John Doe No. 2 and the Dreamland Motel

6 The Gun That Won the West

6 The Gun That Won the West Timothy McVeigh is piloting the Road Warrior into the former territory of Colorado. “Welcome to the Centennial State” reads the sign at the border. Glad to be here, you think. Nice to make your acquaintance. A white straw dangles from Timothy McVeigh’s mouth. He has been chewing on it for the entirety of the three hours since you left the McDonald’s drive-thru back in Salina, Kansas, pop. 42,303. With spittle periodically running down his chin, your driver can be a disgusting sight to behold. Timothy McVeigh finally breaks the silence. “What are you—a Mormon?” he asks. You look at him quizzically. “Back there—at the university. Are you Mormons or Seventh-day Adventists or Jehovah’s Witnesses or what?” You’ve got to be kidding, you think to yourself. Did you see any copies of The Watchtower lying around the dorm room? We’re Friends, you say, clearing your throat. “I know we’re friends,” he answers. “I don’t do midnight getaways for acquaintances, for just anyone. Unless they’re hot chicks, that is—” 40 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 No, you say, interrupting him. He just doesn’t get it. You cannot believe that your personal life requires this much explanation. And for Timothy McVeigh, no less. We’re Friends. Gina and me and Dakota— “You mean the late Dakota Fish?” he interrupts. You shrug your shoulders. Who can say for sure? You absentmindedly stroke your right hand. Still aching from the recoil. We’re part of the Society of Friends, you continue. The Religious Society of Friends. Quakers. Conversing with anyone is a trial, you think to yourself, but with this guy it can be downright exhausting. “Why, dog my cats!” Timothy McVeigh responds. “As in Friends University?” That’s right. You extend your index finger like a gun and aim it in his direction to signal that he’s on the right track. That he gets it. That he’s A-OK. “A Quaker,” he continues. “Like Nixon!” Oh my God. You cannot believe he is bringing up President Nixon. Why do they always bring up President Nixon? How come nobody ever mentions Daniel Boone? Or Betsy Ross? Or James Dean? It’s always Tricky Dick and his sainted mother. T i m o t h y M c V e i g h w h e e l s the Road Warrior into the shale parking lot of a thrift store in Colorado Springs. “Snow City Pawns” reads the flickering neon sign above the door. “I know a guy here,” he announces. You what? “A guy—one of my suppliers. We need to stock up for Tulsa.” A look of confusion crosses your face. “You are going to Tulsa—aren’t you, friend?” asks Timothy McVeigh, sarcastically. To be honest, you hadn’t thought that far in advance. The Gun That Won the West 41 “If you want, you can ride along with me to Zimmerhaus’s Gun and Knife Show. I could use an extra hand with the tables. I’d even pay you a good clean American wage. Tax free,” he adds. “Besides, there’s nothing for you back in Kansas—that’s for certain.” You got that right, you think to yourself. Friend. “Hey, isn’t NORAD around here somewhere? Someplace near Colorado Springs?” he asks absentmindedly. You don’t have the first clue. As he turns off the Road Warrior’s ignition, Timothy McVeigh begins—bizarrely—to sing the Kansas state song. “‘Oh, give me a home where the buffalo roam.’” The sadness overwhelms you—miserable, displaced you. But it’s clearly time to think forwardly—to be forward-thinking. “‘Where the deer and the antelope play.’” S n o w C i t y Paw n s is an altogether tacky experience. And from the looks of things, it is barely a going concern. An old gumball machine graces the entrance to the store. You habitually finger the metal door to see if there is a stray piece of gum in the dispenser, only to come away with a handful of dust. The walls are adorned with the cheapest kind of secondhand paraphernalia. Old, beaten-up electric guitars are flanked by...