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The road is so familiar it brings back memories of countless drives to Lockport, usually on some political mission. But this time I'm on my way to meet the father of the man who's confessed to being the worst mass murderer in American history.
The day is warm and the sun shines. The farms along the way are showing that rich, young green you see in rural Niagara County as spring emerges. It seems unreal that this pastoral setting would be the home of the hated killer.
When I think of Pendleton, the old Erie Canal first comes to mind and, sure enough, we drive along the canal as we approach the McVeigh home. I don't have an appointment, but I'm hoping for the best as we pull into the driveway. The house looks like many others in the area. About the only thing that sets it apart is the " No Trespassing" sign.
My photographer waits in the car as I knock on the door. There are two cars in the driveway, so I figure somebody's home. I knock again, ring the bell, but nobody answers.
Finally, I hear a voice from the garage where the door is open.
"Can I help you?"
It's Bill McVeigh. I recognize him from the trial. I introduce myself and explain I would like to talk to him about the upcoming execution.
I talk fast and explain I'm originally from the area, worked in politics and was a friend of Ray Beiter's. Ray, the retired Niagara County Clerk, was the longtime supervisor of the Town of Pendleton.
Bill smiles and notes Ray's a great guy, to which I nod knowingly.
"Look, I'm busy right now--could you come back late tomorrow?" he asks.
I explain I'm working on a really tight schedule and just wanted to squeeze 15 minutes of his time. Bill says he's booked for a round of golf, but if I return about 7 that night, he'll sit down with me.
"Just park in the driveway and wait if I'm not home yet," he says in a welcoming manner.
We shake hands. It's a deal. I hop in the car and tell my photographer buddy, Keith Jungquist, what happened. We are both amazed at the cordiality, especially considering the circumstances.
We head to the Falls, check into our hotel and scoot over to The Press Box for a late lunch. Over Pittsburgers, I talk with Flo Acotto, an old friend and owner of the joint. I explain why I'm in town, and Flo is sympathetic to the McVeigh family. Every day Flo goes over to St. Mary's on Fourth Street and says a prayer for Tim. Her theory is that not too many people pray for the guy who killed 168 innocent people. She's probably right.
Back to Pendleton.
Bill invites us in and we sit around the kitchen table.
"Ask me anything," he says strongly. Bill is shy, but candid.
I ask him, "Will Tim express any regret about what he did?"
He says Tim has told him, "Dad, if I said I was sorry that would be a lie."
You can easily see the sadness in Bill McVeigh's eyes. While Tim won't apologize and show any sympathy for his victims, his father pours forth with sorrow about the deaths, making endless apologies for his son's terrible deed.
This all seem so incongruous. A son pleased with mass murder and hell-bent to head to his execution unrepentant, and a father deeply touched by the suffering of others, who can now only pray his son will show some remorse. It doesn't make any sense.
Bill offers us a beer and puts a tape shown at Tim's trial in the VCR. We sit in the living room and watch the McVeigh family's home movies. It all looks so normal. Tim swimming with kids from the neighborhood, on a sled with his grandfather, high school graduation pictures. The kind of stuff that's a slice of pure Americana in a place that is quintessentially middle of the road.
How could this family and this place--Pendleton--produce such a monster?
Bill talks on as we watch the tape. He laughs about a green light on the VCR that is always on.
"Tim could get that off when he was here, but he hasn't been around in six years," Bill laments. He says he and his son enjoyed watching the Sabres and Bills, and still converse about the Bills' quarterback controversies.
"He was a normal son, just like the kid next door."
Bill's voice softens with sadness. "Timmy was just regular. I'll never understand it. Maybe the divorce hurt him more than I thought, but lots of kids face that and things like this don't happen."
McVeigh's parents split when he was 16.
Bill reflects on how his normal son may have changed.
"The only things I can think of were the Army and the Nichols brothers. He was okay before then, and after he changed, but I'm not sure. Who knows?"
His words don't carry anger--only bewilderment and sadness. We talk about his years at Harrison Radiator and Western New York's economic decline. As we get to know each other better, Bill engages in small talk about life's simple pleasures.
He likes retirement and the freedom to golf whenever he wants. The kitchen is filled with bags of groceries. Bill's making lunch tomorrow for about 25 guys, retired and active Harrison workers who play golf together. Bill has lots of loyal friends, and you can understand why. Bill's a solid guy, really the salt of the earth. His friends stand with him through this ghastly, real nightmare.
We walk out in the back where Bill shows me his large garden. He's proud of his work and points out the asparagus sprouting and the strawberries doing so well. The garden is littered with golf balls. He says he likes to practice chipping in his backyard.
He tells me how he told a reporter from MSNBC, based in New York City, that golf balls actually are grown upstate. The confused reporter took a few minutes to catch on, he explained, and Bill laughed uproariously as he retold the tale.
How could this man be the father of an unrepentant baby killer? It doesn't make sense. Bill and I talked politics. We both knew a lot of names from the past--especially of the Democratic variety. I explained how I always had great support from the United Auto Workers. Not only was I philosophically a liberal, I explained, I actually was elected to office on the Liberal as well as Democratic party lines. Bill approved. He then made fun the anti-government types. You know, the kind who denounce government interference in their lives, but never met a subsidy they didn't love. Bill certainly was not the source of his son's views of government as the enemy. Bill's not going to Tim's execution, and he won't be home in Pendleton. He'll be far away, and plans to go to Mass to pray, knowing he'll never understand. Bill McVeigh is a decent man who will always bear the terrible burden of his son's sins. When Tim goes, we should all join Flo Acotto. Say a prayer for him, and his long-suffering father.