 'Come on, honey, go to class,' '' said Kim Carlin, who worked with Chris at Blackjack. The way some Trench Coaters see it, Chris was a positive influence on Dylan and Eric. ''He just got them to start sticking up for themselves,'' said Cory Friesen, a 1997 Columbine graduate and Chris' current roommate. The 1998 Columbine yearbook features a picture of the Trench Coat Mafia, with the inscription, ''Who says we're different. Insanity' s healthy!'' Dylan and Eric are not in the picture. There was no picture in the 1999 yearbook. The Trench Coat Mafia had lost momentum. But Eric and Dylan only needed each other to get into trouble. Pathetic pair of thieves Eric and Dylan bumbled, rather pathetically, as thieves their junior year. Jan. 30, 1998. Parked in a gravel lot near Chatfield Reservoir listening to a new CD in Eric's gray Honda Prelude. Bored 16-year-olds. Setting off a few fireworks, breaking some bottles. Still bored. Eric and Dylan told police different versions of what happened next. ''Dylan suggested we should steal some of the objects in the white van. At first I was very uncomfortable and questioning with the thought, '' Eric wrote on a police report. From Dylan: ''Almost at the same time, we both got the idea of breaking into this white van.'' They hauled a briefcase, electrical gear and sunglasses out of the van, then took off in Eric's car. They parked off Deer Creek Canyon Road to check out the loot. A Jefferson County sheriff's deputy confronted them minutes after the crime. Both insisted they found the property stacked by the roadside. Yeah, right, thought the deputy. They were arrested, charged with theft, criminal mischief and criminal trespassing and released them to their none-too-happy parents. Eric finally confided to one of his Blackjack workers why he was grounded. ''He said, 'I wish I hadn't done it,' '' Sara Arbogast said. ''He said their parents were really mad at them and they weren't allowed to hang out together for a while because of it.'' Dylan was so ashamed he didn't even tell Nate Dykeman, who found out about it third-hand. ''I said, 'Is this the reason you can't go out?' and he got all red and told me he didn't want to talk about it,'' Nate said. Two months after their arrest, Dylan and Eric appeared before Jefferson County Magistrate John DeVita. Both fathers were there. Eric spoke crisply. Dylan mumbled. Eric told the judge he made As and Bs. Dylan said he was a C student, which got him a stern lecture from the judge. ''I bet you're an A student if you put your brain power to paperwork.' ' ''I don't know, sir,'' Dylan said. The rest of his response was unintelligible. ''When the hell you going to find out? You got one year of school left. . . . . When you going to get with the program?'' the judge barked. More hangdog mumbling from Dylan. Both boys insisted this was their first crime. Their fathers backed them up. Tom Klebold told the judge: ''This has been a rather traumatic experience, and I think it's probably good, a good experience, that they got caught the first time.'' To which DeVita responded, ''He'd tell you if there were any more?' ' ''Yes, he would actually,'' Klebold said. DeVita sent Dylan and Eric to a diversion program, a mix of community service and counseling. When DeVita chose the sentence, he had no idea that Jefferson County detectives had just received information about other criminal activities by Eric and Dylan. No one had bothered to forward him the report. They were sneaking out at night and setting off homemade bombs. The detectives knew this because Eric bragged about it in a Web site filled with his viperous writings. Raging through cyberspace Randy and Judy Brown, parents of Brooks Brown, turned over 12 pages of Eric's violent cyberspace rantings to detectives in March 1998, days before the court hearing. ''You all better hide in your (expletive) houses because I'm coming for EVERYONE soon, and i WILL be armed to the (expletive) teeth and i WILL shoot to kill and i WILL (expletive) KILL EVERYTHING!'' Eric had written. ''No i am not crazy, crazy is just a word to me.'' But Judy Brown thought he was crazy. She had become suspicious of Eric months earlier. Eric had blamed Brooks for vandalizing a classmate's house. Someone had toilet-papered a tree, set a bush on fire and glued the locks. But Judy knew her son had been home that night. Brooks, once again, had been grounded, this time for breaking curfew. Judy and Randy Brown are the kind of parents who know a lot about their kids' lives. Judy is a stay-at-home mom who usually is gone only on Tuesday afternoons for watercolor lessons. Randy is a golf pro turned real estate agent whose flexible hours allow him to zip in and out. They have two sons: Brooks, who graduated last May, and Aaron, a junior. Much to the dismay of the boys' friends, Brooks and Aaron often told their bubbly mom all. What they didn't tell her, she managed to find out. When they lied, they usually were caught. Judy talked to the homeowner whose house had been vandalized and she called deputies and told them Eric was responsible. The deputies said they would talk to Eric's parents. Eric was furious. One day as Brooks was driving by the bus stop near his house, Eric threw a chunk of ice, breaking his windshield. Brooks told his mother, who immediately drove to the bus stop and confronted Eric. She got his backpack and told him she was going to talk to his mother. He grabbed onto her car, screaming, his face turning red. He reminded her of an animal attacking a vehicle at a wild-animal park. Kathy Harris was in her driveway when Judy Brown pulled up. Judy can still recall the plaid flannel shirt she was wearing. Kathy's eyes teared up when Judy described Eric's behavior. Later that day, Brooks talked to Kathy, too, telling her that Eric had been slipping out of the house at night, pulling pranks and setting off fireworks. Wayne Harris called the Browns. ''He said his son was afraid of me and that's why he was hanging on the door handle,'' Judy Brown said. ''I said, 'Your son's not afraid. Your son is terrifying. Your son is violent.' '' Wayne Harris drove Eric to the Browns to apologize. He waited in the car while Eric went inside. ''He went through this whole spiel, how it was all in fun,'' Judy Brown said. ''I said, 'Eric Harris, you can pull the wool over your dad's eyes, but you're not going to pull the wool over my eyes.' ' ' She told Eric if she ever saw him near her house again she would call the sheriff. ''I said, 'Stay away from my kids.' I just had a feeling about him at this point.'' Judy and Randy Brown thought the problem had ended. Then in March 1998, Brooks came home from Columbine one day. He said a friend had tipped him about a Web site Eric had created. ''He said, 'I can't tell you who it is, Mom, because he's afraid that Eric Harris will harm him,' '' Judy Brown said. The friend: Dylan Klebold. What the Browns read on the Web page terrified them. Eric threatened to kill Brooks, but their son wasn't his only target. Eric said that meteorologists who make wrong predictions should be stabbed with broken baseball bats. He wanted to take a shotgun to anyone who blocked his path in hallways. ''I am the law, if you don't like it, you die. If I don't like you or I don't like what you want me to do, you die. God I can't wait till I can kill you people.'' Eric bragged how he and ''VoDkA'' managed to sneak out of his house one night and set off a pipe bomb they had named ''Pazzie'' - Italian for madness. Eric said he and Dylan had built four other pipe bombs, ''the first true pipe bombs created entirely from scratch by the rebels (REB and VoDkA).'' ''Now our only problem,'' Eric continued, ''is to find the place that will be 'ground zero.' '' The Browns gave Eric's and Dylan's home addresses and phone numbers to a detective. But the detective never returned their phone calls after that. The Browns didn't know what to do. Brooks told his parents to relax, Eric was a keyboard kind of tough guy. But brother Aaron was terrified. He slept with a bat by his bed. Randy and Judy had one comfort: Dylan. Dylan was one of the sweetest kids they knew. They figured Dylan would never let Eric get really violent. The Browns thought about telling Tom and Sue Klebold about Eric' s Web site but decided to let the detective handle it. ''Sue was the kind of mother who, if there was a problem when the boys were playing when they were little, she would say, 'Is it one of my kids?' Because if it was, she would take care of it,'' Judy Brown said. ''We knew that when she found out what Dylan and Eric were up to, that would be the end of it.''
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The pieces of Jennifer's body
Found pieces of Jennifer's body
Found pieces of Jennifer's body
Just relax, just relax, just go to sleep