Columbine And A Beat-Up Chevy Truck

By: Sean Reavie

Officer Sean Reavie, #8871, is a 17-year PPD veteran and, for the last four years, a School Resource Officer. Officer Reavie is a best-selling and award-winning author who attended the 25th anniversary of the Columbine High School shooting.

Columbine High School.

April 20, 1999, changed our profession forever.

On April 19 and 20 of this year, I was in Littleton, Colorado, guest of Columbine High School SRO Eric Ebling and the Jeffers on County Sheriff’s Department for the 25th recognition of the horrific events that took place within Columbine High School.

How did that happen?

During the writing process for my latest book about one of the top 10 greatest men in the history of Chevrolet—Jon Moss—I was interviewing retired general manager for Chevrolet Trucks, Kurt Ritter.

Our interview was ending, and as an afterthought, Kurt said this to me, “Ask Jon about a project we did for a Columbine victim’s family.”

The statement stunned me a bit.

As an SRO, I’ve studied Columbine High School and the things that went wrong that day.

So, to write an automotive history book and be told about a connection to a Columbine High School victim, it immediately caught my attention.

Calling Jon Moss, I told him what Kurt Ritter said.

Jon went silent, and after about five seconds, said, “I don’t want to talk about that.”

Jon said it was personal, and that what he did was the right thing to do for that family and not done for acclaim of any kind. Jon felt nobody needed to know then, and nobody needed to know now.

Shooting victim John Tomlin, killed in the library as he huddled under a table with another student, was fanatical about his “beat up Chevy pick-up truck” and Chevrolet. So much so, inside his coffin was the iconic Chevy “Bowtie” logo. He asked potential new friends, “Ford or Chevy?”

John Tomlin’s truck, by all accounts, was a piece of oil-leaking, gas-guzzling junk that he loved. To keep the truck running, John worked two jobs to pay for the constant repairs and small customizations to make the truck his.

John Tomlin wanted to enlist in the Army. Serve his country first. He wanted to have an auto repair shop and become a farmer. The Tomlin family traveled to Mexico to build homes for the needy. They all lived a strong Christian life.

All those dreams ended on April 20, 1999, when Harris and Klebold carried out their long planned, highly orchestrated attack on Columbine High School.

On April 23, 1999, a color photo of a “beat-up” 1985 gold Chevy stepside pickup truck was on the front page of a national newspaper. The truck was covered in flowers and teddy bears, with candles surrounding it.

NBC did a broadcast with the truck and memorial right behind them.

John Tomlin’s beloved Chevy truck became a memorial around which the community rallied.

The photo came to the attention of the PR man for Chevy trucks who shared it with Kurt Ritter. Kurt recalled saying, “We have to do something for that family.”

Kurt Ritter gathered a small team and, with no press or fanfare, traveled to Littleton, Colorado, to participate in a home build the family planned before the shooting.

The community helped and the project became a point of healing for the devastated families and townspersons.

On the last day of the home build, John Tomlin’s father handed Kurt an envelope he found in his son’s room containing $300 and a list of things he wanted to do to fix his truck.

Jon Moss, head of the General Motors Specialty Vehicle Group, was the most notable car builder and customizer in the world at that time. Kurt called Jon and told him about John Tomlin’s truck. The two decided to ship that beat-up old Chevy truck to Detroit to “Garage X” so Jon Moss and his team could get to work.

In 14 days, Jon Moss and his team completed the entire list John Tomlin wrote out and then some.

A “full body off” restoration commenced. They took apart, cleaned, and tuned the small block V8 engine, repainted the truck, put on new performance tires, got rid of the rust, cleaned and replaced worn or broken parts, and made the truck look brand new. They even put leather seats inside.

The truck was given to the family without so much as a word from Jon Moss or Kurt Ritter. In his day, Jon’s popularity was such, he was recognized in public—and at 6′ 8″, he stood out. That said, Jon Moss did not go to Littleton when the truck was delivered so he would not distract the family during this intensely private moment.

With so many Columbine stories out there, not one mention of this can be found.

I interviewed 60 people for this book. Not one heard the story.

Why didn’t Jon Moss want to talk about it? He said it was the right thing to do for that family and nobody needed to know he did it. He did not want fanfare. It was personal between him and John Tomlin’s family.

I told Jon that when my book is released, it will mark the 25th anniversary of Columbine. I am an SRO. I asked him to trust me and to please let me tell this story. I talked him into it.

One week before the book went to the publisher, I still had no success in talking to a member of John Tomlin’s family. I contacted a dozen people to help make the connection, to no avail.

As a last resort, and with four days left in my deadline, I sent an email to Columbine School Resource Officer Eric Ebling. Before the end of the day, he returned it saying he had never heard that story and nobody at the school had either. He said he knew someone who could help.

To read more, scan the QR code.

The next day, I got an email from Ashley Gladder, John Tomlin’s sister. She agreed to talk to me about her brother and his truck.

The story was complete and approved by John Tomlin’s parents, who I learned never speak to “journalists” about their son. The media got nearly everything about John Tomlin wrong. Especially his last moments.

A few weeks later, I got another email from Officer Ebling inviting me to the 25th anniversary event as his guest. I was stunned.

I wrestled with it for weeks. Did I belong there? I decided I had to be there.

On April 19th, I landed in Denver and drove the 30 minutes to Littleton.

That night, in Officer Ebling’s home, there was a get-together for the teachers and administrators who were there that day.

I felt so out-of-place, worried they would see me as a “journalist” there for a story.

They didn’t.

They welcomed me with open arms.

When asked my connection, I told them I am writing a book about the General Motors man who restored John Tomlin’s truck. The look on their faces was one of both sorrow and joy.

They asked me to tell them the story. All eyes were on me as I told them about John Tomlin’s truck. With tears in their eyes, they listened and thanked me for bringing a beautiful story to Columbine’s sad history.

I talked to the softball coach (still teaching and coaching at the school), a man who dragged the lifeless bodies of his students into rooms and performed CPR until he collapsed. I talked to another teacher/coach, who was friends with teacher and coach Dave Sanders, who, after clearing the cafeteria of students, ran upstairs to save more.

That moment was preserved as a still from surveillance tapes showing Dave Sanders running up the stairs from the cafeteria to the main level.

As he turned the corner to the main hallway, screaming for people to get to safety, Dave Sanders came face-to-face with the shooters and was cut down in a blizzard of shots as he turned to run, one bullet hitting him in the neck.

Students came out and dragged him into the science lab where they tried in vain to save his life. He lay there for three hours. No help came for him. Students tried to lower him out the second story window on a makeshift stretcher and were told no, to wait for SWAT to evacuate him.

The evening at officer Eberling’s home ended with a toast by both of those teacher/coaches. Tears were shed.

Saturday morning, I awoke to a full-on snow shower. Big, fluffy flakes, light winds, 32-degree temperatures.

Walking into Columbine High School that morning, again I was filled with trepidation. I was an outsider. My only connection was I was telling a new story about the aftermath of that day.

Officer Ebling came out and said he wanted me to take a walk with him.

My first impression of being inside the school was an odd one.

It was much smaller than I anticipated. Far smaller than our high schools in Arizona, with less than 1,600 students. Arched ceilings gave it a very homey, comfortable feel. The hallway was wide, open, and long. The perfect fatal funnel.

Walking the long hallway, we were joined by a Columbine historian who gave us the timeline.

On April 20, 1999, it was a perfect spring day. It was so nice, the SROs, who normally took their 7 in the cafeteria, decided to get sandwiches and sit in the adjacent park.

Looking into the west parking lot, I was told exactly where the killers parked their cars to block other cars from getting out.

The killers parked their cars, with car bombs inside to ignite at noon when the majority of first responders would be there, and walked into the cafeteria (the subterranean level of the school).

Unbelievably, the moment they came in carrying large duffle bags, each with a 20-pound propane tank bomb, was not caught on the surveillance system covering the cafeteria. At that exact moment, the cassette ran out of tape, was pulled, and replaced.

When it came back online, the ominous bags had already been planted near the support pillars in the hope that when they detonated, it would collapse the upper level (the original library) onto the hundreds of students eating during the first lunch. The timer was set for the bombs to detonate at 1117 hours.

They never went off. There were 488 students in the cafeteria. At 1119, a diversion bomb went off (three miles from the school) causing 911 calls and first responders to be sent to that area away from the school.

The killers’ first plan was to have panicked students run out of the school because of the bombs going off. Their egress blocked, the killers would then open fire on them.

Because that didn’t happen, they decided to go into the school. They each had a sawed-off shotgun. Harris had a .22 caliber carbine rifle; Klebold a .22 caliber Tec-DC9 pistol. They had pipe bombs strapped to their bodies and dozens of magazines for reloading.

They spent months amassing this arsenal. They even videotaped themselves practicing with their weapons.

The first victim, Rachel Scott, was shot and killed outside as she sat with a friend. During my research, I learned that “Columbine” is a type of flower. And so, where her body fell, now inside the school after the remodel, a large circle of the Columbine flower marks the spot—with a smaller flower—where Rachel finally collapsed. The student she was with was paralyzed from the bullets impacting his body. He played dead to avoid the kill shot.

The same flower memorial exists near the stairwell where Dave Sanders fell.

After killing Rachel Scott, they yelled “Go! Go!” and targeted dozens of students near the cafeteria. They spent several minutes throwing pipes bombs and randomly shooting students.

When the shots rang out, teachers thought it was a senior prank, as both killers were set to graduate in two weeks; one accepted into the University of Arizona. He was at the school prom three nights previous in a cheap tuxedo, smiling, and enjoying the moment. Now, he came in with a TEC-9, a sawed-off shotgun, and pipe bombs.

With multiple students shot—dead, bleeding, and maimed—Harris and Klebold entered the library, where in seven minutes, they killed 10 and wounded 12. There were 56 kids in the library. One of those killed was John Tomlin. It was also in the library where the killers engaged in a vicious firefight with first responders, shooting into the parking from the library as officers arrived.

Survivors told chilling stories of Harris looking under the desks and saying “Peekaboo” before shooting them. They taunted and mocked the students before shooting them. They demanded all athletes stand up because they were about to die.

After careful consideration by the school board and the community, Columbine’s old library was completely removed. Originally on the second floor above the cafeteria, work crews removed the floor in that section and replaced it with an airy atrium. Skylights and screen murals completely changed the look of the area most devastated by the carnage that day.

I walked inside the new library and saw a large scroll of names of each of the victims.

In the library, I saw a man I recognized as Frank DeAngelis, the principal of Columbine at the time of the shooting. Every April 20, he sits there and starts calling the parents of the victims. At 1129 hours (when the killers walked into the library), he reads the entire list of victims and memorializes them.

When he saw me, he smiled and approached. I told him who I was and the story about the pickup truck, and he told me, “Thank you for sharing a new story of healing for this community. Please make sure I get a book so I can place it in the library.”

It was hard to hear that. It stunned me. My book, in the library of Columbine High School.

I asked him to tell me about that day and he did.

In his office, while he was interviewing a new English teacher, his secretary gave word of gunshots being heard in the west parking lot (this was the firefight between a returning SRO and the killers).

Immediately running down the hall, Frank said he saw many students running toward him from an adjacent hallway. At the same time, he saw the killers, in military garb, holding their weapons, walking into the school, toward where the students would emerge.

Screaming for the students approaching him to get out of the school, Frank ran down that adjacent hallway, hearing the “zing and ping” of bullets ripping past his body and into lockers, splintering plaster and shattering glass.

He successfully herded the kids out of the exit where he ran into one of the SROs who had minutes before, been in a firefight with the killers from his patrol car in the parking lot.

As Frank tried to re-enter the school, he was stopped by the SRO.

Frank told me he screamed at the SRO to get into the school but was told by the SRO that he was ordered to stand down by command and wait until SWAT arrived.

Can you imagine? They engaged the killers in a firefight outside. They heard gunshots. They heard screaming. And they were given a direct order to not enter the school.

Nothing like this had ever happened before. There wasn’t any protocol to follow. A command decision was made to secure the perimeter of the school and hold for SWAT. The rationale was, had they entered, potentially a deadly crossfire, with students in the middle, could erupt as Harris and Klebold were shooting at everything. With reports of bombs going off, they thought the school may be booby-trapped.

After talking with me a bit more, Frank asked me to come back at 1100 hours for the ceremony in the library. I spent the next hour walking around the school, going down the stairs into the cafeteria.

The iconic still photo of Dylan Klebold, hat on backward, holding his TEC-9 with Harris next to him, was taken at the spot where I stood at the foot of the stairs; the same spot Dave Sanders was last seen alive, running up those stairs.

This Saturday, the school bustled with activity. The students were all working on projects. Teachers were there. I heard on Officer Ebling’s radio about “fake” students attempting to come onto the campus with video recording equipment. Conspiracy theorists were screaming for the release of the “real” case report showing a vast conspiracy in the shooting.

I went back to the library where the families started to gather. There, I met the brother of Rachel Scott, who, in 1999, was in the library hiding, and as he ran out, unknowingly stepped over the dead body of his sister.

John Tomlin was not able to run out so he took sanctuary under a desk. Another girl, Nicole Nowlen, was under a desk but was panicked and crying. She also was visible from the door and asked John to hide with him. John Tomlin reached out his hand to her and she came to him.

Holding her, he whispered in her ear to calm her as the killers approached their table and opened fired at them with their shotguns, hitting John and Nicole with buckshot and walking away.

For some reason, after killing more, they came back to where John was hiding. With Nicole playing dead, John leapt out at them, diverting their attention away from Nicole. Laughing, Klebold shot him point blank in the head, killing him.

His diversion worked. Nicole was left bleeding and survived with the nine pellets still in her body to this day. She told John’s sister the story I just told you.

John’s sister told me something else. When asked why he wanted to join the military, John said it was because he felt if he were to die, he needed to die defending someone.

I met many parents of the victims during the memorial in the library. All of them asked me my connection. When I told them, they hugged me and thanked me for telling such a beautiful story.

After the memorial, walking uphill in whipping snow and 30-degree temperatures, I went to the Memorial Garden where the victims are remembered. I found John Tomlin’s cross, took a photo, and sent it to Mr. Moss.

My takeaway was not at all expected.

I thought I would see broken, sad people, still mourning.

Instead, I saw an entire school of people who had no more tears to shed. No more hatred in their hearts, no more sadness to give.

Instead, at the 25th anniversary, there was an unspoken message that it was time to move forward.

It was time to embrace the beauty that came out of one of the worst things to ever happen in our country. Time to celebrate the lives of the students who lived. Those who are carrying the scars, who still have the bullets inside them, who are in wheelchairs because of the events of that day.

I was told that by so many. That is why they embraced me so much. I brought a new story of healing and hope and helped shed a positive light on the darkest memory of their lives.

Emotionally, I was exhausted.

The teachers, students, and administrators were the first responders that day. They wore school polo shirts and slacks. They had sport coats and ties. They dragged dying children—riddled with bullets and shrapnel from the many pipe bombs the killers tossed down halls—into classrooms, and into the cafeteria. Frank DeAngelis was saved because at the moment he was in the sights of Harris, Dave Sanders came around the corner, much closer, and Harris chased him down.

Police responded from everywhere and were all told to stand down until SWAT got there. Students started climbing out of windows to escape. Dave Sanders bled out. For 90 minutes, the killers walked the halls, mocking kids who hid in classrooms, but they killed no more. Instead, they shot at the propane bombs, which didn’t go off, to detonate them.

By the time SWAT came into the school, the killers returned to the library and killed themselves. Their bodies were booby trapped. The carnage left behind was unspeakable. It changed our country.

Columbine changed the entire paradigm of how law enforcement responds to active shooters. You go 23, you go inside, alone, with a partner, or with a team. You go in. This training was on full display March 27, 2023, at The Covenant School in Nashville; however, tragically, this did not occur in the Uvalde, Texas, incident.

The media was the worst offender in the aftermath of Columbine. They wrote Harris and Klebold had a “list” of people to kill. They didn’t target one group. They targeted everyone. Had those bombs in the cafeteria gone off, more than 700 students and teachers would have died as the top floor slammed into the lower floor. Had their car bombs gone off, there is no telling how many first responders would have died or been maimed.

The writings and videos they left behind were horrifying. The videos, known as The Basement Tapes, were so repulsive and hateful, a judge ordered them sealed and then destroyed. Only the families were allowed to see them.

For more than a year, they planned and executed mass murder right under everyone’s noses. They stockpiled an incredible amount of not only guns and ammo but bomb-making equipment. They carried the bombs into the school right in front of everyone.

“The Trench Coat Mafia” was another media creation. The group existed but consisted of a group of kids who played Dungeons and Dragons and argued over Star Wars and Star Trek. Harris and Klebold wore trench coats into the school to hide their weapons. They dumped them as soon as they got into the school. “The Trench Coat Mafia” posed together for a yearbook photo. Klebold and Harris were not in it. In fact, many of them had graduated the year previous.

Many vilified the parents and screamed, “How could they not know?!”

I encourage you to read, A Mother’s Reckoning by Sue Klebold. It is as heartbreaking as it is educational. Her son hid all that hatred and anger from very involved parents. Harris and Klebold got weapons from a third-party buyer and stored them in each other’s homes. They learned bomb making from the Internet.

Harris, a known potential menace because of a very disturbing website, was on the radar of the Jefferson County Sheriff’s Office. A warrant was written to search the Harris home for potential weapons. It was never served. The pipe bombs were under his bed.

Klebold wrote a disturbing story in a creative writing class about a lone gunman committing a mass shooting. He described the gunman as 6′ 4″ and full of silent rage. He wrote that the gunman, wearing a long trench coat, had a pistol with a sling over his shoulder with a long magazine and belts of ammo. He wrote the gunman used diversionary bombs to pull law enforcement away from what the man was doing.

Klebold was 6′ 4″. At Columbine, he had a TEC-9 with a sling, hidden by his long trench coat. He used a bomb to divert law enforcement away. He had belts of ammo.

The teacher wrote on the paper, “I have problems with this one.” She called his parents and made him rewrite the paper. Dylan convinced them it was “just a story.” No threat assessment was done. No therapist. Just write another story.

He wrote a story saying exactly what he was going to do, and it was ignored.

The story he wrote was written three months before Harris and he entered the school and killed 13 people.

How much have we learned 25 years after Columbine? Enough to change our reaction to active shooters in a school but not enough to solve the issues of flagrant mental health issues in our school-aged children.

They are called red flags for a reason. Now, all we can do is react to violence instead of taking obvious red flags and doing something before we have another Columbine.

That must change.

 

Sources—

A Mother’s Reckoning by Sue Klebold; They Call Me Mr. De by Frank DeAngelis; A Columbine Site website by Cynthia Sheppard.