Bringing Adam Home - Les Standiford [109]
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