Dave Cullen - Columbine

The SWAT officer eventually cleared Laman to keep moving. “There’s nothing you can do,” he said.

So Laman went on to the library. He was one of the first medics to go in.

Dave Sanders’s story got out fast. Both local papers, the Rocky Mountain News and the Denver Post, described his ordeal on Wednesday. On Thursday the Rocky, as it’s often called, ran a piece called POLICE DISPUTE CHARGES THEY WERE TOO SLOW. “A lot of people are angry,” one student said. But the bulk of the story focused on the police response.

“We had 1,800 kids rushing from the school,” said Jeffco sheriff’s spokesman Steve Davis. “The officers had no idea which were victims and which were potential suspects.”

The Rocky offered this summary of the SWAT response based on the department’s claims: “Within twenty minutes of the first panicked call for help, a makeshift six-man SWAT team rushed into the sprawling school, and within an hour, dozens of heavily armed officers in body armor launched a methodical, room-by-room search of the building.”

The department would eventually admit that it took more than twice that long, 47 minutes, for the first five-man team to enter. The other half of that team attended to wounded students on the lawn, but never proceeded in. A second team entered after nearly two hours. Until the killers’ bodies were found, that was it.

The situation grew hotter on Friday when a veteran suburban cop laid down thirteen roses in Clement Park and then described the SWAT response as “pathetic.”

“It pissed me off,” he told reporters. “I’d have someone in there. We are trained to do that. We are trained to go in there.”

The officer’s statement was widely reported. He became an instant symbol. And his department foolishly extended the story by placing him on nondisciplinary leave and ordering a “fitness for duty” evaluation. They backpedaled a few days later.

Members of the SWAT teams began responding in the press. “It was just a nightmare,” said a sergeant. “What parents need to understand is we wanted teams in there as quickly as we could. We were going into the situation blind. We had multiple explosions going off. We thought there could have been a band of terrorists in there.”

Officers were nearly as confused as TV viewers. Outside, they could hear the blasts. But once they entered, they couldn’t even hear one another. The fire alarm drowned out everything. Communication was limited to hand signals. “Had we heard gunfire and screaming, we would have gone right to that,” a SWAT officer explained.

The barrage of noise and strobe lights beat down their psyches like psychological warfare. Officers could not locate anyone with the alarm code to shut it down. They found an assistant principal, but she was so frazzled she couldn’t remember the digits. In desperation, officers tried to beat the alarm speakers off the walls. One tried to disable the control panel by smashing the glass cover with his rifle butt. The alarms and sprinklers continued until 4:04 P.M. The strobe light that flashed with the alarm continued for weeks.

Those were legitimate obstacles, the Sanders family acknowledged. But more than three hours after he was shot? Linda’s sister Melody was designated family spokesperson. “Some of his daughters are angry,” she told the New York Times a few days later. “They feel like, had they gone in and gotten Dave out sooner, he would have lived.”

Melody said the Sanders family didn’t hold the SWAT members responsible. But the system was a disaster. “It was utter chaos,” Melody said.

The family expressed gratitude for the efforts that had been made. As a gesture of goodwill, they invited the full SWAT teams to Dave’s funeral. All the officers attended.

Eric was evolving inside. Sophomore year, the changes began to show. For his first fifteen years, Eric had concentrated on assimilation. Dylan had sought the same goal, with less success. Despite the upheavals of moving, Eric always made friends. Social status was important. “They were just like everybody else,” a classmate said later. Eric’s neighbor described him as nice, polite, preppy, and a dork. High school was full of dorks. Eric could live with that—for a while.

Sophomore year, he tried an edgier look: combat boots, all-black outfits, and grunge. He started shopping at a trendy shop called Hot Topic and the army surplus store. He liked the look. He liked the feeling. Their buddy Chris Morris began sporting a beret. That was a little much, Eric thought. He wanted to look different, not retarded. Eric was breaking out of his shell. He grew boisterous, moody, and aggressive. Sometimes he was playful, speaking in funny voices and flirting with girls. He had a lot of ideas and he began expressing them with confidence. Dylan never did.

Most of the girls who knew Eric described him as cute. He was aware of the consensus but didn’t quite accept it. He responded candidly to one of those chain e-mail questionnaires asking for likes, dislikes, and personal attributes. Under “Looks,” he wrote, “5’ 10’’ 140. skinny but handsome, some say.” The one thing he would like to change about himself was his weight. Such a freaking runt. He’d always hated his appearance—now at least he had a look.

Eric took some flack for the new getup—older kids and bigger guys razzed him sometimes, but nothing exceptional. And he was talking back now and provoking confrontations. He’d shaken off his silence along with the preppy uniform.

Dylan remained quiet right up until the end. He wasn’t much for mouthing off, except in rare sudden bursts that freaked everyone out a little. He followed Eric’s fashion lead but a less intense version, so he took a lot less ribbing. Eric could have silenced the taunts anytime by conforming again, but by this point, he got a kick out of standing out.

“The impression I always got from them was they kind of wanted to be outcasts,” another classmate said. “It wasn’t that they were labeled that way. It’s what they chose to be.”

“Outcast” was a matter of perception. Kids who slapped that label on Eric and Dylan meant the boys rejected the preppy model, but so did hundreds of other kids at the school. Eric and Dylan had very active social calendars, and far more friends than the average adolescent. They fit in with a whole thriving subculture. Their friends respected one another and ridiculed the conformity of the vanilla wafers looking down on them. They had no desire to emulate the jocks. Could there be a faster route to boredom?

For Dylan, different was difficult. For Eric, different was good.

For Halloween that year, Eric Dutro, a junior, wanted to go as Dracula. He needed a cool coat, something dramatic—he had a flair for theatrics—so his parents picked up a long black duster at Sam’s Club. The kids referred to this as a trench coat.

The costume didn’t work out, but the trench coat was cool. Eric Dutro hung on to it; he started wearing it to school. It made quite an impression. The trench coat turned a whole lot of heads, and Dutro loved turning heads.

He had a hard time at school. Kids at Columbine picked on him. Kids would ridicule him relentlessly, calling him a freak and a faggot. Eventually he fought back the only way he knew how: by upping the ante. If they were going to call him freak, he was going to give them one hell of a freak show. The trench coat made a nice little addition to his freakdrobe.

Not surprisingly, Dutro hung with a bunch of kids who liked turning heads, too. After a while, several of them were sporting trench coats. They would dress all in black and wear the long coats even in the summer. Somewhere along the line, someone referred to them as the Trench Coat Mafia, TCM for short. It stuck.