At around 4 p.m., McVeigh swung by the Dreamland Motel to register. The Dreamland was a regional landmark of sorts, with its distinctive sign—a five-cornered red star—visible to motorists passing through Junction City on 1-70. Lea McGown, the motel owner, was a local institution herself. A German immigrant with a strong accent and big personality, she kept a tight rein on her place, leaving the premises for only two days a year, Christmas and Easter. The nearby presence of Fort Riley guaranteed a steady stream of customers, but she had no patience for loudmouths or deadbeats.
The moment that McVeigh registered at the Dreamland was momentous, though it did not seem that way at the time. He had spent at least the previous seven months, since Clinton signed the assault weapons ban, singularly focused on the plan for the bombing. He’d assembled the ingredients and was ready to begin final preparations. But Nichols had told him earlier that day that he would be on his own for the critical moment in Oklahoma City. Now, with a certain weariness, McVeigh accepted the idea that he was going to get caught or die in the process. He wasn’t going to hide anymore. He had planned to use the name Kling throughout the final days and wear a disguise when he rented the truck and checked into the motel. But that plan had already fallen apart when Tom Manning recognized him as he bought the Mercury. At the Dreamland, McVeigh didn’t bother with a disguise, and when Lea McGown asked him his name for the motel registry, he said Tim McVeigh. For his home address, McVeigh listed 3616 North Van Dyke Road, Decker, Michigan—the Nichols family farm. As he told Jones, “I’m sure subconsciously it was like giving up because I know for a fact giving them a composite”—that is, the chance to prepare a sketch of him—“was giving up.”
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