The cops found nothing of obvious value, but gathered up piles of material. They left at 11:15.
____
Robyn needed company. She couldn't handle the stress alone. Her best friend, Kelli, came over around 7:30 on Tuesday evening. They went to Robyn's room. Kelli knew the boys well, too, especially Dylan. She had been part of the prom group. There was something Kelli didn't know, Robyn told her. Remember that favor she had done Eric and Dylan last November? Kelli remembered. It had been a big secret. Robyn had told Kelli repeatedly about this big favor she had done the guys, but she never would divulge what it was. Now she had to tell someone. It had been a gun show. The Tanner Gun Show in Denver. Eric and Dylan had called her on a Sunday, if she remembered right. They had checked the show out on Saturday, seen these sweet-looking shotguns. But they'd gotten carded; they were both underage then. They needed an eighteen-year-old with them. Robyn was eighteen. She really liked Dylan. So she went.
It was their money. Robyn made sure not to sign any papers. But she was the one who bought the three guns. The boys each got a shotgun. One had some kind of pump thing on it. Eric went for a rifle, too--a semi-automatic that looked like a giant paintball gun. Robyn felt so guilty, Kelli said later. How could she have imagined this?
Robyn didn't tell Kelli everything. She came clean with the main secret, but held back on a detail. She told Kelli she didn't know it was Eric and Dylan killing people until she heard it announced on TV that night. Kelli didn't buy it. Robyn had never received a B in high school--she could have put that mystery together. When she heard about the trench coats, she had to have known.
____
The Klebolds spent the afternoon and evening on their porch. Waiting. They were no longer allowed inside. At 8:10 P.M., a deputy arrived with instructions. Their home was now a crime scene. They had to go. Tom and Sue Klebold told friends they felt hit by a hurricane. Hurricanes don't hit the Rockies. They'd never seen it coming.
"We ran for our lives," Sue said later. "We didn't know what had happened. We couldn't grieve for our child."
Officers escorted Tom in to gather clothes for the next couple of days. Then Sue went in to take care of the pets. She fetched two cats, two birds, and their food bowls and litter boxes. At 9:00 P.M., they drove away.
They talked to a lawyer that night. He related a sobering thought. "Dylan isn't here anymore for people to hate," he said. "So people are going to hate you."
18. Last Bus
The buses kept arriving at Leawood Elementary, delivering discouragement as well as joy. It was great if your kid got off, but the odds kept dropping as the remaining parents dwindled. "I was getting envious of parents who were finding their kids and screaming out their names," Doreen Tomlin recalled. She found it harder and harder to get up. Her husband kept the faith, but hers played out. Buses arrived, and she stayed in her seat, silently chastising herself. "I thought, Why aren't you getting up and looking? All these other parents are pinned to the stage, and you're just sitting here."
Brian Rohrbough had given up even earlier. By 2:00 P.M., while Leawood was packed with hopeful parents, Brian had accepted Danny's fate. "I knew he was gone," he said. "I assume it was God telling me, preparing me. I hoped I was wrong. We waited for busloads of kids, but I knew he wasn't going to be on it. I told Sue, 'You know he's gone.'"
But his ex-wife was hopeful. In the public library, Misty Bernall was, too. Her son, Chris, had turned up, but Cassie was still missing. She is alive! Misty told herself fiercely. Nothing could dampen Misty's resolve, or her perseverance.
"Her mom came up to me every two minutes and asked if I'd seen Cassie," a friend of her daughter said. "I told her, 'I'm sure there are a lot of people unaccounted for.'" Not what Misty wanted to hear.
Prayer helped. "Please, God, just give me my baby back," she prayed. "Please, God, where is she?"
Misty gave up on the public library. She made her way through Clement Park and discovered the buses being loaded. She scurried from one to the next. A friend of Cassie's reached out to grab her hand.
"Have you seen Cass?" Misty cried.
"No."
Misty returned to the library. Brad and Chris met her there. Then everyone was sent to Leawood. That was a huge relief for the parents waiting there: more families, better odds.
The buses kept coming, every ten to twenty minutes for a while. Then arrivals slowed. Around four o'clock, they stopped. One more bus was promised. Parents looked around. Whose kids would it be?
The wait went on endlessly. At five o'clock, it still wasn't there. Siblings wandered out to watch for it, hoping to run inside with the news. Doreen Tomlin had not gotten up in a long time, but she was still praying her boy would be on it. "We were clinging to that hope," she said.
At dinnertime, President Clinton held a press conference in the West Wing to discuss the attack. "Hillary and I are profoundly shocked and saddened by the tragedy today in Littleton," he said. He passed on the hope of a Jeffco official, who had just told him: "Perhaps now America would wake up to the dimensions of this challenge, if it could happen in a place like Littleton."
Clinton sent a federal crisis response team and urged reporters to resist jumping to conclusions. "What I would like to do is take a couple of days because we don't know what the facts are here," he said. "And keeping in mind, the community is an open wound right now."
At Leawood, even the resilient families were faltering. Nothing had changed: no buses, no word, for hours on end. District attorney Dave Thomas tried to comfort the families. He knew which ones would need it. He had thirteen names in his breast pocket. Ten students had been identified in the library, and two more outside, based on their clothing and appearance. One teacher lay in Science Room 3. All deceased. It was a solid list, but not definitive. Thomas kept it to himself. He told the parents not to worry.
At eight o'clock, they were moved to another room. Sheriff Stone introduced the coroner. She handed out forms asking for descriptions of their kids' clothing and other physical details. That's when John Tomlin realized the truth. The coroner asked them to retrieve their kids' dental records. That went over unevenly. Many took it gravely; others perked up. They had a task, finally, and hope for resolution.
A woman leapt up. "Where is that other bus!" she demanded.
There was no bus. "There was never another bus," Doreen Tomlin said later. "It was like a false hope they gave you." Many parents felt betrayed. Brian Rohrbough later accused the school officials of lying; Misty Bernall also felt deceived. "Not intentionally, perhaps, but deceived nonetheless," she wrote. "And so bitterly that it almost choked me."
Sheriff Stone told them that most of the dead kids had been in the library. "John always went to the library," Doreen said. "I felt like I was going to pass out. I felt sick."
She felt sadness but not surprise. Doreen was an Evangelical Christian, and believed the Lord had been preparing her for the news all afternoon. Most of the Evangelicals reacted differently than the other parents. The press had been cleared from the area, but Lynn Duff was assisting the families as a Red Cross volunteer. A liberal Jew from San Francisco, she was taken aback by what she saw.
"The way that those families reacted was markedly different," she said. "It was like a hundred and eighty degrees from where everybody else was. They were singing; they were praying; they were comforting the other parents, especially the parents of Isaiah Shoels [the only African American killed]. They were thinking a lot about the other parents, the other families, and responding a lot to other people's needs. They were definitely in pain, and you could see the pain in their eyes, but they were very confident of where their kids were. They were at peace with it. It was like they were a living example of their faith."
But not all the Evangelicals reacted the same way. Misty Bernall was defiant. She was sure Cassie was alive.
____
Mr. D stayed with the families. He was doing his best to console them, and waiting for word on a close friend. He had know
n Dave Sanders for twenty years. They had coached three sports together, shared hundreds of beers, and Frank had attended Dave's wedding. Frank had been hearing rumors about Dave all afternoon.
Sometime after the coroner's announcements, a teacher and a friend of both men, Rich Long, showed up at Leawood. He saw Frank and rushed up to hug him. "All I can remember was seeing blood on his pants and his shirt," Frank said later. "And I said, 'Rich, tell me. Is it true? Is Dave dead?' And he couldn't give me an answer."
Frank assured Rich he was strong enough to take the news. "Tell me!" he pleaded. "I need to know."
Rich couldn't help him. He was struggling with the same question.
____
Agent Fuselier had talked gunmen down and seen a few open fire right in front of him. He had struggled for weeks to release eighty-two people at Waco, then watched the gas tanks erupt and the buildings burn down. He'd known they were all dying inside Waco. Watching had been unbearable. This was worse.
Fuselier went home and gave Brian a hug. It had been a long time between hugs, and it was hard to let go. Then he sat down to watch the news reports with Mimi. He held her hand and choked back tears. "How could you go home and get dental records?" he asked. "Then what? You know your kid is lying there dead. How do you go to sleep?"
19. Vacuuming
Dave Sanders was one of the few teachers unaccounted for. He was still in Science Room 3. The SWAT team had reached him still alive, but hopeless. Several minutes later, before he was evacuated, Dave Sanders bled to death.
His family was not notified. Late in the afternoon, they got word he was injured and taken to Swedish Medical Center.
"I don't know who drove me," Linda Lou said. "I don't know how I got there. I don't remember the ride, I don't remember walking in there. I remember when we got there. They took us in a room. There was food, there was coffee, there were the sisters--the nuns." It was like a greeting committee, awaiting their arrival but, curiously, waiting for Dave, too. Linda found the head nurse reassuring. "She said, 'As soon as he gets here, you get to see him.' And he never got there. He never got there."
Eventually, they gave up and went to Leawood. They waited there awhile and then headed back home. Relief agencies dispatched victim's advocates. Several showed up at the house--a helpful but ominous sign. The phones rang constantly--five separate cells, laid out on the coffee table--but never with the call they wanted.
Linda retreated to her room. Every time someone used the bathroom downstairs, the exhaust fan clicked on, and Linda jumped up, believing it was the garage door opening.
"Finally, about ten-thirty, Mom and I got sick of waiting," Angie said. "We knew there had been a couple teachers with him, teachers who've known him for--since before I was born. And so we called them to find out what happened. And they informed us." Dave had been the teacher bleeding to death.
But had he bled out? Dave was alive when the SWAT team evacuated all the civilians. After that, no one seemed to know. Only the cops had seen it end, and they weren't ready to say.
"We still didn't know whether he was taken out of the school or not," Angie said. "But at least we knew a little more about what happened inside."
Linda tried to sleep. That was useless. She curled up with a pair of Dave's socks.
____
Linda spent the evening trying to blank out her mind. Odd thoughts slipped through. "All those people in my living room," she thought, "and I didn't have time to vacuum."
It was a common response. Survivors focused on mundane tasks--tiny victories they could still accomplish. Many were horrified by their thoughts.
Marjorie Lindholm had spent much of the afternoon with Dave Sanders. He kept getting whiter. Explosions kept erupting. When the SWAT team finally freed her, Marjorie ran past two bodies on the way out. She worried about how she had dressed. Her parents would find her in a tank top that suddenly felt sleazy. She borrowed a friend's shirt to cover herself up. A cop drove her to safety in Clement Park, and a paramedic stepped up to examine her. God, he was hot, she thought. "I felt ashamed," she wrote later. "I was thinking how this paramedic looked and people died."
A sophomore reproached herself for her survival instincts. She saw the killers and she took off running. Another girl was right by her side. The other girl went down. "Blood was everywhere," the sophomore said. "It was just terrible." She kept running. Later that day, she confessed her story to a Rocky Mountain News reporter. "Why didn't I stop to help that girl?" she asked. Her voice grew very soft. "I'm so mad," she said. "I was so selfish."
____
Brad and Misty Bernall got home around ten P.M. Brad climbed on top of the garden shed with a pair of binoculars to peer across the field. The library windows were blown out, and he could see men milling about inside. They were in blue jackets with big yellow letters: ATF. They had their heads down, but Brad couldn't quite make out what they were up to. "I guess they were stepping over bodies, looking for explosives," he said.
They were searching for live explosives and live gunmen. SWAT teams searched every broom closet. If third, fourth, or fifth shooters were still hiding out, they would be flushed out by morning.
Brad came back into the house. At 10:30, an explosion shook the neighborhood. Brad and Misty ran upstairs. They looked out Cassie's window, but nothing moved. Whatever it was, it had passed. Cassie's bed was empty. Misty feared she was still in the school. Had she been injured by the blast?
It was the bomb squad's one major mistake. They were moving bombs out of the area for controlled explosions. As they loaded one into a trailer, the strike-anywhere match Eric used for a detonator brushed the trailer wall and it blew. Bomb technicians fell backward as trained, and the blast shot straight up. No one was hurt, but it threw a big scare into the team. Everyone was exhausted. This was getting dangerous. They called it a night. Commanders instructed them to return at 6:30 A.M.
Brad and Misty kept watching. "I knew Cassie was in there somewhere," Brad said. "It was terrible to know that she was on the other side of the fence, and there was nothing we could do."
PART II
AFTER AND BEFORE
20. Vacant
There is a photograph. A blond girl lets out a wail. Her head is thrown back, caught in her own hands: palms against her temples, fingers burrowing into her scalp. Her mouth is wide open, eyes squeezed shut. She became the image of Columbine. Throughout Clement Park Tuesday afternoon, and in the photos that captured the experience, the pattern repeated: boy or girl, adult or child, nearly everyone was clenching something--a hand, her knees, his head, each other.
Before those pictures hit the newsstands, the survivors had changed. Kids drifted into Clement Park on Wednesday morning unclenched. Their eyes were dry, their faces slack. Their expressions had gone vacant.
Most of the parents were crying, but almost none of their kids were. They were so quiet it was unsettling. Hundreds of teenagers and not a whiff of nervous energy. Here and there a girl would sob and a boy would rush over to hug her--boys practically fought over who would provide the hugs--but those were brief exceptions.
They were aware of the blankness. Acutely. They didn't understand it, but they saw it and discussed it candidly. A vast number said they felt they were watching a movie.
The lack of bodies contributed to the problem--they were still inside the perimeter. None of the names had been released. The school was effectively gone. Nobody but police could get near it. It wasn't even visible from the line of police tape where everyone gathered.
Students had a pretty good idea of who had been killed. All the murders had been witnessed, and word spread quickly. But so many stories had turned out to be wrong. Doubt persisted. Everyone seemed to have at least a few people unaccounted for. "How can we cry when we don't know who we are crying for?" one girl asked. And yet she had cried. She had cried most of the night, she said. By morning, she had run out of tears.
____
No one from the sheriff's department called Brian Roh
rbough. No officer appeared on the doorstep to inform him that his son had been killed. The phone woke Brian Wednesday. It was a friend calling to warn him, before he picked up the Rocky Mountain News. There was a picture.
Brian flipped past the huge HEARTBREAK HEADLINE, the dozens of stories and diagrams and pictures of clenched survivors, none of whom were his boy. He stopped at page 13. It was an overhead shot from a news chopper, but the photo filled half the page, so the subjects were large and unmistakable. Half a dozen students huddled behind a car in the parking lot with a policeman squeezed in beside them, squatting behind the wheel for cover, his rifle mounted across the trunk, eyes to the gun sight, finger on the trigger. A boy lay unprotected on the sidewalk nearby. He was out in the open, collapsed on his side, one knee curled up toward his chest, both arms splayed. "Motionless," the caption read. An enormous pool of blood, nearly the size of his body, stained the concrete a foot away and trickled down the crevice between two sidewalk squares. The victim was unidentified, his face blurry and almost completely obscured by the angle. But Brian Rohrbough knew. He never turned to page 14.
Brian was a tall man with the heavy build of a laborer. He had a long, puffy face with receding silver hair that accentuated his clenched brow: deep grooves stacked up across his forehead, over a pair of vertical gashes above the bridge of his nose. Danny looked remarkably similar, though he had yet to grow into all his features or develop the worry lines.