Dave Cullen - Columbine

Eric said he was “going to try it.”

Try what?

Napalm. Eric said he was going to try napalm. Did Zack know how to make it?

No.

Zack told the story to the investigators after the murders, but he lied the first time. He described Robyn’s party, but edited out the napalm. He agreed to a polygraph, and just before they strapped him in, he confessed to the rest. He said the conversation went no further, and he never discussed napalm or the shotguns again—with Eric, Dylan, or anyone else. The results of his polygraph were inconclusive.

Eric also asked Chris to store napalm at his house. Eric and Dylan joked about it on the Basement Tapes: “Napalm better not freeze at that certain person’s house.” They disguised his identity at first, but then referred to “Chris Pizza’s house.” Crafty. (Chris Morris later testified that it was indeed him, and that he’d refused.)

No time. Less than a month to go. Eric had a lot of shit left to do. He organized it into a list labeled “shit left to do.” He had to figure out napalm, acquire more ammo, find a laser-aiming device, practice gear-ups, prepare final explosives, and determine the peak killing moment. One item was apparently not accomplished: “get laid.”

April 2, Staff Sergeant Mark Gonzales cold-called Eric about enlisting in the Marines. Eric said maybe. They talked several times.

That same month, he returned to “The Book of God.” Months had passed; a whole lot had happened. He had thirty-nine crickets ready, twenty-four pipe bombs, and all four guns. Eric closed up the journal. That was done.

Eric met Sergeant Gonzales. He wore a black Rammstein T-shirt, black pants, and black combat boots. He took a screening test and got an average score. The sergeant asked Eric to describe himself by selecting among tabs labeled with personal attributes. He chose “physical fitness,” “leadership and self-reliance,” and “self-discipline and self-direction.” He would think about enlisting, and talk it over with his parents. He agreed to a home visit, with his parents.

It’s not clear what Eric was getting out of the exercise. He probably had multiple motives. He had always pictured himself as a Marine—he might enjoy a last-minute taste. And he needed information: he was still struggling with the time bombs and the napalm. He told Gonzales he was interested in weapons and demolitions training, and he asked a lot of questions. But his parents were probably the key motive. They kept hounding Eric about his future. This would get them off his back. Two weeks of tranquillity. Breathing room to maneuver.

Eric shot the next video scene on his own, in his car, driving, with the camera facing him from the dash. He had the music blaring, so much of what he said is unclear. He talked about the Blackjack crew, and apologized for what was ahead: “Sorry dudes, I had to do what I had to do.” He was going to miss them. He was really going to miss Bob, his old boss who’d gotten drunk on the roof with them.

Eric still couldn’t decide on the timing of the attack: before prom or after? “It is a weird feeling knowing you’re going to be dead in two and a half weeks,” he said.

April 9 was Eric’s birthday. Eighteen years old—officially an adult. He got together with a bunch of friends at a local hangout.

A couple of days before or after, a friend saw Eric and Dylan in the cafeteria, huddled over a piece of paper. What was going on? she asked. They tried to hide it. She played it cool, then snatched the paper away. It was a hand-drawn diagram of the cafeteria, showing details like the location of surveillance cameras. That was weird.

Eric made several more diagrams. He conducted his inventory of cafeteria traffic. He did not allow that to be seen.

The boys shot more tapes. NBK would make for one hell of a graduation, they said. Lots of people crying, probably a candlelight vigil. Too bad they wouldn’t see it. They congratulated themselves for documenting all this. But the cops would get the tapes first. Do you think they’ll let people see them? Dylan asked. Probably not. The cops would chop up all their footage and show the public how they wanted it to look. That could be a problem. They resolved to copy the videos and distribute them to four news stations. Eric would scan his journal and e-mail it with maps and blueprints.

They never got around to that.

On Sunday, the boys headed into Denver for supplies. Of course they brought the camcorder. This was history. They picked up fuel containers and propane bottles. Dylan got his army pants. Eric seems to have been funding most of the operation, but Dylan paid his share this time. He brought $200 in cash; Eric had a check for $150.

The next shot was in Eric’s bedroom, alone. He sat on his bed, pointing the camera at his face from a few inches away, producing an eerie fish-eye effect. Eric talked about his “best parents” again—and the cops making them pay.

“It fucking sucks to do this to them,” he said. “They’re going to be put through hell.”

They could not have stopped him, Eric assured them. He quoted Shakespeare: “Good wombs have borne bad sons.”

He wrote the same line in his day planner on the page for Mother’s Day. That was revealing, Fuselier thought. Dylan wanted to be a good boy, but Eric understood he was evil.

It was funny, Eric told the television audience: all that razzing from his parents about goals and he was working his ass off. “It’s kinda hard on me, these last few days,” he said. “This is my last week on earth and they don’t know.”

The payoff would be worth it. “The apocalypse is coming and it’s starting in eight days,” he said. He licked his lips. “Oh yeah. It’s coming, all right.”

Then he held up his masterpiece: “This is ‘The Book of God,’” he said. “This is the thought process”—if you want to understand why, read this. He flipped through to show off his best work. “Somehow, I’ll publish these.”

He stopped at a sketch in the back, of himself or Dylan in battle gear. The soldier was outfitted with a huge tank to be strapped to his back. It was labeled “napalm.” He pointed to it and said, “This is the suicide plan.”

Five days before Judgment, Dylan finally accepted that he was enacting it. “Time to die,” he wrote. “We are in wait of our reward, each other.”

We. The word dominates the entry, but does not include Eric. Dylan was addressing Harriet. He was grateful to Eric for providing the exit, but was uninterested in spending eternity with him.

Thursday evening, the Marine recruiter showed up for the home visit at 6:00 P.M. Wayne and Kathy had lots of questions about job opportunities in the corps. Kathy asked whether antidepressants would affect Eric’s eligibility. She fetched the prescription bottle, and Sergeant Gonzales wrote down “Luvox.” He said he would check and call back.

Like Eric cared. He had been invoking the Marines in his war fantasies all his life, but all he really wanted out of the corps was the prestige of its patch on his shoulder. Eric never depicted himself supporting a squadron, and certainly not taking orders. It was always an army of one or two, and the mission was about him, not country or his corps.

Gonzales phoned on Friday or Saturday and left a message to call him back. Eric never bothered.

Mr. D provided a dose of irony. He wrapped up Friday’s assembly talking about everyone coming back alive. Perfect.

The boys picked up more propane that day. Eric hounded Mark Manes for ammo. The delay probably pushed NBK from April 19 to April 20.