“Jesus. It’s been almost a year since the LA riots. You must have picked up some tricks since then. What if you tip off the FBI or a news station or something? At least try to warn them.”
Arnesto closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I suppose I should.”
“Why are you not gung-ho on this?”
“Waco’s not the end of it.” Arnesto chose his words carefully so as not to prematurely announce a major event to his friend. “I know it sounds terrible, but when it ends, I will know exactly when to prevent a future act of retaliation that kills twice as many people — people that didn’t willingly join a dangerous cult.”
“No, it doesn’t sound terrible. I’m sure you’re doing the right thing. Most people in your circumstance wouldn’t lift a finger to help those people — in either scenario.” Pete heard Arnesto sigh. “Then again, you’re not most people. Do you know who will retaliate?”
“Yeah, a psycho named… just some psycho.”
“Couldn’t you watch this guy? Hire a private investigator to keep an eye on him or something? That way, you could try to warn folks in Waco, but still prevent the retaliation?”
“Yeah, maybe. Let me sleep on it. One thing’s for certain — I am not going to Texas. Too far to drive to mess with a bunch of gun-totin’ cowboys,” Arnesto said.
“You could fly there then rent a car.”
“I just turned twenty-one. You have to be twenty-five to rent a car.”
“No, there’s a lot of places that will rent a car to twenty-one-year-olds. You’d just have to pay a fee,” Pete said.
“I didn’t know that.”
“Look,” Pete said, “I’m not telling you to go. But if you do and get into trouble, act like you love gun racks or hate abortions or something. Good luck, pardner.”
A few days later, Arnesto drove a rented sedan that smelled like cigarettes from Austin to the compound in Waco. Knowing he wouldn’t be able (and had no desire) to get past the ATF checkpoint, he instead chose a spot behind a bunch of other cars on the side of the road with a view of the area.
He surveyed the scene. There were cars, pickup trucks, press vans, and military vehicles. Locals and looky-loos, members of the press, and more agents than one could count. Then there was the compound itself which, from three miles away, appeared quiet.
Arnesto spent his time ambling about aimlessly, avoiding conversations while eavesdropping on others, and watching the press for any signs of action. Once the sun started to set, he noticed people leaving and decided to follow suit. As he was walking back to his rental, one pickup slowed down as it passed him.
“Best get the lead out, boy! The feds’ll start their concert any minute!” the driver said, then rolled up his window as he drove off. Arnesto sped up his walk, not sure what the man was talking about. He wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.
As Arnesto came within thirty feet of the car, the FBI started blaring music at the compound. Though Arnesto could barely make it out from that distance, he could tell the FBI had chosen the most annoying music possible: Christmas carols. Arnesto got in his car and cranked up the radio. Even country music was preferable to Christmas carols.
The next day was like the first: not much in the way of progress.
It wasn’t until the third day that Arnesto finally caught something of a break. He was walking up the dusty hill by the compound again when he spied a man in his mid-twenties with a short, military haircut sitting on the hood of his car. The young man looked familiar.
“Want to buy a bumper sticker?” he asked.
Arnesto looked at the stickers, which all had pro-gun and/or anti-government sayings like, “Ban Guns, Make the Streets Safe for a Government Takeover.”
“The government sure messed up this situation, didn’t they?” Arnesto asked. Why does he look so familiar?
“ATF had no business being here in the first place, and they have made nothing but mistakes since they arrived. The government wants to control everything. They want to take away all our guns and turn us all into socialists. I’m sorry some of them got killed, but they should have had the sheriff go in with a warrant.”
“I hear that. I’ll take these two,” Arnesto said, picking up two bumper stickers off the hood. He held out his hand. “Name’s Bob.”
“Nice to meet you, Bob. I’m Tim,” said the man, shaking Arnesto’s hand. Until that moment, Arnesto wasn’t one hundred percent sure who he was talking to. Now he was. It was Timothy McVeigh, the future bomber of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City which left 168 people dead, including nineteen children.
Arnesto paid and then they chatted a bit more, with McVeigh doing most of the talking. Finally, Arnesto’s nerves got the better of him and he excused himself. Once a respectable distance away, he looked back and with McVeigh looking the other way, jotted down his license plate number.
Back at the hotel, Arnesto quickly called Katrina to let her know how the “game conference” was going. They had a nice chat, then they hung up and he dialed Pete.
“I met him!” Arnesto said.
“Who, David Koresh? How the hell did you do that? And why?”
“No, the other guy, the one who retaliates if Mount Carmel burns down.”
“What… he was there?!” Pete asked.
“Yeah, selling bumper stickers that say things like, ‘A Man With a Gun is a Citizen, A Man Without a Gun is a Subject.’ I bought a couple. Didn’t want to do anything to anger the man. He really hates the government,” Arnesto said.
“Wow, could’ve used him in our gun control debate. For fuck’s sake! You were supposed to gather intel, not start hanging out with these guys. Next thing you know you’ll be playing poker over steaks and whiskey with him, Koresh, and the Unabomber. Did you make any progress with Koresh?”
“Not really, but — holy shit, I know who the Unabomber is — anyway, check this out. Koresh not only convinced the other men he should sleep with their wives; he convinced them they couldn’t.”
“You wish you had that power, don’t you?” Pete said.
“No,” Arnesto said. “I don’t want to go around stealing other dudes’ wives, but if I’m ever single again, it would be nice to have a fraction of that guy’s charisma.”
“David Koresh is a megalomaniac. He loves the sound of his own voice. They keep playing some of his recordings on one of the stations here. I’m watching one now.”
“What channel?” Arnesto picked up the remote and went through every channel on the bolted-down television. “They don’t seem to have it here. Listen, can you record it for me? I have an idea, finally. Record as much as you can, then send me the tapes by the fastest delivery possible.”
“You got it,” Pete said.
Over the next week, Arnesto remained in his hotel room glued to the TV. After many painstaking hours of listening, transcribing, recording, and editing, he felt like he had what he needed. He rewound and played the cassette tape for what seemed like the thousandth time. It was David Koresh saying a bunch of words that Arnesto had spliced together. It didn’t exactly flow, but the multiple layers of recording obscured the choppiness.
“If they come in here,” the tape said, “we will burn this place. Everyone will burn. The children must die before God.” The recording gave him chills. He made a few copies to mail to the local news stations but wasn’t sure if he should give one to the FBI. It wasn’t out of disrespect. He simply feared the FBI would recognize a fake and stomp it out before it could do any good.
He mailed two of the tapes then drove a short ways north toward Dallas to discard the now-broken VCR and a few other items before heading back to Austin. But once on the highway, he had this nagging suspicion that kept growing larger. What if the news stations didn’t do anything with the tape? He simply couldn’t depend on them like that. It would be a huge risk, but he had to call the FBI.