Peeling the Onion: From Matthew Shepard's Murder to "Don't Say Gay"

By Walter T. Boulden, PhD

This book weaves glimpses of some of the author’s experiences; intertwined with the experiences of friends, family and acquaintances; in his half-century journey to understand the impact of oppression and trauma on his life and the country. The author explores how the murder of his young friend Matthew Shepard, and being briefly thrust into the national spotlight, affected the direction and focus of that journey. The book chronicles his movement from the deafening silence of growing up in the “don’t ask don’t tell” environment of Wyoming; through that horrific murder; and into decades of painstakingly slow, positive, change toward social justice; accompanied by a growing negative backlash culminating in “don’t say gay” and other hate-based legislation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Oct 13, 2023
• ISBN: 9798889106159

Walter T. Boulden, PhD

Walter T. Boulden, PhD is a retired Associate Social Work Professor with over twenty years of experience researching and teaching cultural competency, social justice and community development. He has nine published articles in peer-reviewed professional journals and books. Moreover, he has facilitated group and community dialogue; administered community based programs; provided direct human services in both rural and urban settings; and presented to multiple audiences at the national, regional, and local levels for over twenty-nine years. He is committed to continuous education and active advocacy for social justice and the rights of all people; with the intent of eradicating hatred and violence, helping people and communities reach their fullest potential, and alleviate the obstacles that prevent them from accessing the opportunities necessary to do so.

Book preview

About the Author

Walter T. Boulden, PhD is a retired Associate Social Work Professor with over twenty years of experience researching and teaching cultural competency, social justice and community development. He has nine published articles in peer-reviewed professional journals and books. Moreover, he has facilitated group and community dialogue; administered community based programs; provided direct human services in both rural and urban settings; and presented to multiple audiences at the national, regional, and local levels for over twenty-nine years. He is committed to continuous education and active advocacy for social justice and the rights of all people; with the intent of eradicating hatred and violence, helping people and communities reach their fullest potential, and alleviate the obstacles that prevent them from accessing the opportunities necessary to do so.

Dedication

This book is dedicated to Matthew Shepard and all the other individuals

whose lives were taken, shortened, or traumatized, by hate-based

violence and oppression.

Copyright Information ©

Walter T. Boulden, PhD 2023

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Boulden, PhD, Walter T.

Peeling the Onion: From Matthew Shepard’s Murder to Don’t Say Gay

ISBN 9798889106135 (Paperback)

ISBN 9798889106142 (Hardback)

ISBN 9798889106159 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023916078

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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Acknowledgment

I would like to acknowledge all the brave individuals who were willing to share their stories through the years of research that lead to this book. I would also like to acknowledge my husband, Fumio Sawa. Without his unwavering emotional and intellectual support this book would have never reached publication.

How Can You Be Gay and

Live in Wyoming?

It was October of 1996, and I stood in the checkout line in the Powell Bookstore in Portland, Oregon. Finding an entire section on gay and lesbian studies and gay novels had been a genuine godsend. I could not carry one more book and was trying to decide if I could walk the one and a half miles back to the hotel.

Finding an entire floor of used books had triggered fond childhood memories. I hated being in the spotlight, preferring to be invisible and retreat into the world of books. I learned to love the smell of weathered books, overstuffed chairs, and the enchantment of slipping in and out of hidden nooks and crannies.

Seeing that I was next, I deposited my armload of books on the counter with a groan. The cashier looked up as he started ringing up the prices and commented, You are certainly buying a lot of books this morning. I explained how thrilled I was to find so many of these types of books, which were almost impossible to find in Wyoming. As if on cue, he blurted out, How can you be gay and live in Wyoming?

Though this was not the first time I had been asked that question, it amazed me how instantaneous it was. The first time had been in 1991, at a seminar in Tucson, Arizona. It was the first seminar I attended as an openly gay man. In a small group session, when we were introducing ourselves, I was asked: How can you be gay and live in Wyoming? I was so nervous that I was out to these people, the question simply seemed like a positive affirmation and didn’t carry any particular significance. Since then, I have been asked that same question at every national conference I’ve attended.

I loaded my books into a couple of book bags and started my trek back across the river and up the hill toward the convention center in a mild drizzle. As I walked, I reflected on both the question and the implications of the question. There was something about people’s image of Wyoming, that made being gay and living there seem undesirable, or even dangerous.

As you read this book now, having someone ask that question may not seem so strange. In fact, you may think it would be strange if people didn’t ask the question. But remember, I am talking about two years before Wyoming was cast into the world spotlight by the brutal murder of Matthew Shepard.

Caught in a Ground Blizzard

The phone receiver missed its wall-mounted cradle, dropped, and dangled at my knees for what seemed like an eternity. My hand shook as I pulled on the cord, grabbing the twirling receiver, and placed it where it belonged. Oh, my God! What am I going to do?

It was October 7, 1998, late in the evening. Matt Shepard’s father had just called from the opposite side of the world. He said Matt had been transported by ambulance from the Laramie hospital emergency room to the Poudre Valley Hospital intensive care unit in Fort Collins Colorado; and that he was in very bad shape. My first thought was Matt had been in a car accident, but his father had said No. Matt had been severely beaten by someone and left to die. Somewhere in that very short conversation, we grasped at tasks and details, trying to keep the horror and shock from completely overwhelming us. I stood there agreeing to make sure Matt’s cat would be taken care of, while the concern in his father’s voice, as he reminded me how much Matt loved his cat, cut straight to my heart. Then, I was left standing alone with a dial tone, and a flood of thoughts and fears.

I picked the phone receiver back up and started to dial several times, desperate for the supportive voice of a friend, only to realize that each of my closest friends was out of town. Finally, I hung the phone back up, scrambled to find my address book, and looked up the phone number of Matt’s godparents. I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath, until his godfather answered the phone, and I exhaled a huge sigh. He told me that Matt had been found tied to a fence east of town, had been hanging there since the night before, was unconscious and in a very critical condition. I told him I needed to get hold of a close friend of Matt’s then I was heading to the hospital. He said he and his wife would be going to the hospital as soon as she got home, and he would see me there.

I sat down and closed my eyes. I could feel the shock turn into an almost detached calm. Though I felt sick to my stomach and was shaking with fear and anger, I forced those feelings behind the protective walls that had served me so well growing up, leaving just my rational thinking process. I inhaled a deep breath, and slowly exhaled as I went into automatic pilot. I needed to get word to Matt’s close friend, Alex, who was living and working in Colorado. I did not know his work number, so with a prayer that one of his roommates would be home, I called his apartment. I very calmly explained to his roommate that she needed to call Alex’s work, tell them that this was an emergency, a friend of Alex’s was in critical condition in the hospital, and he needed to call me back immediately.

I am not completely sure what I did over the next fifteen minutes as I got ready to drive to Fort Collins. I just know I kept myself busy, waiting for Alex to call back, and trying desperately not to let my feelings leak through, because panic lay in that direction. I jumped. when the phone rang and answered it with my heart pounding. Yet, my voice remained very calm and steady as I told Alex what I knew, that I was leaving for the hospital and should be there in about an hour. I could hear the shaky edge of fear and outrage in his voice as he said, I am on my way. I will meet you there.

Driving those sixty-five miles felt unreal. Darkness was settling across the landscape. The car’s headlights cast an eerie faded light on the brush along the barrow pits, the grass tops on the hillsides, and the silhouetted fence posts lining the highway. The methodical flashes of light from the reflector poles combined with the rhythmic rush of yellow stripes down the middle of the road, threatened to hypnotize my already waning awareness. I am very fortunate that there was little traffic on the road, and that no wildlife wandered into my path that night. I think I was incapable of reacting quickly. When I finally reached the city limits, I realized I had the same white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel I usually got when driving through a ground blizzard or white out. But then, I had been driving the last hour locked in my own whited out world.

I made my way to the hospital with only a few wrong turns, parking in the first lot I found. I ended up walking all the way around the hospital to find the emergency room door. That was okay. I needed to steady my legs and get ready to face what I feared was waiting for me. After checking with the security guard, I was escorted to a private waiting room off the intensive care unit. I had to stop and take a few slow deep breaths before I could walk through the door. The guard introduced me to the social worker. As I looked past her, I saw Alex, a small group of Matt’s friends, and several other people who later introduced themselves as relatives of Matt’s from Denver.

Some of Matt’s friends were frantic; their emotions swinging dramatically from outrage and anger to devastation, and from sorrow to fear bordering on panic. His uncles and aunts were sitting there, realizing from the conversations that their nephew was not only lying in the next room in critical condition, but that he was gay. That was something they had not known. To discover that he was lying in intensive care because he let the wrong people know he was gay, just added shock on top of shock.

I drifted from one conversation to another for six or seven hours. Just before I had arrived, the doctor had told everyone that Matt’s body was covered with bruises, cuts, and what looked like burns, and that the back of his skull had been crushed to his brain stem. The doctor did not expect him to ever regain consciousness. The medical staff were hoping to keep him comfortable and alive long enough for his parents to make it to the hospital from Saudi Arabia. His parents were on their way, but it would take at least two days to get to Fort Collins. I kept thinking how horrendous that trip must be for them. I felt so completely helpless myself sitting with Matt in the next room. I could only attempt to imagine how helpless they must have felt, half a world away, dealing with airline travel, customs, waiting and worrying, and more waiting and worrying. I knew they had to be frantic to get here and be with their dying son.

The hospital security and police presence were both very reassuring and frightening. I vividly remember a wave a fear that swept through the room when one of Matt’s younger friends suddenly said, Oh my God! What if whoever did this finds out he is still alive and comes down here to finish the job? I will be forever grateful to the hospital security, and social worker for their calming and reassuring counsel. They repeatedly emphasized that no one was going to get into the ICU or near Matt without proper clearance and escort. Their compassion and professionalism were exemplary as they continued to quietly address each person’s concerns and fears, as they ebbed and flowed with the lengthening hours.

We talked and waited followed by more talking and waiting. We were all trying desperately not to acknowledge how afraid we were. Coffee, more coffee, conversation, and long periods of frightened reflection filled the hours. The night seemed to wear on and on. Interspersed within the shifting conversations with friends and family, were conversations with local law enforcement and phone conversations with Laramie law enforcement. The departments from the two states were cooperating and coordinating the investigation and had many questions as they tried to pull together a picture of what had happened. I had spoken with Matt the night before, and as far as they knew, may have been one of the last people to speak to him before the attack. They wanted me to come to their office as soon as I returned to Laramie and meet with them. They also wanted Matt’s friend Alex to come so they could ask him questions about Matt’s habits and friends.

Somewhere around 1:00am the social worker checked on the progress in the ICU and returned to tell us law enforcement had informed her that no one was going to get into ICU to see Matt that night. They were treating the intensive care unit as a crime scene, and no one who was not ICU staff, or a police investigator was allowed in. Matt’s aunt, godparents, and several of us who were his friends sat down with the hospital social worker and tried to figure out what to do next.

We knew that Matt’s parents were on their way but would not get to the hospital for at least another thirty-six hours. Most of Matt’s extended family was not aware that he was gay. I knew the last thing they would need or want when they got to the hospital was all of us there, trying to see Matt and complicating an already disastrous time for them. But I also knew, and said that there were some of us who really had to see him for at least a brief moment. The nagging thought in the back of my mind, and probably in the back of all our minds, was the fear that this would be our only chance to say goodbye to Matt.

Knowing that hospital policies sometimes restricted visitations in ICU to family only, I asked if there was some way those of us who were close friends might be able to return later that day and see Matt before all of his family arrived. It was agreed that Matt’s closest friends would return in the late afternoon or early evening, meet with the social worker. If the hospital and law enforcement agreed, we would each have a chance to briefly visit Matt. Then we would not return to the hospital or try to see him again. When his family got there, they would have the privacy they deserved.

We slowly found our ways through the hospital corridors and down an elevator to the emergency room exit. The brisk night air slapped me in the face as we walked out the door. Those of us without coats shuttered with a chill that went far deeper than the cold air and wind could have caused. Goodbyes, hugs, renewed tears, and decisions which people would go home with whom so no one had to be alone, were made there in the parking lot, with chattering teeth and breath you could see. Alex decided to leave his car in the parking lot and ride back to Laramie with me, since we both needed to meet with law enforcement when we got to town.

The caffeine buzz from far too many cups of coffee; long periods of quiet reflection; and sporadic conversation I can’t to this day remember; got Alex and me across the mountains. It was 3:00am when we dropped onto the high Wyoming plateau that held Laramie in its arms, and pulled up in front of the police station in Laramie. Alex had directed me there. I thought how strange it was that I had lived in that small community for three years and didn’t even know that the police department was housed in an old school building bordering the same park my house sat across from.

I walked up to the front door emotionally stretched to the limit; exhausted from being awake too long; and feeling like the caffeine level in my blood had to be around fifty percent. My stomach was tied in knots as we rang a buzzer and told the squawk box who we were and why we were at the door at such an hour. Almost immediately an officer was at the door letting us in. We were shown into a private office with comfortable chairs and offered something to drink.

I must admit that I walked into that office with more than a little trepidation. I had my own preconceived ideas of what these officers were going to be like. I was expecting the worst, with images of red necked going through my mind. Within fifteen minutes of talking, I relaxed and let go of those fears and misconceptions. They were very attentive to the fact that Alex and I were exhausted and traumatized.

While they asked questions about what we might know concerning Matt’s habits, friends, and acquaintances, they also shared some basic and general information they had already gathered. They wanted us to know that they had one suspect in custody, knew where the other suspect was, would be arresting him shortly, and were very confident that they were the perpetrators. They were concerned that Laramie’s gay community not panic, thinking that these men were still at large. They wanted us to reassure people we knew that the suspects were in custody.

The discussion of their concerns for the gay community and their explanation of what they believed had transpired the night before, left little doubt that this horrible attack had been motivated by anti-gay hate. But they were not able to call it a hate crime at that time and did not know if the district attorney’s office would be willing to do that. They said there were also elements of a robbery involved. They told us there would be a press conference late the next day that would explain more about the case.

After over an hour, we followed an officer to the police garage where they had a vehicle impounded. They asked us if we could identify some items we could see through the windows of the vehicle, namely Matt’s shoes and his bankcard. Seeing Matt’s shoes in that pickup truck was almost more than I could take. Tears streamed down my face as I confirmed that they were his. Finally, we climbed back into my car and drove to my house.

Getting back to my house well after 5:00am, we both passed out for too few hours. I woke up with voices screaming in my head. I sat up thinking about the day before and our meeting with law enforcement. I heard Alex stirring downstairs, got up and headed to the kitchen and my morning cup of coffee. As I sat nursing that cup of coffee, I told Alex we needed to get some phone calls made before we left for the hospital.

I was afraid the local newspaper and the county attorney might try to sweep this attack under the rug. I had too often seen sexual assaults kept out of the news in this small university community. Local and university leaders feared parents would not send their children to school in Laramie, if they heard that things like sexual assaults and violent crimes occurred there. I had recently resigned my position at the university to work on my dissertation, and felt no obligation to protect the image of the institution. I did have an undeniable responsibility to Matt to ensure that his death would not become just another nameless statistic is some data base or a byline is the local paper. He deserved more. If I did not do it, who would?

We spent a few minutes brainstorming who we could contact. My frustration, fear and even anger overrode my lifelong need to stay invisible. All I wanted to do was mourn the loss of my friend in solitude. But to do so would have violated or dishonored so much of what Matt and I had shared and discussed over the years concerning LGBTQ+ prejudice, discrimination, and living a life afraid to acknowledge such a core aspect of who we are. Matt had been maturing into an ardent social justice advocate. I swallowed back the bile and fear, tried to clear my throat, picked up the phone and started making calls.

I contacted the director of the United Gays and Lesbians of Wyoming (UGLW), told him what had happened and asked him to spread the word through UGLW. I asked him to contact anyone he knew who was connected to a newspaper or television station and get someone to cover the news conference. I also asked him to let everyone know that the perpetrators were in custody and that there was no doubt in my mind that Matt had been attacked simply because he was gay. I made a similar call to the executive director of LAMBDA Community Center in Fort Collins. Alex contacted a friend who worked for a newspaper in Casper and some friends in Laramie, explaining our concerns and asking them to help makes sure the news conference had wide coverage.

Then it was back in the car and driving to the hospital. When we arrived, we were met by security and escorted to the same waiting room we had left hours ago. On the way, the officer assured us that some hospital personnel were taking Matt’s attack very personally. He told us that most of them felt they had to remain invisible for fear of losing their jobs, but that we could be confident Matt was safe and being given the very best of care.

As Matt’s other friends arrived, we let them know we had been told. We also let them know about the news conference and what we had been doing to try and get a broad coverage. These conversations helped keep my stomach in check, as my anxiety built in anticipation of seeing Matt. When everyone arrived, the social worker said she could take those of us who wanted to see Matt in, two at a time. She explained that it could be a very painful experience and that no one should feel bad if they chose not to go in to see him.

I had hoped what the doctor said the night before about Matt’s chances of survival was a mistake. But as soon as I reached his bed, the reality of what was happening slammed into me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. I did not recognize the horribly distorted and swollen face of the person lying before me. Looking more like a battered pumpkin patch doll, he was a mass of bruises, bandages, and tubes. It seemed that tubes ran from every visible part of his body to a multitude of plastic bags, and clicking, beeping machines. A constant rhythmic huff and puff sound of air being forced in and out of his lungs by the mechanical bellows of the life support system was a constant reminder that they were all that was keeping his body alive.

My eyes filled with tears, my vision blurred, and that battered image lying before me swam and disappeared. I could once again see and hear Matt laughing as we sat in my living room just a few days before. We had been talking about my research and Wyoming in general. He had looked me straight in the eyes and thanked me for encouraging him to move to Laramie and go to school. He said he felt like he was home again and that for the first time in a long, long time he felt safe.

I gasped for air. Tears poured from my eyes, washing away that memory, and Matt’s battered body was once more lying before me in that hospital bed. I cautiously cradled his hand in my right palm, and gently covered the back of his fingers with my left hand, all too conscious of the needle and tubes protruding from the back of his hand. He was cold, his skin felt too much like a mannequin.

I silently cried, Oh my dear Matt, what have they done to you? I am so, so sorry. I wasn’t there for you when you needed help… Oh, God… How long did you hang there alone, crying for help? Oh, God please… please… don’t let him hurt anymore.

My hands shook as I laid his cold, cold hand back on the edge of the hospital bed. I closed my eyes and took a slow deep breath. I consciously willed those all too familiar walls into place, as I steeled myself against the fear and pain that threatened to explode from deep within my chest. I wiped the tears away with the back of my hand, turned in that thickening haze and looked for the hospital social worker to lead me back to the waiting room.

In the hallway between the ICU and the waiting room, I asked if we could stop for just a moment. I took another long deep breath, wiped the tears away, and straightened my stance. I tried to swallow with a dry constricted throat and quietly whispered, okay. We stepped into the waiting room to the expectant faces of Matt’s other friends. There I stood; trying to hold myself together for fear that if I cracked, others would go with me. I do not know how realistic that fear was, but I wore it like an unwanted suit and tie in a sweltering heat.

Finally, after everyone that wanted to see Matt had done so, we left the room to Matt’s aunt, uncle, and godparents. Alex picked his vehicle up, and followed me back across the mountains to Laramie. Later, we went to the news conference. It was attended by a smattering of reporters from across the state. As I had feared, law enforcement was saying they were investigating the crime as a robbery and assault and shied away from any indication that they considered it an anti-gay crime. Following the news conference several of the reporters identified several of us as Matt’s friends and asked for interviews.

The next morning, I got up to the phone ringing. One of the newspaper stories had gone out on the UPI and the media feeding frenzy was upon me. Calls started coming in from national publications and once it began it completely mushroomed out of control.

The next couple of days are a blur, laced with flashes of crystal-clear memories. My house was constantly full of people, day, and night, seeking someplace to be together and offer each other support rather than being alone. The phone was constantly ringing—literally ringing every time I hung it back up. Every time we opened the front door we found cards and flowers either taped to the door or sitting on the porch. I got messages of sympathy and support from people none of us knew, but who had read my name in a newspaper.

I was standing next to my car in the street outside of Matt’s apartment with the police, trying not to look as nervous and frightened as I was. They were inside making sure it was safe to allow Alex and me inside to see if the apartment had been burglarized. My heart was thumping heavily in my chest as I walked through the apartment, seeing all Matt’s things left just like he was going to return any moment. My eyes blurred, knowing he was not returning. I numbly looked through his closet for a picture that the police could show when they were questioning people. I was afraid I was going to throw up in the middle of the living room as I had flashes of so many happier times sitting there laughing with Matt. I helped Alex catch Matt’s cat who was totally freaked out by so many people being in Matt’s home without him there.

I found myself standing before cameras and microphones speaking to the media on the lawn of the courthouse. Another time I was pulled before cameras and microphones on the steps of a church during a vigil I had been afraid to go to. I finally had to ask my friends to gather around me and try to shield me from the more disrespectful media who were constantly forcing their way into my space. George and Kevin walked up to me at the vigil and hugged me as the tears started and wouldn’t stop. I felt a constant exhaustion creep into the marrow of my bones, that wasn’t relieved by sleep. Sleep that came too rarely. I just wanted to be alone. I hated the cameras, the microphones, the unending questions. I do not know how I got through all that without breaking down.

The phone was always ringing. I would find my answering machine completely full of messages to the point of not being able to take anymore, after being away from the house for only forty-five minutes. I could not even listen to the messages without the phone interrupting me. Finally, I left a message saying, If you are from the media, I am taking time to try and cope with the loss of my friend, please do NOT leave a message—I am not giving any more interviews. If you are a friend or family, leave a message and I will call back. That worked with the reputable media—but I still had messages from the sleazy publications—even offering to pay me for interviews. It was so truly unbelievable.

But all the media were NOT like that. ABC’s crew practically lived in my living room for several days. They were incredibly respectful, supportive, and sensitive to how both Alex and I were holding up emotionally. One of my most pleasant moments in those couple days of chaos was simply standing in my kitchen, drinking coffee with their cameraman and sound man, talking about different stories they had covered and different people they had encountered. I so needed to be able to focus on something else every once in a while.

I got hundreds of phone calls and emails from all over the world from strangers who had heard the story, saw my name, and tracked down my phone number or email address. Giving their condolences and sharing their stories. I got phone calls from people I had not heard from for over twenty years—wanting to know is I was okay and safe.

One of my very closest friends, and later my brother-in-law, asked if I had a handgun, even though both knew I hate guns and wouldn’t own one. They asked if I would let them get me a handgun, almost pleading that I carry one, with fear in their voices. They both pointed out that I was being put in the spotlight—breaking the don’t ask don’t tell rule. They both reminded me that there were plenty of what they called crazy people out there who might try to make themselves famous by targeting me for the same brutality Matt had suffered. How much Matt’s attack had frightened my family and friends was a wake-up call for me.

I was just puttering around in the living room during a rare moment that the house was empty except for me, when the doorbell range. I took one step toward the door and absolutely froze. For several heartbeats, I could not force my feet to move. I was truly paralyzed by fear. Never in my life had I experienced such a fear. I was completely alone for the first time since leaving for the hospital after Matt’s attack. Slowly I forced myself to walk to the door and peek out the small window set in the closed door. My real-estate agent stood on the porch with a large bouquet of flowers in her hands. With a sigh of relief and embarrassment I opened the door and let her in. It took several minutes for my heart to settle down, though she was never aware of what I had just experienced.

I was scheduled to do an interview for 20/20 that afternoon. Sometime during the morning, the phone rang while I was standing right beside it and I answered it. Walt? It was Matt’s mom on the phone. I had not heard from her or Dennis since that first call, just a few days and what felt like a hundred years earlier. We didn’t talk long. She simply told me that she thought I should come down and see Matt that afternoon if I was going to see him again. She let me know that the family had been totally unprepared for, and overwhelmed by the media attention, and the aggressive nature of some of the reporters. She also informed me the hospital was under siege by the media and requested that I come and go without letting anyone from the media know I was doing so. I told her I could be there in a few hours and we set up a plan where I would go to a side door, she said the media hadn’t found yet. She said she would have security meet and escort me up to her.

I hung up the phone and walked back into the living room, which was full of people from ABC, preparing for the interview. We planned it for that afternoon because they were waiting for the anchorman to fly in from the east coast. I walked up to the coordinator I had been working with and asked her to come outside so we could talk. I told her I was at a point where I either had to immediately get away into the mountains for a while or I was going to break down. I told her there was no way I was going to be able to stay and do the interview that afternoon. She looked at me and said, Walt, you must do whatever is necessary to take care of yourself. If you need to get away to do that, then that is what you need to do. As we sat and talked more, she did not bring up the interview again. I did. I told her that if there was any way it could have been scheduled for that morning, I would do it, but I just couldn’t wait around until late afternoon. She told me she could get everything set up in less than an hour, and they would do the interview without the anchor if I was truly willing to do it. So that is what we did. They set their equipment up in the park across the street from my house. We did the interview, which became part of the 20/20 production A Night of Terror. Then, right after the cameras stopped filming, I crawled in my car and headed back over the mountains toward Fort Collins.

I parked a couple blocks away from the hospital. As I walked up the street, I could see cameras set up by the door where I was supposed meet security. I turned down a side street and walked around to the back of the hospital. I found myself sneaking along between the garbage dumpsters, like some kind of thief. Finally, I spotted a single side door that was propped open. I slowly opened the door and walked into some kind of accounting office, surprising the young woman sitting at the desk doing paperwork. I told her my name and asked if she would call security because they were supposed to meet me and escort me up to the ICU. She said she had seen all the television news casts about Matt and had had to put up with the camera crews herself trying to get into work. As we waited for security, she talked about how horrible the attack was and told me how sorry she was. One more stranger reaching out with support and sympathy at a time when I was in dire need of it.

Judy Shepard met the security guard and me in the hallway outside the ICU waiting room. She took me by the arm and we walked into the ICU. There was so much I wanted to say to her as we stood there, just inside the doors. Before I could say anything, she told me that all the media attention had been very hard on the family, but that she knew I had done and was doing exactly what Matt would want me to do.

With tears standing in the corners of her eyes she told me she had a favor to ask me. She said, Walt, it is time for Matt to go home. He has been fighting so hard and hanging on against all odds, and it is time for him to let it go and find some peace. She took my hand and said, He will listen to you, Walt. Please tell him. Please tell him it is time to let go.

I walked alone past the curtains and back into that area where Matt’s battered body lay in a bed, connected to countless machines by tubes and wires. I just stood there for what seemed like hours, but was only a few minutes, and tried to find any glimpse of the Matt I knew and could recognize. I slowly walked up to the side of his bed, watching how his chest rose and fell in perfect synch with the rhythmic huff and puff of the respirator. His gown was open at the neck and I pulled it a little further apart, exposing his chest. I very gently placed the palm of my hand on his chest as the tears started running down my face. His chest was cold to my touch, and I knew Matt was not there anymore.

I do not know how long I stood there and talked to Matt. I told him what had been going on, that his cat was taken care of, and how his various friends were holding up. Through my own sobs, I told him how much I missed him, but that I could feel him with me every waking moment. Then very, very quietly I told him he needed to let go. I told him that all of us who loved him needed to know he was no longer in pain. I quietly whispered, Matt, it is time. Let go. Don’t make your parents make the decision to turn off these machines. It is time for you to rest.

My voice broke as I whispered, You always told me you were going to be famous and make a difference in the world. Well, Matt, your name is on the lips of the people all over the world, including the President of the United States. Do not worry, we will not let people forget what happened. Let go. Rest.

I know I said goodbye to Judy and that security let me out a door in the back of the hospital. From there I am not sure how I got back to my car, across the mountains, and home. But I did.

Fifty-three minutes after midnight that night, Matt died.

******

I was sitting on the cowcatcher of a freight train roaring across the prairie. I kept desperately looking back to see who the engineer was, who was driving the train? With the shrill scream of its whistle, the train plunged into the swirling cold winds and snow of a howling ground blizzard.

******

I snapped straight up in my bed, drenched in sweat, even though the bedroom window was open to the cool thirty-degree night air. I could smell the dawn approaching. I climbed out of bed, slid into my blue jeans and slippers, and found my way into the kitchen, taking care not to wake any of the people strewn about the house; having finally fallen asleep wherever they could get comfortable. I brewed a pot of coffee. Pulling a jacket on without a shirt and warming my hands with the fresh cup of coffee, I walked out on the back porch and sat in wait of the first morning rays. Closing my eyes, I listened to the birds, greeting the new morning with songs of anticipation. The strong aroma of fresh coffee drifted up from the cup I held in my lap. The first sun rays peeked through the leafless trees bordering the back of my yard, and warmed my face, as I watched as the back of my eyelids shifted from total black toward a fiery orange. He was there with me. I could feel his presence, like so many times we had sat, side by side, on some high rock outcropping, with our eyes closed, basking in the soothing sun. Things are happening so fast, Matt, and I miss you so much. Tears escaped my clenched eyelids and ran to the corner of my mouth. I know what you would have me do, and you know I will follow through, but I am really scared I might not be strong enough… that I might fail you like I did by not being there to stop those two animals. Oh, Matt I am so, so sorry.

The sun had cleared the treetops and the coffee in my hands was cold when I finally stood up and went back into the house. I turned on the television, and the news station was announcing that Matt had died during the night. I sat down, putting my head in my hands, and cried. I fell asleep there, only to be awakened by the phone ringing. A day lost in tears.

The next day started with a call from George. He had received a phone call from the Human Rights Campaign (HRC), who were co-sponsoring a national candlelight vigil for Matt on the steps of the Capitol Building, in Washington, D.C., where they would be calling for the passage of national anti-hate crime legislation. They had contacted him, asking if a representative of UGLW would speak at the vigil. He had told them I was the one who should be there and said he hoped it was all right that he had given them my name. They had given him a phone number and I called and confirmed that I would participate.

The vigil was scheduled for the next day, October 14th. Alex and I were to drive to Denver that evening, spend the night in a hotel HRC had set up for us, and then would fly out to D.C the next morning. It would be a tight schedule with us arriving just a couple hours before the vigil started. We would stay the night of the 14th in Washington then fly back to Denver the next morning and drive back to Laramie. The following day, the 16th of October, we had to be in Casper for Matt’s funeral.

The phone rang. It was my mother. She told me my father had