I wrote the first draft of this essay in 2003, just four years after the Columbine shooting, and submitted it to a few journals. No one took it and I set it aside until the Spring of 2012 when The Normal School asked to see it and eventually accepted it. In July that year, I woke up to find that a shooter had killed twelve people and wounded fifty-eight in a movie theater just twenty miles from Columbine. In August, another six dead and four wounded at a Sikh temple in Wisconsin; September, five dead, three wounded at a workplace shooting in Minnesota. And then twenty-seven dead, including twenty children, at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut.
Columbine was the first television massacre, a repeating loop: a bloody student crawling out the window, the terrible shape of a dead student on the sidewalk, lines of terrified students racing under cover of the police, sobbing survivors and parents; it was the first time we saw this. When the news breaks now—and the news seems always to be broken—we recognize with the feeling in our stomachs that it’s happened again. The question I asked while writing this piece—why does this happen?—remains as achingly immediate for me as it ever was.
Take your yearbook off the shelf, scratch a trail in the dust on the cover. Flip through the pages. Remind yourself of the old you. Who have you become? How many of your classmates could you find today? Who had five kids? Who joined the army? Who went to prison? Who ended up happy? Who cried every night? Who died?
And who, on an April morning of your senior year, came into the library, spoke pain with their hands, and tried to kill you and everyone around you?
Introductions
“Me and my friends were at the soccer field and we heard what sounded like firecrackers, and we looked over and we saw three men by the school and they were shooting guns.”
—Jake Apodaca, witness, as quoted in the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Report
“Students said there were at least two gunmen and possibly a third youth who was seen lobbing bombs.”
—USA Today, April 21, 1999
“The discovery (of the cafeteria bomb) also heightens a growing belief that the two young men had help from others in planning for their attack.”
—The New York Times, April 23, 1999
“Me and my friends were about 100 yards away from the people. There were three of them, two wearing trench coats and one wearing a white shirt. We heard what we thought was a gun and started running.”
—Chris Wisher, witness, as quoted in the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Report
“Beyond the two dead gunmen, students described seeing another youth dressed in a white shirt throwing bombs that looked like soda cans.”
—USA Today, April 21, 1999
“Detective Demmel showed Jason (Brehm, a witness) photographs of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold at that time, with Jason reporting that the party he observed wearing the trench coat had a very round face and was neither Harris nor Klebold.”
—Jefferson County Sheriff’s Report
Caveat
I am the third shooter from Columbine. These are the lies I’ll tell you:
That I stayed out of the frame of the security cameras in the cafeteria.
That I gave Daniel Rohrbough the last of his bullets.
That I built the cafeteria bomb, the one that didn’t work.
That Eric and Dylan and I were a team.
That I helped buy the guns and saw the barrels off.
That I got away, and when I came back to school everyone whispered murderer.
That I was affiliated with the CIA, or NATO.
That I was an air-conditioning repairman on top of the school.
That I watched from a parked car in the lot.
That I don’t exist.
Spent
I wish I could tell you how hollow our rage felt by the time we went back to the library. We had lost it all: all the anger, all the words to tell you how we felt. The whole day was improvised. We’d planned so much more. I’d carried in (or maybe Eric had; I can’t really remember anymore) the backpack that held our wrath at the beginning of the lunch hour. When the propane didn’t blow, we had to make things up out of thin air. Just start shooting, I suggested. Dylan took off his coat. It was warm that day.
Everything we’d planned in the basement: the bomb, shooting the survivors, the plane.
Everything we’d dreamed: over.
You’ve seen the knives we carried: unused, like a hope. The papers always focused on the dreams of those we killed. What about our plans? What about the desires that still burn in us, to cut through the life of our suburb like the mowers that never stopped on a Saturday?
Don’t we count for anything?
You can’t even tell us our names.
I don’t think we knew all that then; all this time has muddled up what I know to be true. But I remember clearly the three of us returning to the library, overwhelmed with the silence of the blaring alarm, just us with ten bodies, another two wounded. Eric (Dylan?) yelled yahoo! the first time in the library. Now we couldn’t say anything.
We shot out the windows because there was nothing better to shoot. We shot out the windows because the green glass made things harder to see, and all we wanted was to be honest for one day.
Someone answered back, briefly.
Then we broke the connection.
Time Passes: April 20
11:10 a.m.: Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold arrive in the parking lot. Both cars have bombs in them, set to go off that evening.
11:14 a.m.: Harris and Klebold enter the cafeteria and deposit two duffel bags, each with 20 pound propane tanks inside, under tables. The cafeteria begins to fill, and will eventually hold 448 students. The bombs are placed next to support pillars in the cafeteria; when they go off, they will destroy the room.
11:17 a.m.: The cafeteria is full. The bombs do not go off.
11:19 a.m.: Two diversionary bombs, three miles away from Columbine, explode in a field. Harris and Klebold, realizing that the cafeteria bombs will not detonate, move to the school’s entrance and open fire on students eating lunch outside, killing two and wounding several more.
11:29 a.m.: Harris and Klebold walk into the school library. In seven and a half minutes, ten people are killed.
11:36 a.m.: Harris and Klebold leave the library. Eyewitnesses report seeing them look through the windows of classroom doors, but no attempt is made to gain entrance.
11:44 a.m.: Videotape in the cafeteria shows Harris and Klebold attempting to detonate the failed propane bombs by shooting and throwing smaller homemade bombs at them. They do not succeed, though there is a small fire.
11:46 a.m.: Harris and Klebold leave the cafeteria.
11:56 a.m.: They return to the cafeteria. They appear to be distraught and acting randomly.
12:00 p.m.: Harris and Klebold leave the cafeteria and head toward the Library.
12:03 p.m.: Gunfire comes from the library windows, breaking them. Police on the scene return fire. A Littleton resident living next to the school takes photos of gun smoke and a rifle barrel protruding from the library windows.
12:08 p.m. (approx.): Harris and Klebold kill themselves.
3:22 p.m.: Jefferson County SWAT team members enter the library. Among the twelve bodies they find are two males who appear to have self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the head.
In the basement
I hold the camera because I cannot be seen. I hold the camera because I can only observe right now. Already I am forgetting things; we are forgetting things. On the videotapes, we (no, no: they) mention dozens of names, a list of long-held grudges and grievances.
On our one honest day, we will touch just one of those names, and by accident only.
We are forgetting. I am unknown. My hands have always been phantoms, each finger a ghost. No one needs me yet. When we drove up to Wyoming to buy fireworks, I sat in the back seat and didn’t say a word. When we tore the powder out of them, I sat on a chair in the basement and watched.
When we bloodied our hands trying out the guns, I kept mine in my pockets. When we bought a pair of gloves and cut off the fingertips, Eric took the right hand, Dylan took the left, and I kept my hands clean and open.
I am not preparation. I am afterward.
Eric and Dylan are holding the guns up, like the deputies will months from now for Time. Eric and Dylan laugh at what might happen—or rage at the camera. I can’t be sure any more.
We’re going to die doing it, you fucks.
Plans are made: the bombs, the survivors fleeing, the cross fire, the rescue workers, and the booby-trapped cars. One of us (me? Eric? Dylan?) mentions a plane, crashing it into downtown. Why not?
As long as we’re being honest.
Three boys in the basement, planning the end of the world.
Delivery
I am about to become real with a muscle’s twitch, a hammer’s fall. From my vantage point, I have watched them walk from the cars (the bombs I’ve built, the things I’ve known) to the top of the hill. People eat lunch, waiting, mouths moving slowly in contemplation. Rachel Scott is laughing at something her friend has said; her hair is falling back onto her shoulders. Down the hill, the cafeteria doors open, and I can see the toe of Dan Rohrbough’s sneaker edging out.
It is a beautiful day; this is why we start outdoors. Part of me is glad the propane does not catch fire.
We look at each other. No one looks at us. I am so warm in this trench coat that I may fall asleep before I am needed.
Too late for everyone. The big hand is almost to the four. Dylan’s hand tightens. Eric wraps a finger around steel and starts to pull. My hands fill with blood and honesty and purpose.
11:19: Go! Go!
I am welcomed to the world with wonder and surprise. Who cannot see me now? Show of hands.
I thought so.
Accomplices
All over the world, people need me. They meet, tell each other my name, wonder where I might be now. I am surprised by how much they talk about me, how they tangle their telephone lines with rumors and shudders.
Some of them call themselves the Columbine Research Task Force, give names out like Critter, or Mama4Paws, or FactQuest, or RebDomine, or ForJustice. Whole lives are given over to contemplation of me while I am easily found if they would just think a little bit harder.
I am everyone to them; I give them a purpose.
Critter: One of the more perplexing questions about the investigation at Columbine has always been why the possibility of a third or more gunmen would be covered up. Although several people have in the past posted regarding possible connections with anarchist groups and/or militias...the question isn’t an easy one to offer an answer for.
FactQuest: No, the scenario is the undercover penetration...that the govt has a spy in their midst, undercover, and they worked many years to place that spy, who is now operating at great risk. They don’t want that person’s cover blown… and are willing to accept that the spy may have to commit some crimes to gain the trust of the group.
The parents of the associate(s) had political pull. Just as Eric’s father is suspected of working on black ops projects, perhaps some of the associate(s) also worked for shadowy sections of the govt, and perhaps had some high level pull.
FriendTwo: However the PEOPLE see as well as know that there was in fact more than two known killers after all. And ten to one these Forums are being watched and by us solving the missing pieces to the puzzle? Is likewise CHEAPER!! But as far as the Government haven anything to do with it, and or anyone else into Law’s? No! MONEY IS THE FACTOR INSTEAD.
I understand why I am so important to them, why they reach out for my ghost hands. I am the explanation. I can make sense of this for them. I am comfort in the wake.
If two boys could shatter the glass globe of their world so easily, then how could they step outside their door ever again? I make it difficult for them. Too complex for only two.
They don’t want it to be the three of us in the basement. They want the government, the shadows, the operatives, the usual suspects. Not boys. Not Themselves.
I am what keeps them from knowing that they could kill a girl in the library, that they could cover their world with a blanket to smother it.
I can turn two boys into an army with a wave of my hand.
Confession
I killed Cassie Bernal. I hunted the library like a ghost, like lost worlds. No one could see me. I jumped from table to table, floated over shelves with books doomed to the furnace. In my right hand I held a gun; in the other, a bouquet of flowers, but I could not tell one from the other. No one could. I could see through tables, could see Cassie huddled under one next to her friends, witnessing. She believed again; I could tell.
I landed on the table. My boots sounded like rain. I wore a T-shirt that said nothing, but was colored. I looked under the table, my hair hanging down because I did not have a cap. She cowered from my thoughts. Holding her cheek, I felt a bird’s heartbeat. I raised her face to mine.
Do you believe in God? I asked.
She said, Yes.
Rumblings in the clear sky.
I killed Cassie Bernal, though Eric pulled the trigger for me. The green windows of the library made the sky look stormy even on a clear day. I wore a T-shirt that said natural selection. I cut my hair short. I dyed it black. I thought about the ghosts I’d made, words I’d lost. No eye could see me, but I was visible in every mind, hunting. We were all for the furnace anymore. I started to walk past Cassie’s table; then, I turned.
My hand landed on the table, hard. My knees buckled. I saw her flutter.
Me: peek-a-boo.
Her:
Red blooms in the foothills. Recoil smashed my nose. Later, a dentist told me who I was. I couldn’t believe him. I was still sitting on the shelves.
I wore my Red Sox cap when I killed Cassie Bernal. I wore a T-shirt that said wrath. My boots made me a giant, unmistakable, unmissable. I carried a shotgun, an automatic; I had an arsenal in my rib cage, storms in my hands. I called myself Vodka, also Dylan. I killed Cassie Bernal at 11:34; also at 11:22 and 11:43. It was a regular thing.
I was hunting for words I’d lost in the library. No one knew where they were. I asked a girl full of metal if she could help me find them, or if she believed in God. She stopped crawling in her red to answer.
She said, Yes.
I said, Too bad, and walked away. I killed her and Cassie together, but I left her untouched by my hands. By my rain. Spotless.
I gave myself a flower later, but changed hands to do it. A lot of people think Eric gave it to me. It helps to think one of us followed the other. It helps to have an order.
But it was just me. I killed Cassie Bernal. I made myself a ghost.
I killed Cassie Bernal. It took me thirteen tries, fourteen, fifteen. When I found the words to talk with the ghosts, I sat on top of the shelves in the library, reading books from the furnace, a travel guide to the mountains, almanacs and atlases. I didn’t wear anything anymore except what people decided I was wearing. I could see everything except myself.
If I looked straight down, I could see Eric and Dylan, covered in blooms, petals spattered on the books. A smashed nose didn’t mean anything now. The library rumbled with cell phones and beepers, crickets in the hills before rain.
I tried to run my hands through my hair, but I had dyed it, or put it under a cap, or maybe neither. I watched Patrick Ireland and Cassie Bernal go out the window together, him holding her in an armful of blossoms. I had a conversation with Cassie and her friend while they waited for firemen under the table: birdsongs. I bided my time on top of the shelves. I had to wait until people needed me to order the day.
Over the crickets, I asked myself, Am I real?
I said, Yes.
Footsteps at the door: peek-a-boo.
Location
They tore out the library and nothing is there now. The cafeteria soars to the glass between them and the rain, passing through the space that once held books and tables and students and fuses and shells. On a sunny day, I can see the mountains in the distance.
I (we, they) told John Savage to leave the library, but before that, he asked us what we were doing. Oh, just killing people, we (he, they) replied. Savage Lives.
Out of the three of us, I am the only one who wasn’t wrapped in cardboard. The only one who didn’t join the books in the furnace. The only one forgotten, except by the few who take solace in my unknowableness.
Here in the (non)library, I still wait for the police to find me, to write my name down and make me official. For the newspapers to write my name down forever, to give my veins ink and my face a duotone sheen. I still wait for you to find my photo in the yearbook, messy grin and eyes like a flashbulb’s pop, counting the days until I bring everything together at once.
Go. Go.
I am the third shooter at Columbine. This is the only true thing about me: I’m going to die doing it.
Colin Rafferty is the author of two collections of essays: Execute the Office: Essays with Presidents (2021) and Hallow This Ground (2016). He teaches nonfiction writing at the University of Mary Washington in Fredericksburg, Virginia. See more of his work on his website.