John Doe No. 2 and the Dreamland Motel

7 The Mysterious Stranger

7 The Mysterious Stranger As you leave the N.R.A. booth, a bizarre cuckoo clock catches your attention. An attractive timepiece with a replica wooden chateau from the Bavarian Alps as its face, the clock signals every quarter hour by producing a miniature Adolf Hitler—his right arm extended upward in his iconic, eerie salute—from an elegant alpine doorway. What could possibly be next? you think to yourself. A Mussolini action figure? A Hirohito lunchbox? The Axis powers have never had it so good. “Well,ifitisn’tBobMiller!”TimothyMcVeighsuddenlyexclaims. He is vigorously shaking hands with an older, immaculately dressed gentleman. Wearing a white vest, a silky white scarf for a tie, and a long white overcoat, he cuts a remarkable figure—especially at a gun show, where the chosen attire tends to run in the tan, green, and brown families. In addition to his shaggy coif of white hair, he has an exaggerated neck, like a turkey’s wattle. You can barely suppress the laughter that is gathering in your throat. Your partner introduces you to the gentleman as Daryl Bridges. “Please, Timothy, let’s dispense with noms de plume among old friends.” Cradling a white top hat in his left hand, he shifts his weight in your direction. “I am Roger Moore from the great state 48 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 of Arkansas,” he announces, “and I am so very pleased to meet you.” Moore gives your hand a healthy shake, his turkey wattle jiggling in tune with his unvarnished delight at making your acquaintance. In spite of your more well-mannered instincts, you are gawking rather obviously at his attire. “I can see that you are stirred by my ensemble,” he observes. “There is nothing more somber, my boy, than a man who wears black for any and all occasions. It reminds me of one of my favorite apothegms: ‘A group of men in evening clothes looks like a flock of crows—and is just about as inspiring.’” Moore laughs heartily at his own joke as Timothy McVeigh carefully presents him with the prized weapon from Snow City Pawns. “Ah, there it is!” says Moore admiringly. “The Winchester repeating rifle.” He lapses into a protracted silence, caressing the smooth wood of the barrel, getting a feel for its pristine metalwork. You cannot be certain, but the regal gentleman from Arkansas seems to have begun weeping quietly to himself. “This is the very gun that spelt so much doom for the Indians,” says Moore. “The technological shift that gave the white man the upper hand—once and for all—in the Indian Wars of the 1870s. This is the weapon that won the frontier. That vanquished the red man. That wiped out the buffalo.” You cannot be sure if he’s merely pontificating or genuinely moved. Either way, you are impressed with Roger Moore’s imitation of the perfect Southern gentleman. Right down to the faux English accent—like some kind of contemporary Robert E. Lee. “Our modern America lives and breathes in this rifle,” continues Moore. “It is everything we are—and everything we ever hope to be. It is domination. Subjugation. It is the overwhelming sense of supremacy that we covet in our most secret thoughts. It is what winning feels like—winning against fearsome odds. It is, in a word, devastation. Our primal need to devastate and to overawe at the very same time.” Devastation. You make a mental note. The Mysterious Stranger 49 His performance seemingly having ended, Moore turns to Timothy McVeigh and hands him a well-worn Nike shoebox. “Your money, good sir,” says Moore. Apparently, shoeboxes are the depositories of choice in the gun-show trade. “It is all there—to the penny,” he adds, his turkey wattle galloping up and down with his every breath. “You have my eternal gratitude,” says Moore. You could swear that at this point he actually bows slightly to Timothy McVeigh. As if he were on some field of honor and not standing in the middle of the world’s largest gun showroom. R e v e l i n g i n y o u r n e w, tax-free employment, you assist Timothy McVeigh in setting up his sales tables for the gun show...