Bringing Adam Home, page 27
Bean told Matthews he would place the call, and Matthews waited a week to follow up. On June 1, he called back. “They haven’t found them yet, but they’re still looking,” Bean said.
On June 19, Matthews placed yet another call to Bean, asking for an update on the status of those misplaced photographs. The FDLE had told him that no such photos existed in their files, Bean said.
Matthews hung up and sat pondering the situation for a moment. Twenty-three years had passed. Witnesses had died, the likely killer of Adam Walsh had died, and a great deal of evidence had disappeared as well. If the bloody carpet samples had vanished, along with the 4,200-pound automobile from which they’d come, why couldn’t five rolls worth of photographs have vaporized as well? Still, Matthews was not the sort to leave stones unturned. If you were a good cop, you turned them all over. And sometimes, if you were lucky, you found exactly what you were looking for.
He reached for the phone then and called the FDLE crime lab himself. He’d have to speak to someone in the photo lab, a voice told him, and Matthews waited patiently while he was transferred. When an attendant answered, he explained that he was simply following up on the request of Sergeant Bean from Hollywood PD. Were they absolutely certain that no copies of the photographs taken of Ottis Toole’s Cadillac back in 1983 existed in their files?
There was a pause on the other end. No one in the office seemed to know what Matthews was talking about. There’d been no request for any photos from anyone at Hollywood PD.
Matthews nodded and hung up. He’d played this game before. Except the last time around, the joker on the other side of the table had been a guy named Jack Hoffman.
In the end, Matthews spoke to an FDLE public information officer, Sharon Gogerty, who checked the files in reference to Hollywood PD case #81-56073. Yes, she told Matthews, they had ninety-eight photo negatives pertaining to the processing of suspect Ottis Toole’s vehicle.
Well then, Matthews asked, would it be possible for him to obtain copies of the prints? Gogerty paused, then said a surprising thing. There were no prints, she told Matthews. The film had been processed into negatives for the purposes of storage—standard operating procedure at FDLE—but never in twenty-three years had any prints been developed.
Matthews paused. In other words, he asked, no detective has ever requested or looked at the photos taken of Ottis Toole’s Cadillac?
“That would seem to be the case,” Gogerty replied brightly. “But you can be the first.”
On Tuesday, June 27, 2006, an FDLE regional legal adviser, John Kenner, sent ninety-eight photographs copied from lab case file 831043357 to Matthews at America’s Most Wanted, where staffers in turn forwarded them to his offices in Davie, a few miles northwest of Hollywood. Matthews, who had come in early that Wednesday to work on his report, glanced up as his longtime secretary Mary Alvarez came through his door with a hefty UPS envelope in hand. “Were you expecting something in the overnight?” she asked.
Indeed he was, Matthews assured her. He set his coffee aside and quickly spread out the thick sheaf of three-by-five-inch prints on his desk, trying all the while to keep his expectations under control. He was excited to have unearthed the photographs, but he had suffered his share of setbacks on this case before—in all honesty, it wouldn’t have surprised him to find he’d been sent a series of shots of an FDLE employee’s birthday party.
This time, though, he’d hit pay dirt. He was looking at the outset for any shots of the rear bumper of the Cadillac. When he quickly found three that depicted the sizable dent described by both William Mistler and Bobby Lee Jones, Toole’s coworker from Jacksonville, Matthews nodded with satisfaction. It was confirmation that indeed it was Toole’s car that Mistler had seen in the Sears parking lot the day that Adam had been taken.
“Good, good, good” is Matthews’ characteristic way of expressing enthusiasm, and that is what he murmured as he turned to see what other treasures might have come his way. There were other shots of the Cadillac’s exterior, dashboard, and seats, but he expected nothing of real import there. Of far more interest were a series of dark shots that resembled negatives, dotted here and there by objects that glowed a psychedelic blue.
In fact, these were a set of specially processed shots taken by FDLE crime scene investigators using luminol technology to identify or enhance the presence of blood traces on items of evidence. In this process, ordinary photographs are taken of objects, then chemicals that become luminescent when in contact with blood are applied to those objects, and the photographs taken again. The second series of photos are shot in darkness, with a wide aperture setting and the lens open for a minute or more. The only images that appear are special luminescent markers that orient the viewer and any part of the item where blood residue—invisible to the naked eye—might exist. Anything that retains the presence of blood will show up in a ghostly metallic blue.
Matthews first went about arranging a comparison of a set of photos taken of the front driver’s-side floorboards. Given all the disappointments of the past quarter-century, he expected little. But now he sat staring in disbelief at what was laid out before him.
The pictures of the front floorboard carpeting shot in ordinary light showed nothing beyond the ordinary dirt and dings he might expect, except for the presence of the orienting marker the technician had placed along the edge of the carpet. But as Matthews placed the corresponding luminol-enhanced shot alongside the first, he could hear Ottis Toole’s reply to Jack Hoffman during his confession of October 20, 1983, ringing in his mind:
Hoffman: Did you get blood all over you from the child?
Toole: I got it on my shoes. I throwed my shoes away too, and I put another pair of shoes on.
So you did, Matthews murmured to himself, so you damned well did. There in the photograph before him glowed a blood-engendered image of a pair of shoeprints firmly planted on the driver’s floorboards.
Matthews set those images aside, well aware of the significance of the discovery. At long last, here was physical evidence tying Ottis Toole to the crime.
He set aside the images of the bloody footprints, and turned to another set of prints of the machete that Detective Terry had confiscated from Toole’s car-dealer associate in Jacksonville. In one of his confessions, Toole had mentioned wrapping tape around the handle of his machete to keep from getting blisters, and the luminol shot of the machete with its taped-up handle showed nothing.
But in a second image, taken after the tape had been removed from its handle, the wooden grips of the blade glowed from blood as if radioactive. Matthews studied the image, compared the location of the marker in the luminol image with that in the original again, then exhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair. There before him was a photograph of Ottis Toole’s machete, taken from his car, its handle soaked in blood.
Matthews turned back to what was left of the photographs, then, riffling through a set taken from the rear floorboards. At first he saw nothing of interest, just some streaky, vague imagery, nothing to compare with that bold set of footprints or that pulsing machete handle; then he stopped himself and looked closer at the photograph in his hand.
He studied the image for a moment, glanced away, then turned to look closely again, not sure whether to trust his eyes. He double-checked the markers to be certain—but indeed he was looking at a shot of the carpet directly behind the driver’s seat. The image taken in ordinary light revealed nothing. But as to the luminol-enhanced image . . .
In all his years as a cop, Matthews had never seen anything like it—though having been raised as a Catholic, he was more than familiar with similar images preserved by church fathers over the centuries. What he was looking at chilled him—but there was more to the feeling than that. From this image there emanated reassurance, and a strange kind of peace, and the blessed feeling that twenty-six years of effort had not gone in vain.
Unless he was just finding images in clouds, that is.
He tucked the photographs into a folder and hurried out of his office with a distracted wave for Mary. Once in his car, he paused to dial his old friend Pat Franklin, also a former Miami Beach detective and now a private investigator with his own firm. The two of them often met at a cigar bar far north on Biscayne Boulevard for a smoke and a coffee on the way home from their respective offices, but Joe was an hour or more ahead of the usual curve.
“Something wrong?” Franklin asked when he picked up. He’d recognized who it was from the caller ID. Neither one of them bothered with unnecessary pleasantries anymore.
“You gotta meet me right now,” he told Franklin.
“It’s a little early,” Franklin said.
“I’m not kidding,” Matthews said. “I need you to see something.”
There was a pause, and some rustling of papers. “Give me fifteen minutes,” Franklin said.
When he caught sight of his still-trim friend entering the bar, Matthews felt the urgency rising in him again. He hadn’t dared to look at the photograph since he’d left his office.
“Take a look at this,” he said, thrusting the folder at Franklin.
Franklin smiled at him quizzically. “Good to see you, too,” he said, opening the folder. He glanced at the photo, then looked back at Matthews. “The light’s for shit in here.” He stepped closer to the window in the front of the place and Matthews tagged along after him.
Franklin studied the photo for a moment and Matthews watched his face. Franklin was well aware of what he was working on, and knew the last detail of every roadblock and frustration he’d encountered over all the years. Finally Franklin closed the folder and handed it back. They’d both learned how to play poker as cops. If Franklin didn’t want you to know what he was thinking, you could beat your brains out wondering.
“You weren’t going to ask me what I see there, were you?”
Matthews gave him something like a shrug. “I wasn’t sure, that’s all.”
Franklin nodded. He might have smiled, except for the horror of what they’d been looking at.
“The hell of it is, I have to show the Walshes,” Matthews said. “But right now, let’s have us a cigar.”
Throughout the course of his two-year reinvestigation of the case, Joe Matthews met regularly with John and Revé Walsh to update them on his progress, but despite Revé’s insistence that he share everything with her, he hesitated about showing her and John the images from the machete and the floorboards of Toole’s Cadillac. Still, he could scarcely keep such a discovery from them. Furthermore, he needed their corroboration of the results.
Accordingly, he arranged for a meeting in the law offices of Kelly Hancock, John and Revé’s attorney and longtime friend. Hancock, a former Broward County prosecutor, had already spoken to Matthews and knew what to expect, but he, too, understood how tough it would be for any parents to view what Matthews had uncovered. While Matthews explained the luminol process and tried to prepare John and Revé for what he was about to show them, Revé cut in. “Let me see the photographs, Joe,” she said, her face set.
Matthews hesitated, but finally handed over the packet. Revé studied the photos for a moment—first those of Toole’s machete, then his glowing footprints, and then the stunning image taken from the rear floorboards. With her eyes welling, she turned and handed them to John.
John took his own hard look at the photos, lingering over the last, then glanced up at Matthews and nodded briefly. Finally, he turned and wordlessly embraced his anguished wife.
Twenty-seven years of not knowing, Matthews thought, looking on. And now they finally did.
Fort Lauderdale, Florida—July 14, 2006
As Matthews left Kelly Hancock’s law offices that day, he knew well that he had settled the first of the items on the investigation’s agenda. If there had ever been a doubt in the minds of John and Revé Walsh as to what had happened to their son, not a shred now remained.
But still before him was the matter of presenting an investigative file that would convince the Hollywood police to name Ottis Toole as the person responsible. Until the killer was charged—and never mind that he was dead, and no matter how many other slayings he had been convicted of—John and Revé Walsh could never rest.
Especially not after what they’d seen that day. As a law officer and a father of four himself, Matthews understood well the importance of the task that remained. One last bit of business, and then, just maybe, he could rest.
There were several items Matthews wanted to bolster in his report, but one of the first things he did was to place a call to Reaves Roofing in Jacksonville, seeking information on the employment records of Bobby Lee Jones, the man who said he had put the dent in Ottis Toole’s bumper and who had told Broward County State Attorney’s Office investigator Philip Mundy in 1996 that Toole had confessed the crime to him as early as 1982. When Matthews finally reached family member Alan Reaves at the company offices, Reaves explained that John Reaves Jr. had recently died of cancer. Alan Reaves said that he’d be happy to help, but that no records prior to 1986 were any longer in existence. They had been eaten by termites while in storage, Reaves explained.
Matthews briefly contemplated the fact that even insects seemed to have conspired against him in his pursuit of the investigation, but it was not in his nature to dwell upon disappointment. He simply shook his head and moved on, intent upon building a body of evidence that would compel any law enforcement agency to conclude that a certain individual had committed this crime and that a successful prosecution could be carried out.
Still, events around him were a constant reminder that time had its own way of imposing a statute of limitations on a case. In July 2007, former Hollywood police chief Dick Witt, who had ordered Matthews off the cold case investigation back in 1996, died in Ormand Beach, where he had retired. And in early November, current Hollywood chief James Scarberry, the man who had authorized opening his department’s files to Matthews, retired, hounded by accusations that he had tipped off his command staff that several corrupt Hollywood detectives had been targeted by an FBI sting operation.
Scarberry’s departure was no great disappointment to Matthews, for while the chief had posed no impediment to his investigation, he was clearly not greatly interested in the matter either. In fact, as Matthews reviewed the files that had been turned over to him, it became clear that even though every tip that had come to America’s Most Wanted over the years since the airing of the Adam episode in 1996 had been passed along—leads that Matthews had pursued all the way from Florida to Colorado and points in between—not one had ever been pursued by Hollywood PD.
Still, he reminded himself, that was all water under the bridge. The more pressing issue now was the inclination of Scarberry’s successor, Chad Wagner, who’d risen through the ranks at Hollywood PD, beginning as a patrolman in 1983 to become assistant chief under Scarberry.
Would Wagner prove to be another in a long line of administrators who would rather the matter were simply buried once and for all, or would he throw the roadblocks up once again? The answer was not long in coming.
In December, Mark Smith of the Hollywood PD, now a captain of detectives at Hollywood PD, called Matthews. By this time Matthews had come across the “ulterior motives” memo Smith had written years before, but Matthews said nothing. Smith was either going to be a help or a hindrance, and bringing up the matter would accomplish nothing.
Smith explained that he was calling on behalf of the newly appointed Chief Wagner, who wondered whether or not Matthews might be able to provide him with an address for John Walsh. Wagner wanted to introduce himself, Smith said, and he also wanted to extend his personal condolences to the Walsh family. Matthews held the phone away from his ear to stare at it for a moment, not sure he had heard correctly.
He gave Smith the address, then went back to work, wondering if he might have imagined the incident. A few days later, however, he got a call from John Walsh, who began by saying, “You’re not going to believe this letter I just received . . .” Matthews said nothing, just listened quietly as John Walsh described the contents of the first unsolicited communication that had ever passed from the Hollywood PD to him and his family in more than twenty-six years. Matthews could hear it in Walsh’s voice—how much that gesture meant to a still-grieving family.
Then, in late January of the following year, at a reception following a Broward County Police Academy graduation, Dick Brickman, the president of the Broward County Police Benevolent Association, took Matthews by the arm and introduced him to Chief Wagner. Matthews let Wagner know how much his letter meant to the Walsh family, surprising the chief when he mentioned the fact that it was the first such gesture they had ever received from his agency.
Matthews also told Wagner that he was well along on a cold case investigation of the murder of Adam Walsh that had been authorized by Chief Scarberry. Matthews explained that his progress had been delayed by the fact that his ninety-four-year-old mother was now confined to the hospital, where he sometimes took parts of the Walsh case file to work on at her bedside. Still, he looked forward to presenting his report to Chief Wagner soon.
For his part, Wagner seemed glad to hear the news. “I’ll read every page,” he assured Matthews. They were heartening words, and Wagner seemed sincere enough, Matthews thought, but he had heard a lot of promises in his day.
Still, he continued with work on his report, obsessed with checking every fact, tying up every loose end, reducing his findings to their essence. He prepared a meticulous timeline of the case drawn from the myriad agency reports and supplemental memos, for the first time placing the events and discoveries in order from first to last, and providing a context from which patterns of cause and effect might be discerned.
