Читать книгу Savage Son - Corey Mitchell - Страница 10

December 10, 2003, 8:20 P.M.

Sugar Land, Texas

“All units, we have a reported shooting [on] Heron Way in the Sugar Lakes Subdivision,” the voice over the dispatch called out to Sugar Land police officer Kelly Gless. Though Gless was actually patrolling in District 1 of Sugar Land, and Heron Way was located in District 2, he realized he was very close to the district line. The six-year veteran relayed that he would head for the scene.

When he arrived at the address, Gless was surprised to be the first police officer on the scene. He spotted a man on the front porch of the house, frantically waving his arms at him. Gless cautiously exited his vehicle and approached the front porch. As he worked his way up the walkway to the front, he noticed an injured woman lying on her stomach in the doorway. She was moaning and in obvious pain. The man was clutching his right shoulder, which was bleeding.

Officer Gless then looked inside the foyer and saw the body of a young man. At first, there did not seem to be any movement from the young man, but then his arm began to twitch spasmodically. That stopped and the arms rested, outstretched. Gless could see that the young man had suffered some sort of serious chest wound and had bled profusely.

“Help my wife,” Kent Whitaker pleaded with Officer Gless. “Please help my wife.”

Gless directed his attention to Tricia Whitaker. She was gasping for air.

“Ma’am, have you been shot?” Gless asked the barely coherent mother.

Tricia was not able to respond to the officer.

“Ma’am, have you been shot?”

Again, nothing.

Since Gless was on the scene by himself, he was at a distinct disadvantage in case the shooter or shooters were still inside the residence or on the premises. Instead of barreling into the house and chasing down the shooter, Gless determined his safest bet was to wait until help arrived. He then left the front porch and took cover behind the hedge at the front of the porch.

“Unnnnggghhhh!” A terrible moan emanated from the young man in the foyer. Gless knew he needed to summon help for the boy and the woman immediately. He grabbed his receiver and put a call in for a Life Flight rescue helicopter. It was only a matter of time before it would be too late.

“Please, Officer. I have another son inside,” Kent Whitaker cried out to Officer Gless in reference to Bart. “He went inside after the shooter, and I haven’t seen him. Please, please check on him.”

Gless motioned to Kent to stay still and to be quiet.

Eventually Gless was joined at the Whitaker home by two more police officers. After their arrival, even more officers appeared. They were able to create a three-man search team to enter the house to see if they could locate any survivors, any more victims, and/or the shooter or shooters.

Officer Gless stayed outside to secure the perimeter around the Whitaker home.

One of the three men on the search team was Phillip Prevost, a fourteen-year veteran who had spent his last seven years with the Sugar Land Police Department (PD). When he got the same call for a shooting at 8:20 P.M., he took off, Code 3, which means with “lights and sirens.” He hurried off to the scene, but he turned his siren off by the time he reached the freeway. He did not want any criminals to hear his approach. He then pulled into the Sugar Lakes Subdivision and headed toward Heron Way. He turned all the lights off on the cruiser as he got closer to the house. He then parked his car three houses down the street and ran toward the Whitaker residence. (It is Sugar Land PD protocol not to park directly in front of a location where a shooting has occurred so as not to become one of the shooter’s next victims.)

Officer Prevost spotted Officer Gless. He glanced over and caught sight of Kent Whitaker, who was apparently standing up by this time. Provost then spotted Tricia Whitaker. He could hear the blood gurgling inside her chest and throat. Prevost then spotted Kevin Whitaker inside the house. He approached the house to see if he could help the young man.

Officer Prevost was aware that the fire department had probably been called. They would not enter the house if there was a chance that an armed shooter could be inside. Prevost knew the people lying down in their own pools of blood needed immediate medical attention, so he went about clearing out the house in order to assure the fire department.

Prevost walked up to the front door, with his gun drawn. He glanced down at Tricia Whitaker and precariously stepped over her prone body. Once he got inside, he also had to straddle Kevin’s body to make any forward progress.

Once Prevost made his way past Kevin, he spotted a small table in a living area. It was dark inside and difficult to see, but he was able to make it out, nonetheless. On the other side of the table was a well-worn sofa. In between the sofa and the small table was another person, Bart Whitaker. He was lying on the floor and in obvious pain. He was also on top of a cordless telephone.

Officer Prevost could see that Bart Whitaker was doing okay, so he advanced through the rest of the house. Once he made his way into the kitchen, he spotted a gun on the floor. He could instantly tell it was a Glock, because he used two of them himself. According to Prevost, he “did not have time to secure the weapon.” Instead, he released the magazine and stuck it in the breast pocket of his shirt. He removed a live round, which was in the chamber, and stuck that in his left rear pocket. He then placed the gun back in the same position as he had found it.

Prevost checked all the way to the back door. He scanned the laundry room and could determine that no one was hiding in there.

Prevost then made his way up the Whitaker staircase to the second floor. He noticed a set of car keys on one of the steps and also lots of Christmas decorations, such as a giant green stocking and a stuffed polar bear with a Santa Claus cap on the banister.

The officer was joined by two more Sugar Land PD officers, Clifton Dubose and John Torres. All three men explored the upstairs to make sure it was clear. It appeared as if there was no longer an intruder inside the house.

Prevost made a very obvious and unusual observation—all of the dresser drawers had been pulled out, in at least two rooms. Normally, in a robbery situation, such a sight would not be unusual. What made this unique was that the drawers had been pulled out the exact same length. It did not appear to be ransacked, but rather someone’s poor attempt at what they thought a robbery would look like. Most everything else in the upstairs rooms looked relatively undisturbed. Some usual big-ticket items—such as DVD players, laptop computers, videogame consoles, and more—had not been stolen. Prevost noted this was not the usual garden-variety robbery scene. He smelled something fishy about the whole ordeal.

After scanning all of the upstairs rooms, Prevost and the other police officers nodded to one another that everything was clear. The green light to the fire department could now be given, and the emergency medical technicians could enter the home and begin assisting the victims. Once Prevost was certain there were no longer any armed shooters inside, he radioed that everything was clear.

Prevost began to case the inside of the house for signs of anything out of the ordinary. He looked for any evidence of a break-in, like a jimmied window or a damaged door lock, but he found nothing. No glass was discovered on the floor from a shattered window, and no doors appeared to have been kicked in. The point of entry was not leaping out at the patrol officer.

Prevost made his way over to the den, where he looked for the young man between the coffee table and the sofa. Bart Whitaker had moved himself toward the kitchen and closer to the gun on the floor. Prevost walked up to Bart to check on him.

“Are you okay, son?”

Bart nodded. “I’m okay.”

Prevost was joined by Officer Arthur Freeman. As Prevost began to talk to Bart, he pulled out a micro-cassette recorder from his jacket pocket. He liked to keep it with him at all times while on duty. It allowed him to keep track of all his encounters while out on patrol. The officer turned the recorder on and began to ask Bart if he knew what had happened.

“We were coming in from dinner and I went to my car to get my phone,” Bart began speaking, albeit in an understandably dazed manner. It appeared as if he was in shock. “I was walking up the driveway and I heard some pops. I ran in and somebody was running this way.” He pointed toward the laundry room. “I ran in, they turned, and someone shot me.”

“What did they have on? Could you see any clothes?” Officer Prevost asked.

“I couldn’t tell.” Bart shook his head, as though disappointed. He did not want to let anyone down.

“And they ran out the back door?”

“That way.” Bart nodded and pointed toward the back door.

Officer Prevost pointed toward the gun on the kitchen floor. “Where did this gun come from?”

“When I hit him”—Bart nodded, recalling his valiant attempt to apprehend the shooter—“I don’t know if he dropped it, or what.”

“You hit this guy that was running?”

“I tried to grab him. I don’t know if I hit him or not, but I came after him.”

“Do y’all keep a gun in the house?” Prevost inquired.

“Yeah, my dad has a gun,” Bart responded. “My brother has one, too.”

“Both of those guns upstairs?”

“No, my dad’s is in a closet in there.” He pointed toward another room downstairs.

“What kind of Glock is [it] that your dad has?”

“My dad doesn’t have a Glock. My brother does.”

“Do you know where your brother keeps his gun?” Prevost asked the drained-looking oldest Whitaker boy.

“No.” He shook his head. “Probably in his room.”

Bart looked over Officer Prevost’s shoulder. He spotted his brother, Kevin, lying still in the foyer. Kevin was not moving. “Oh God!” Bart cried out. “What’s going on in there?”

Prevost leaned over in an attempt to block Bart’s view. “They’re just trying to help everybody.” The officer tried to keep Bart’s attention focused on him. He did not want the young survivor to get too emotionally wrecked by the sight of his dead brother. Prevost was determined to get the freshest account possible from one of the surviving victims at this crime scene. It was pertinent to help him solve the shooting. “They got a lot of people working on it, okay?” He continued to soothe Bart’s jangled nerves.

“Did y’all keep the gun in the house?” Prevost asked in an attempt to redirect Bart’s attention.

“Yes, yes.” Bart nodded. “That’s—that’s my brother’s gun.”

“Okay, Bart. You’re doing great,” Prevost affirmed. “Bart, did you know the guy who was in the house? Could you see his face?”

Bart began to shake his head again. “No, no. It was dark.” He became frustrated. “It happened too fast. I don’t know.”

“Could you tell if he was black or white or…?” Prevost inquired.

Bart paused. “He kind of, I don’t—he made a noise. I don’t know. He kind of sounded black to me. I don’t know.” Bart began to writhe in pain. The bullet had entered his shoulder and hurt tremendously.

“Just lay still, buddy.” Prevost comforted the older brother. “Just lay still.”

Prevost motioned over to one of the EMTs to take a look at Bart’s wound. The technician began to move Bart’s injured arm and ask him if it hurt or not.

Bart winced in pain. “It hurts.” He also became more concerned for his family. “Please tell me they’re okay.”

“They’re working on them,” one of the EMTs responded.

Bart began to hyperventilate. The images rushing through his head were coming fast and furious. His breathing became too rushed. The technicians made sure he breathed through his nose and tried to calm him down.

How could he calm down with the lights on outside, his brother apparently dead, just ten feet away from him, and his mom and his dad out of his line of sight? He had no idea if they were even alive. Technicians and police officers littered the living room with their presence. It was all just too overwhelming. One of the EMTs stuck a needle in his arm.

“Okay, sweetie,” she gently reassured Bart. “I’m going to start an IV on you before you get ready to move, all right?”

“Yeah.” Bart nodded, even though he was not truly sure what she had just said to him. “I can’t feel my arm.”

“That’s because you’re breathing too fast, sweetie. Just squeeze my hand,” she suggested to him.

Right about that time, Officer Freeman stepped up next to Officer Prevost and began to ask Bart some additional questions.

“Hey, bud”—the large police officer hovered over the average-sized injured young man. “I know you’re in pain, but I need to know if that pistol,” he asked, pointing toward the Glock on the kitchen floor, “is that your brother’s?”

“It’s actually registered in my name,” Bart answered, “but it’s my brother’s.”

“Where did y’all keep that pistol?” Freeman followed up.

“I don’t know.” Bart attempted a shrug. “In my brother’s room, I guess. It’s upstairs. You go to the top of the stairs and turn left.”

Bart then basically retold the entire incident to Officer Freeman. One piece of new information was that his parents usually went through their front door whenever they came home.

Officer Freeman made sure to keep asking Bart questions so as to keep him alert. “When did you finish your finals?”

“Today,” Bart acknowledged.

“How many finals did you have today?”

“Two,” Bart muttered.

“My little brother goes to Sam Houston.” Freeman kept up the patter. “He plays football over there. Did you go to any games this year?”

Bart shook his head no. “I’m not a big football fan.”

“Oh, really? Man, everybody went to a couple of games.” Freeman continued chatting with Bart, trying to keep Bart’s mind off the chaos that surrounded them, and to get Bart’s breathing under control.

“I went last year. They didn’t do too well this year,” Bart responded.

Freeman chuckled and nodded his head in agreement. “No, no, you’re right. They need a new coach, don’t they?”

“They need a lot of things.” Bart chuckled as well.

Freeman kept talking to the young man. He found out what time Bart finished finals, what time he had arrived at his parents’ home, and what time the family left for Pappadeaux.

One of the EMTs broke in to let Freeman know they were transporting both Kent and Bart to Hermann Hospital via a Life Flight helicopter.

Freeman began to ask Bart questions about Kevin’s gun. Bart began breathing heavily. “Are you all right, man?” the officer queried.

“No.” Bart emphatically shook his head. He seemed about to have a panic attack.

“Yeah, you are,” Freeman said, attempting to calm him down.

It didn’t work. Bart began hyperventilating again.

“Come on now,” Freeman spoke to Bart. “You’ve got to control your breathing. Be strong. Control your breathing for me, all right? That’s all you’ve got to do.”

Bart seemed to calm down.

Freeman talked to Bart and learned he was about to graduate from college.

Meanwhile, the technicians scurried around the house as fast as they could, while tending to Kent and Tricia Whitaker. The scene was a surrealistic nightmare awash in high, saturated flashing colors, and a barrage of bodies—not meant to fit in the small front area of the Whitaker house—were part of the grisly tableau.

Freeman and another officer lifted Bart onto a gurney to prepare to ship him out. Bart had no idea where his mom and dad were. He could no longer see Kevin and had no idea what state his little brother was in.

Officer Prevost walked back over to Bart before they shipped him out. He looked him over once and turned away. Something seemed a bit off about the young man, but, of course, he had just been shot, as had the rest of his entire family. Prevost internally decided to give the guy a break and move on to the next problem that needed solving.

According to Kent, he had no idea how anyone in his family had fared during the ordeal. He had asked anyone who would listen, how they were. Despite the mass of people traipsing in and out of his home, no one would give him a straight answer—much less look him directly in the eye.

Finally he was able to catch the attention of one of the busy paramedics. “Please, can you tell me what is going on with my wife and kids?” Kent practically pleaded. The paramedic stopped what he was doing and addressed Kent quickly and quietly: “Sir, please let us do our job. You’re in good hands, and lots of good folks are with the rest of your family.”

Kent’s initial reaction was one of muted relief. The paramedic must have meant that everyone was alive and being attended to. Hopefully, everyone would be okay. He did not have the wherewithal to comprehend completely what the paramedic had really said, or, rather, not said.

Suddenly the seriousness of the situation struck him like an eight-inch adrenaline needle to the heart. Kent’s life would soon be altered immeasurably by a conversation he overheard between two police officers. In reality, the only words that mattered, or that he even recalled, were uttered by only one officer: “What do you want to do about the DOA?”

As far from lucid as Kent was, he knew exactly what they meant by DOA—one of his family members was “dead on arrival,” and he had no idea who. He then began to worry that there might be more than one dead family member.

Kent then recalled hearing the Life Flight helicopter rip through the night sky like a million machetes serrating an Amazon forest. Kent was able to glimpse a gaggle of paramedics as they hurried a body onto a gurney, and out to the front sidewalk.

“Sir, they are taking your wife on the helicopter first,” one of the many police officers relayed the good news.

Kent’s heart soared with joy. His lovely, incredible wife, Tricia, was alive, and they were going to do whatever they needed to do to take good care of her! He was overjoyed.

As soon as Kent was overcome with elation, he realized that some other horrible event had occurred. Since she was alive and there was a potential DOA on the scene, it meant only one thing—at least one of his precious sons was dead. Kent’s relief was suddenly countered with an almost unbearable sense of guilt and grief as he knew he would never again speak to at least one of his boys. To make matters even worse, Kent had no idea if it was Bart or Kevin. He had no idea which of his sons he would not get to see graduate from college, which one would never get married, never have children and raise a family, nor to whom he would get to say “good-bye” and “I love you” one final time.

The fear of his new reality sent Kent into a fit of convulsions. His temperature dropped and he began to shiver.

“I’m freezing,” he barely managed to mutter to one of the paramedics. “Can you get something to cover me up with?” His last ounces of strength seeped out of each of his pores as he knew that one of his sons had been murdered.

“Sir, please just be still. As soon as your wife’s helicopter takes off,” one of the paramedics reassured him, “there will be another to come pick you up.”

No sooner said than done. The second Life Flight helicopter swooped into place, picked up its cargo, and hauled Kent off for an eight-minute ride, which seemed like an eternity.

According to Kent, all he could think about during that arduous, lonely passage was a recent, similar trip he had taken with his two boys, only the end result had been much more upbeat and positive. The three Whitaker men had set out for an adventure of whitewater rafting on the Arkansas River. Their trip also included Kent’s and the boys’ first trip in a helicopter.

The difference between the two rides was astounding. The first, of course, brought excitement and peaceful memories mixed together. The latter brought nothing but misery and numbness.