Last Day on Earth: A Portrait of the NIU School Shooter

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TWO MONTHS AFTER the Virginia Tech massacre, in June 2007, Steve and Jessica move to Champaign, rent an apartment together. Separate bedrooms. They’re not a couple anymore. Relationships just don’t work out for him. And renting an apartment with her is probably a bad idea. He feels awkward bringing other women over because Jessica gets jealous, but they save on rent, they can share books, and she’s a good friend.

He’s falling apart, though. He knows it, and Jessica knows it. He checks five times to make sure the car is locked, three times for the apartment door, checks the stove. He and Jessica drive somewhere, but he has to turn around, drive back to check again that the door is locked. He washes his hands twenty times a day, has to wash the remote for the TV if anyone else touches it, has to wash if Jessica’s cat touches him, hates all the hair everywhere. He can’t sleep, gets up to check again that he’s paid all his bills, checks the alarm clock three times. He’s anxious and worried about everything, paranoid. He doesn’t feel safe. Misses his friends at NIU, misses Jim’s office, misses the sociology lab. He has these mood swings, totally out of control, and he gets really irritable, picks fights with Jessica.

“You have to see someone,” she tells him. “You need a mood stabilizer.”

August 3, 2007, he checks himself in to McKinley Health Center on campus at the U of I. He’s worried about confidentiality. He doesn’t want this on his record. And he’s not going to tell them much. He doesn’t mention the mood swings. Or the suicide attempts. Or Prozac. Or the group home, or lying to his psychiatrists or hating therapy. He doesn’t tell them much of anything. Just some anxiety, insomnia, checking behaviors. He says he’s interested in medications, worried about weight gain. Doesn’t mention his bulimia, though Jessica knows. She’s noticed the cuts on his finger from stuffing it down his throat.

The next day, he realizes McKinley was a big mistake. It really will go on his FOID card, even with the way he’s downplayed his history. He won’t be able to buy guns anymore. He drives to Tony’s Guns and Ammo, which is just Tony’s house. Tony’s black, which makes Steve uncomfortable, but he seems alright. Steve trades in his Glock.45, which is too big a caliber, too hard to handle if you want to get off a lot of shots and actually hit something. He also trades in his.22 caliber pistol, which is far too small (Cho used one, but it wasn’t as effective as the other pistol), and his 20-gauge shotgun, which is wimpy compared to the 12-gauge shotgun he’ll end up using. He buys a Sig-Sauer.380, one of the guns he’ll later use in Cole Hall. It’s powerful enough, but more importantly, it’s reliable. It won’t jam, he probably thinks. It’s also fast. It’s a police weapon.

He tells Jessica, “One day I might just disappear and nobody will ever find me.” He’s already told her, “If anything happens, don’t tell anyone about me.” If she weren’t mentally ill herself, she might make some connections at this point. The spooky comments, the obsession over guns and killers, the time spent at the shooting range, the mental health problems. What does a mass murderer have to do to get noticed?

Steve debates returning to McKinley two days later, on August 6, but he really is falling apart, so he goes, tells a psychiatrist about all his “checking behaviors,” how threes speak to him, guide him. He talks a lot about social anxiety. The move to a new school was a terrible idea.

“Steve shows elements of both social anxiety and obsessive/compulsive disorder,” records the doctor who sees him. “My working diagnosis is Obsessive/Compulsive Disorder with the DSM-IV code 303.3. My plan is to start Prozac 10 mg each morning with breakfast.” The doctor doesn’t ask whether Steve owns a gun.

This is the first time Steve’s been on Prozac in six and a half years.

But it’s still not enough. Because now he’s getting panic attacks. As he’s sitting in one of his classes, his heart starts beating fast and hard. It’s like a fist in there, balled up. He looks around, but no one seems to notice. He’s short of breath, getting dizzy, disoriented. He’s going to pass out, right here in front of everyone. He holds on to the desk, though, gets through the moment. His heart is still pounding, his breath still fast, but he’s able to get up, gets out of there. No one will know. He’s had panic attacks since high school, not very often, but they scare the shit out of him.

So now there’s this on top of all the stomach problems. He has diarrhea, feels bloated, can’t seem to get his stomach under control, and over-the-counter meds don’t do much. His mother always said he had a nervous stomach.

He’s also fighting with his sister, Susan. Their relationship has always been rough. She resented all the attention he sucked in high school, and he resented how perfect she seemed. But they have one good talk on the phone. He tells her, “I think I might be gay.” She’s gay, and perhaps he’s reaching out to her. But peace between them never lasts long. The first of three tense and aggressive emails to her is on September 3, 2007:

“Susan, Just because Jessica and I aren’t dating doesn’t mean I don’t care about her as a friend. Decisions that I make often impact her since we are roommates, and she has expressed interest in going to Florida in November, (although I am going alone to visit my father). Sometimes, it is very frustrating talking to you because you sometimes seem blinded by your personal outlook on life, relationships, and even family. If you are going to judge me and threaten to hang up on me when we talk on the phone, then don’t bother calling. I don’t need the additional stress/abuse in my life. The only people who I’ve ever known who were like this was my mother, and yourself. She used to hang up on me as well at times, (when I called from Chicago), and I don’t need you to pull the same bullshit. You seem to get angry at the most petty things. If you want to know the real reason that I don’t often want to hang out with you, it is because I often feel that you judge me and others, (i.e. my interest in working at a prison rather than finishing school, my relationships at times, etc.), and then you get incredibly mad at me for a decision that I own, and one that doesn’t affect your life in the least. While this may be your function at work, it shouldn’t be that way with family, especially your own brother. I’m not trying to quarrel with you, but this is something that I had to say.”

Steve returns to McKinley the next day, on September 4, says his mother’s death was a traumatic experience, still is. The doctor notes it in his evaluation. Steve worries, also, about his father, who has diabetes, hypertension, and a recent stroke.

Steve is anxious all the time in this new place, feels judged, worries what people think of him. He’s hiding all the time, still doing well in his schoolwork, so no one would suspect. He did this at NIU, too. He’s good at hiding. The doctor asks him whether he’s planning to kill himself or anyone else. He says no. They up his Prozac from 10 to 50 milligrams a day and add Xanax, 0.5 milligrams a couple times a day as needed for anxiety. He’s on Ambien, also.

He goes to dinner with Susan on 9-11, their mother’s birthday. Susan thinks he’s manic, paranoid, because he won’t use his credit card. Someone could steal the number. So they fight again.

Steve wants to have sex. Right now, and with a lot of different partners. Is it because he hates his life? Is it because he doesn’t want to be gay? Is it because of the medications? Prozac can reduce sex drive, but in a few people, it can intensify sex drive into radical promiscuity. Whatever the reason, Steve checks out Craigslist, posts an ad in Casual Encounters. “Katie” responds. She has 44Ds and is ten years older, thirty-seven, with “cushin for the pushin.” He blows it, though. Makes some stupid half-joke about asking whether she’s a cop. That gets her all paranoid, and she’s put off.

It doesn’t matter. There are plenty of others on Craigslist.

Steve starts his new job September 14, 2007, working as a correctional officer at Rockville Correctional Facility in Indiana. He’s dropped classes for this job and isn’t tutoring, either, or working as a research assistant. He’s made sacrifices, and the job isn’t what he expected. He enjoys parts of the training. They teach him how to use a Remington 870 12-gauge shotgun, the same model he’ll use in Cole Hall. He has to take a test detailing how to load and unload it. He’s fast at loading it. But he wanted to help people in this job, and instead he’s just moving the inmates around from place to place. He has to hide his education from most of his coworkers, too. Being in a master’s program is a kind of stigma here.

On September 25, he’s hanging out with two of his coworkers, Nancy Hu and Samantha Hack-Ritzo, and tells them it’s the anniversary of his mother’s death. He’s just thinking about her. But because he sounds so oddly detached, Samantha tells him he should go to therapy, which he doesn’t appreciate. He’s taken himself off Prozac, because it’s given him acne all over his face, neck, and back. Going off Prozac is worse than being on it, though. He’s really anxious, and he’s checking everything, all day and night, can hardly get out of the parking lot in the morning, has to check so many times that his car door is locked. And he’s getting paranoid. His homemade sword tattoo on his forearm looks like a prison tattoo. So he has it covered by a skull with a dagger. The guy Jason who does it is good, has already covered Steve’s old rose tattoo with a skull and flames.

Then something stupid happens, something maddening. He’s driving to work, early in the morning, talking with Jessica on the phone, passing endless farmland, cornfields, barns, and he misses his turn, drives past. This job is ridiculously inflexible. If you’re late even one minute on one day, you have to start over from scratch. Your couple of weeks in the training program are thrown out.

So he turns around and speeds back, 85 miles per hour in a 55 zone, and then sees the flashing lights, pulling him over. So that’s it. Why shouldn’t everything in his life fall apart?

He drives to Nick Eblen’s house — Nick is a training officer and has been letting Steve crash here some nights to shorten the commute — and clears out all his stuff. He leaves a two-page apology note, over the top:

“Dear Nick and Susan, I wanted to thank you for your kindness, but I am, regretfully, unable to continue with IDOC or with my training due to poor judgment on my part. I sincerely apologize for any embarrassment or shame that I may have caused by my stupid actions. For this reason, I must resign/quit my position. What happened is as follows: This morning I accidentally drove past Putnamville due to driving in the wrong direction. Upon discovering my error, I drove at a high rate of speed in order to arrive at the training facility on time. I was pulled over for speeding by a Putnamville officer and was given a ticket for a very high amount. I was also held over for a short period of time and was already past the training deadline. It’s clear that I lack good judgment and do not deserve to wear the CO uniform.”

What Steve can’t quite put into words, though, is how he’s just doomed.

“I may have graduated at the top of my college class, but I now understand that book smarts don’t translate into common sense. In college, and by past girlfriends, I was often told that I was too smart for my own good. I now understand what was meant by this comment. I have left the key you provided me as well as my training manual, cuffs, ID Badge, chits, and other equipment so it could be returned to you and the facility. Additionally, please do not pick up my paycheck next week, as I will have it mailed to my residence. I am very sorry that this happened, but I suppose it is a wakeup call for me. I take full responsibility for my actions, and am sorry to everyone whom I affected with my poor judgment. Again, thank you for your kindness. It is clear that I do not possess the necessary skills needed to be an effective CO, and I apologize for wasting your (and others) time. I hope that you will find it in your hearts to forgive me. I am ashamed that this happened, but only God knows why it happened. Sincerely, Steven Kazmierczak. P.S. Thank you for your kindness, and I am sorry that I did not work out.”

Nick Eblen thinks it’s odd how Steve “fell apart” from this seemingly minor event. After the shooting, he will tell police that Steve was a “neat freak,” with his pants creased and personal hygiene products perfectly arranged. He will remember Steve as “military-minded,” getting up at 4:30 a.m. to run, and “obsessed” with watching the news. He will tell police that “Kazmierczak had some very weird ways.”

The reference to God is interesting, too. It’s less than five months now until his shooting, and Steve is reverting back to who he was in junior high, his mother and her Catholicism a part of that.

Steve calls the prison and leaves a vague message, saying that he’s in trouble, so the prison superintendant, Julie Stout, sends two people to look for him, asking them to drive the route he would have driven. When they don’t find him, she contacts Illinois police and they go to his apartment in Champaign. They lecture him for wasting everyone’s time, very pissed off. Steve is pissed off, too, and thinks they’re ridiculous.