John Doe No. 2 and the Dreamland Motel

10 Buffalo Bill’s Defunct

10 Buffalo Bill’s Defunct You are convinced that Timothy McVeigh is a pervert. That he has become a sexual deviant. A man who is dangerous to all things good and holy. That he cannot possibly be a John Wayne type of guy. Timothy McVeigh is driving the Road Warrior across the southern Michigan border into Indiana. You have been traveling wordlessly since you left Decker. Not surprisingly, your driver has taken to mocking your quietude, the silent treatment that you are giving him. The silent treatment that he so richly deserves. Timothy McVeigh adopts a Tarzan voice for his own amusement. “Me TM. You JD,” he says in a blunt, neo-native accent. He knows how much this pisses you off. You ignore his efforts to make conversation, concentrating instead on the bland Indiana scenery—farmland, mostly—as it passes through your purview. A massive dairy farm with dozens of burnished red barns and countless outbuildings pocking its grounds emerges on the Road Warrior’s passenger side. Tour buses line the highway, with their riders, mostly elderly, waiting to sample the establishment’s wares. Buffalo Bill’s Defunct 75 An enormous billboard frames the farm’s magisterial entrance: “30,000 Cows—No Waiting!” it reads. Waiting for what? you wonder to yourself. Timothy McVeigh turns on the car radio, interrupting the silence. “The Sign” by Ace of Base is playing. Eurotrash, you think disgustedly. Life is demanding, you sing along in spite of yourself, without understanding. You drive really fast, you inform Timothy McVeigh, who is traveling some 30 miles above the speed limit. “The Road Warrior is turbocharged,” he replies proudly. “Besides, I’ve got a friend,” he says, tapping on the radar detector resting on the dashboard. “By the way, I made that shit up,” Timothy McVeigh confesses. What shit? “That shit about the computer chip.” You thought he didn’t BS people. That it was part of his almighty code. What gives? “I just wanted to get a rise out of those guys,” he remarks. “And what do you know? They bought it—hook, line, and sinker. It kinda fits with their worldview, I guess.” You are still puzzling over his fishing metaphor. “James and Terry live in a context in which the government is actively attempting to infiltrate their lives,” he continues. “It works for them to see life that way. As a kind of us-versus-them situation.” But what about you? you inquire. How do you see the world? Especially now that you’re having relations with one of your best friends’ wives, you think to yourself. “From my perspective, I realize that it’s much, much worse than they’ll ever know. That the government is too big, too inhuman to care much about the little people up in the Thumb,” he responds. It occurs to you that some people really like the sound of their own voices. 76 J o h n D o e N o . 2 a n d t h e D r e a m l a n d M o t e l “That it’s a massive, lumbering, thoughtless giant of a thing that doesn’t know any better,” Timothy McVeigh continues. “That it couldn’t possibly know any better. It’s like a big ol’ rabid dog. Like Old Yeller. And sometimes, that big ol’ dog needs to be put out of its misery.” Are you the rifleman who can put that dog down? you ask, condescension dripping from your voice. Your partner shrugs his shoulders. “Could be,” he says. “It could even be you. Gunrunner.” T i m o t h y M c V e i g h p i l o t s the Road Warrior off of the interstate near Angola, Indiana, pop. 5,824. Dusk is falling as he wheels the car into the empty parking lot of a convenience store. “I want to grab a Slurpee,” he announces. “It’ll take five minutes —tops.” You have got to be kidding, you think to yourself. A Slurpee is produced almost entirely out of air. Which means that the food value from a Slurpee is virtually nil. You follow Timothy McVeigh into the store. There are no other customers around, and the building is eerily quiet. The only sound is a box fan purring near the entrance. Exhaling the cool night air of early spring throughout the store...