Timothy McVeigh, the architect of the deadliest act of domestic terrorism on U.S. soil, was supremely calm in one such interview with a reporter. He kept his cool throughout the conversation. He smiled the whole time, and his smile masked the damaging spirit behind the deed. Here he reflected on his concerns about media interpretation of his story and public perception thereof. This exchange took place shortly before his execution. It offers an unsettling portrait within the mind of a man hell-bent on reauthoring his own story even as he is roundly reviled.
At the end of the meeting, McVeigh asked all sort of probing questions—including of the circulation figures read by USA TODAY—citing that publication’s biggest distribution day. He was concerned about the anticipated size of the audience. He was concerned it wouldn’t be big enough to do justice to the big story he was determined to tell. His deep concern with public perception speaks to his extreme need to be understood and seen. He still needed to face the music for the impact of his actions.
McVeigh’s frustrations with the media were palpable. He was tired of being mischaracterized, sometimes even described as a “speed freak, drug addict, neo-Nazi.” These labels bothered him as he struggled with the ways that the world saw him. He often used these characterizations as a jumping off point. What it showed was a man hellbent on reversing the tide of public outrage that he was sensing.
In a commercial-free moment, McVeigh expressed to us the depth of his loneliness and isolation while in a cage. He remarked, “Humor is my way of coping. I do it to relieve stress, more than anything else. Sometimes you got to laugh. I’ve been isolated for nine months. When I come to court, it is the first time I see people… I can’t fake the way I act. I was being myself. It’s a court of law, not a memorial service.” Yet in choosing these words, he captured what he did to ensure his emotional discharge exploration during his displacement.
McVeigh’s conviction in 1997 in a Denver federal courtroom was one of those consequential American moments. Authorities charged him on numerous counts, including murder and conspiracy, and successfully convicted him. As a result, he was sentenced to death, which resulted in his execution by lethal injection in 2001. His death lifted the final constraints on his speech. This really created an opportunity for a much more personal journey, particularly about how he felt, and what he was thinking, during those last days.
As McVeigh prepared for his own execution, he gave the warden a copy of the poem “Invictus.” …in his beautifully idiosyncratic, italicized hand. The poem’s imagery of resilience and self-mastery would have, like Minton’s letter, echoed McVeigh’s own fight with the myths constructed around him. It acted as a last requiem to his fraught relationship with identity and self image.
In the wake of his own imminent execution, McVeigh did complain about being exposed. He likened himself to Lee Harvey Oswald. He recalled how Oswald was brutally assassinated under the guise of a perp walk, left vulnerable and defenseless. This juxtaposition illuminates McVeigh’s awareness of the precariousness of his lofty position as a high-profile convict. Without the protection of a bulletproof vest, he still shows a remarkable instinct for self-preservation, even after death.
McVeigh’s character was complex. While he exhibited confidence and humor in interviews, beneath that facade lay deep-seated fears and insecurities. His desire for empathy was encapsulated in his statement, “Do not judge thy neighbor unless you walk a mile in his moccasins.” Ditto this quote, which illustrates his intense yearning for wisdom. It shows how he envisioned himself as greater than the monster that human society branded him.
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