Bringing Adam Home (34 page)

A companion piece in the
South Florida Sun-Sentinel
(Fort Lauderdale was replaced in the paper’s title in 2000) quoted Hollywood detective Mark Smith as admitting that the case was “probably too big for us at the time,” and while he stopped short of criticizing those who had preceded him, he did say, “The investigation was not handled to my satisfaction. Let’s just leave it at that.” While Smith stoutly proclaimed that he “really believed” that his department would close the case someday, he admitted that he had not interviewed anyone concerning the matter in more than three years. Attempts to solicit comment from former detective Jack Hoffman, still on the force but scheduled for imminent retirement, went unanswered.

In the end, and following a rehash of missed opportunities and dead-end investigations,
Herald
reporter de Vise concluded, “The prospect that it will ever be solved has never looked so dim.”

So it had always been at Hollywood PD, it seemed, and so it would remain for most of Chief Scarberry’s tenure as well. Despite Detective Smith’s upbeat contentions, five more years would pass without further pronouncements on the case, until the
Miami Herald
published yet another milestone story, this one proclaiming the twenty-fifth anniversary of failure, though this time there was a positive coda to add: “25 Years after Crime, a New Federal Law.” The piece, mirrored by many in South Florida and around the nation, recounted the grim outline of Adam Walsh’s kidnapping and murder, calling it “a crime that would change the nation.”

Few parents would ever again leave their children alone or unattended in public places, reporters noted, pointing to such widespread practices as the “Code Adam” alerts broadcast by big-box retailers such as Walmart and Home Depot any time a child is reported lost in their stores.

In addition, laws had changed to help police mobilize and defend on behalf of children, including the new Adam Walsh Child Protection and Safety Act, legislation that President Bush was poised to sign on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the tragic event. The act mandated ten-year prison sentences for sex crimes against persons under the age of eighteen, created a uniform sex offender registry in every state, and outlawed any depiction of sexual abuse of children and its dissemination.

As to the case itself, however, commentators held out little hope for a solution. “The Walshes—and all families of missing children—never get closure,” said Bill Fleisher, a Philadelphia forensic scientist and commissioner of the Vidocq Society, a cold case investigative group. Despite the likelihood that their son’s murderer would never be found, Fleisher called attention to the good that had come out of personal tragedy. “They are likely the most important advocates that the country has ever had for preventing and solving crimes against children.”

Still, there was always reason to hope, some opined. Detective Mark Smith again told reporters of his hopes that someone might come forward one day with information that would allow him to close the case, a prospect echoed by noted criminologist Vernon J. Geberth. “A new witness could come forward,” said Geberth, former commander of the NYPD Bronx homicide unit. “A relative of the killer who knows about the crime may want to finally unburden himself.”

The Walshes had survived on such hopes for a quarter of a century, of course, and while John had assumed a role as a celebrity crime fighter in his own right, the years in the spotlight had not always been kind. In 1983, just a few weeks shy of the statute of limitations in such matters, the couple had contemplated suing Sears over what they considered shortcomings in store security, including the fact that six-year-old Adam had simply been turned out on the street without so much as a “Where are your parents, little boy?”

However, attorneys for the company countered by saying that if the Walshes sued, they would parade details of Revé’s affair with Jimmy Campbell in court and paint her as an unfit mother. It wasn’t really a threat, a Sears attorney told reporters—he was just trying to save the Walshes some embarrassment. Faced with such a prospect, the Walshes dropped the suit.

And in 1999, as if following the statistical mandate that more than half of the couples who lose a child to tragedy will split up (some studies have put the figure as high as 80 percent), Revé filed for divorce from John. However, there were three children still at home at the time—Meghan, then seventeen, Callahan, fifteen, and Hayden, fourteen—and four months later, Revé rescinded her petition. Eventually the couple smoothed over their difficulties and resumed a united place at the forefront of efforts on behalf of missing and exploited children.

As for Joe Matthews, his days following his retirement from Miami Beach PD remained full as well. He joined the faculty of the Center for Psychological Studies at Nova Southeastern University in the 1980s and he continued on there, lecturing on investigative interviewing and clinical polygraph. He also traveled extensively about the United States speaking at universities, police departments, and corporations on behalf of DNA LifePrint, a company formed to offer child safety programs and distribution of an inexpensive home DNA identification kit developed as a result of the difficulty he encountered in identifying “Baby Lollipops.” And while he had stepped away from his interest in polygraph services and instruction, he continued as an investigative consultant to law enforcement agencies and the private sector across the United States and in Canada.

In 1999, when John Walsh asked if he might be interested in doing some investigative work for a new “cold case” component for
America’s Most Wanted
, Matthews—a detective through and through—jumped at the opportunity. The producers expected that Matthews might present evidence pertaining to various cold cases and let the audience theorize for themselves what might have actually happened, but Matthews took one look at the known elements of the first case suggested to him, one involving the year-old death of a former high school wrestling champion in eastern Pennsylvania, and decided he could do better than what was proposed. After nearly two years of digging, he unearthed evidence proving the involvement of four drug-dealing University of Lock Haven football players in the killing. Having solved the first cold case investigation in the show’s history, Matthews secured his career as an on-screen investigator.

From time to time during their association, both Matthews and Walsh would reflect on the one case that had baffled authorities and galled them both, and they each vowed on more than one occasion that one day they would see justice served. In fact, from the time of the airing of the first
AMW
show on Adam in 1996, Matthews had followed up every tip concerning the case submitted to the program, calls that came on the average of two or three a month. The former homicide detective traveled around Florida and as far away as the prisons of Colorado and California in search of viable leads, but nothing panned out.

And Matthews admits that if it hadn’t been for the boorish reporter who buttonholed John Walsh in January 2006, just a few months before the signing of the Adam Walsh Child Protection and Safety Act, things might have stayed that way forever.

W
hen Joe Matthews got the call from John Walsh to let him know he was coming to South Florida for an
AMW
shoot in early February 2006 and would like to get together, the detective didn’t think too much about it. Matthews was still working regularly as an investigator for the show and simply assumed that Walsh wanted to run an idea for some new investigation past him.

Even when Walsh added that Revé would be with him and that they wanted to talk to him about an important matter, it still didn’t register. Most of the time John traveled by himself for the shoots, but since this one was in South Florida, it made sense that Revé would come along, and Matthews, who enjoyed her company, was happy to hear it. Walsh suggested that they meet at the Atlantic Hotel on Ocean Drive in Fort Lauderdale, where the crew would be set up, and Matthews said he’d be there with bells on.

When he walked into the hotel’s second-floor conference room on the afternoon of February 20, Matthews found John and Revé waiting, along with Lance Heflin, then executive producer for
AMW
, and Heflin’s wife, Jan. John invited Matthews to sit and began to explain why they’d asked him there that afternoon. It was only when Revé put her hand on John’s arm and cut in that Matthews began to understand that something out of the ordinary was afoot. In all his years around the Walshes, he’d found that John usually did most of the talking, while Revé listened patiently. She would have her incisive piece to add, to be sure, but it was almost always after John had led the way. As she began to speak on this day, Matthews was still trying to remember the last time he’d seen her interrupt her husband.

“Excuse me, John,” Revé said, then cast an apologetic glance at Heflin’s wife. “But I’d like this to be a closed meeting. I’m sorry, Jan. It’s just that it’s a very sensitive matter.”

By the time that Heflin’s wife had left the room, every cop instinct in Matthews was on alert. Again, John Walsh started his preamble. They’d been up in Washington a few days ago, working the Hill on behalf of the Adam Walsh Child Protection and Safety Act, when he’d been confronted with the question that had plagued him most of his adult life. As always, Walsh said, he realized the futility of trying to explain the million and one screwups involved . . .

Then Revé interrupted again. “Joe,” she said, “we’ve heard the question a hundred times, and we’ll hear it again on July 27 when we’re back in Washington to watch the president sign the bill—‘Why can’t you find out who killed your son?’ And you know what? I’m sick of it. Do you think I don’t
want
to find out?”

There were tears in her eyes by that point, and Matthews stole a glance at John and Heflin, two guys accustomed to riding in the front seat. But they were way, way in the back right now, he thought.

“For twenty-five years, my husband has been pretty much in charge of this matter, protecting me from things. He’s shielded me from the awful details, and he’s minimized all the incompetence we’ve had to deal with from the police. He’s done it because he loves me and doesn’t want me to have to hear horrible things about what happened to our baby, particularly when he worries that they can’t be proven. And he hasn’t wanted to make me any more angry than I am already when the cops throw up their hands over and over again. But I am here to tell you that all that has come to an end.” She glanced at her husband, then turned back to Matthews.

“When I left Adam that day, I told him, ‘Honey, I’ll be right over there in the lamp department,’ and he looked back at me and said, ‘I know where you’ll be, Mommy.’ Those are the last words I ever heard him say. That’s the moment I’ve lived with for twenty-five years, and that is worse than anything some sick son of a bitch could ever say to me.”

Revé leaned across the table toward Matthews, who was riveted in his chair. By this point, the tears were streaming down her face. “I’ve known you a long time, Joe, and I think you’re one of the few cops ever involved in Adam’s case who knows what the hell he’s doing.”

Matthews might have mumbled his thanks at that, but Revé held up her hand to stop him. “But it’s been twenty-five years,” she said, her voice rising, “and nothing has happened. I still don’t know who killed my little boy. I want
you
to investigate. I want to know every detail. I want to know who did what and who didn’t do what.”

She was wiping away tears with the heels of both hands now. “This has nothing to do with the show. For John and me, for our sake as parents, I want you to prove once and for all who killed our son. We
think
we know who did it, but we want you to
prove
it. And we want the cops to clear this case. Until that happens, we won’t have peace. It doesn’t matter that Ottis Toole is dead. He died without ever being charged, and as far as John and I are concerned that’s the same thing as going free. Our baby was murdered, and someone has to be held accountable. That’s not too hard to understand, is it?”

She paused, still wiping at her tears, and fixed Matthews with an even gaze. “Joe, will you do this for me?”

At this point, everyone in the room was choked up. John Walsh leaned to comfort his sobbing wife, and Matthews struggled to get his voice under control. He’d spent his whole life trying to bring criminals to justice, and he knew exactly how Revé felt. Her words spoke to the core of his reason for being.

“I’m honored that you’d even ask,” he told Revé quietly. He would start immediately. He would investigate as he would were he a police officer assigned to a cold case, and he would bring to the job all that he had in him. He couldn’t predict the outcome, of course—no one could—but at least this time there’d be no one there to throw him off the case.

Hollywood, Florida—February 21, 2006

T
he resurrection of the Adam Walsh case had never been a matter high on Hollywood police chief James Scarberry’s priority list. Still, Scarberry knew that Matthews had put in a good word on his behalf with the Hollywood police union while he was being considered for the job, and he was also well aware of the blemish the high-profile matter had left on the record of his new department. Furthermore, Scarberry knew from his time in Miami Beach that Matthews was an accomplished cop—whatever the public thought, you didn’t get to be Officer of the Year by accident. Thus, when Matthews showed up in his office on February 21, 2006, some five and a half years after he’d taken over the reins in Hollywood, Scarberry knew enough to listen.