Columbine — Chapter no 39

39. The Book of God

The screws were tightening. Eric met with Andrea Sanchez to receive his Diversion contract. He looked ahead to senior year. It would be consumed writing an apology letter, providing restitution, working off fines, meeting a Diversion counselor twice a month, seeing his own shrink, attending bullshit classes like Mothers Against Drunk Driving, maintaining good grades, problem-free employment, and forty-five hours of community service. They would periodically hand him a Dixie cup and direct him to a urinal. No more alcohol. No more freedom.

Eric's first counseling session and his first drug screening would commence in eight days. He met with Sanchez on a Wednesday. Thursday, he stewed. Friday, April 10, 1998, he opened a letter sized spiral notebook and scribbled, "I hate the fucking world." In one year and ten days, he would attack. Eric wrote furiously, filling two vicious pages: people are STUPID, I'm not respected, everyone has their own god damn opinions on every god damn thing.

At first glance, the journal sounds like the Web site, but Fuselier found answers in it. The Web site was pure rage, no explanation. The journal was explicit. Eric fleshed out his ideas on paper, as well as his personality. Eric had a preposterously grand superiority complex, a revulsion for authority, and an excruciating need for control.

"I feel like God," Eric announced. "I am higher than almost anyone in the fucking world in terms of universal intelligence." In time, his superiority would be revealed. In the interim, Eric dubbed his journal "The Book of God." The breadth of his hostility was equally melodramatic.

Humans were pathetic fuckheads too dense to perceive their lifeless existence. We frittered our lives away like automatons, following orders rather than realizing our potential: "ever wonder why we go to school?" he asked. "its not to obvious to most of you stupid fucks but for those who

think a little more and deeper you should realize it is societies way of turning all the young people into good little robots." Human nature was smothered by society; healthy instincts were smothered by laws. They were training us to be assembly-line robots; that's why they lined the school desks up in rows and trained kids to respond to opening and closing bells.

The monotonous human assembly line squelched the life out of individual experience. As Eric put it, "more of your human nature blown out your ass."

Philosophically, the robotic conception was a rare point of agreement between the killers. Dylan referred often to zombies, too. Both boys described their uniqueness as self-awareness. They could see through the human haze. But Dylan saw his distinction as a lonely curse. And he looked on the zombies compassionately; Dylan yearned for the poor little creatures to break out of their boxes.

The problem, as Eric saw it, was natural selection. He had alluded to the concept on his Web site; here he explained–relentlessly. Natural selection had failed. Man had intervened. Medicines, vaccines, and special ed programs had conspired to keep the rejects in the human herd. So Eric was surrounded by inferiors–who would not shut their freaking mouths! How could he tolerate all the miserable chatter?

He had lots of ideas. Nuclear holocaust, biological warfare, imprisoning the species in a giant Ultimate Doom game.

But Eric was also realistic. He couldn't restore the natural order, but he could impose some selection of his own. He would sacrifice himself to accomplish it. "I know I will die soon," he wrote; "so will you and everyone else."

By soon, he meant a year. Eric had a remarkably long time horizon for a seventeen-year-old contemplating his own death.

The lies jumped out at Fuselier. Eric took giddy pleasure in his deceptions. "I lie a lot," he wrote. "Almost constant. and to everybody. just to keep my own ass out of the water. lets see, what are some big lies I have told; 'yeah I stopped smoking' 'for doing it not for getting caught,' 'no I haven't been making more bombs.'"

Eric did not believe in God, but he enjoyed comparing himself to Him.

Like Dylan, he did so frequently but not delusionally–they were like God: superior in insight, intelligence, and awareness. Like Zeus, Eric created new rules, angered easily, and punished people in unusual ways. Eric had conviction. Eric had a plan. Eric would get the guns and build the

explosives and maim and kill and so much more. They would terrify way beyond their gun blasts. The ultimate weapon was TV. Eric saw past the Columbine commons. He might kill hundreds, but the dead and dismembered meant nothing to him. Bit players–who cared? The performance was not about them. Eric's one-day-only production was about the audience.

The irony was, his attack was too good for his victims–it would sail right over their heads. "the majority of the audience wont even understand," Eric lamented. Too bad. They would feel the power of his hand: "if we have figured out the art of time bombs before hand, we will set hundreds of them around houses, roads, bridges, buildings and gas stations." "it'll be like the LA riots, the oklahoma bombing, WWII, vietnam, duke and doom all mixed together. maybe we will even start a little rebellion or revolution to fuck things up as much as we can. i want to leave a lasting impression on the world."

____

Dr. Fuselier set down the journal. It had taken him about an hour to read, that first time, in the noisy Columbine band room, two or three days after the murders. Now he had a pretty good hunch about what he was dealing with: a psychopath.