Savage Son. Corey Mitchell
decisions for him as he charged at the masked intruder. He grappled with the shooter and had every intention of disarming him. Unfortunately, his attempt of heroism fell short.
Pop!
The fourth gunshot crack of the night tore through the frigid air. It was much louder to Bart this time as he and the gunfire were both indoors.
The masked intruder then dropped the gun and took off running through the laundry room, which led to a door that led outside to the backyard. The man took off running by the swimming pool, leaped over the Whitakers’ wooden fence, and headed for a small car parked on the street directly behind the Whitakers’ home. The shooter and driver slowly drove off with the car’s headlights off.
The Whitakers were left to die, writhing in their own thick pools of blood.
2
December 10, 2003, 8:18 P.M.
Stanley Residence
Heron Way—Sugar Lakes Subdivision
Sugar Land, Texas
Directly next door to the Whitakers’ home on the east side, their relatively new neighbor, Clifton “Cliff” Stanley, sat in his recliner in his family’s living room. He was having a relaxing evening watching television.
Cliff was very fond of his new neighbors. He and his wife, Darlene, had moved into the home just six months earlier. The couple had two sons, Brandon and Dane, who had gone off to college.
Cliff’s job as a vice president of a regional insurance marketing company was quite demanding and kept him very busy. Thus, he enjoyed the little time he was able to spend with Kent and Tricia Whitaker. Cliff met Tricia the day he and his wife had moved in. He described her as “just a very, very sweet person.”
The Stanleys and Whitakers developed a quick, pleasant friendship. They went out to lunch together, had dinner a few times, and even made it out to the theater once on a double date. Cliff Stanley worked out of his home, so he became closer to Tricia, who was a stay-at-home mother at the time. She had previously taught at nearby Lakeview Elementary School and was acting as a volunteer there on occasion. At night, when Kent would return home from his job at the Bartlett Construction Company, the couples would “congregate out in the front yard” and catch up on the day’s events.
Cliff Stanley knew the Whitakers were in for a big weekend. Their oldest son, Bart, whom he had never met, since Bart lived up north in Willis, Texas, was about to graduate on Saturday. Stanley could tell that Tricia was very excited and happy about the impending ceremony. “She was very hopeful, very upbeat and optimistic for [Bart’s] future.”
Cliff and Darlene sat downstairs in the back of their comfortable home, on this particular night. The couple relaxed and watched television. They were also excited to have their eldest son, Brandon, home from college for the holidays. Their son had been upstairs in his room when he peeked in on his parents in the living room.
“Was that on the TV?” Brandon asked his parents.
“What?” Cliff asked his son.
“I heard yelling and shooting,” Brandon stated.
The Stanleys were watching a family show. “No, it wasn’t on this TV,” Cliff replied.
Brandon walked down the steps and insisted, “Then it’s outside. Something’s going on outside. I swear I heard a shooting outside.”
Cliff and Darlene looked at one another quizzically. Cliff rose up to take a look. He and Brandon headed for the front door to see if something was going on.
When he walked out of his home, Cliff first looked over in the direction of the Whitakers’ house. It was natural instinct. Look toward those you are closest with in hopes that everything is fine with them. Unfortunately, everything was far from fine at the Whitaker household.
Cliff spotted Kent Whitaker sprawled out on the concrete front porch next door. He couldn’t tell whether he was dead or alive. Kent’s head was pointing back toward the Stanley house in an awkward position. Suddenly Cliff saw his friend lurch sideways and mutter something.
“I’m bleeding…,” Kent Whitaker pitifully mewled. His voice was barely audible.
“Kent,” Cliff called out to his friend. “Are you okay?”
“I’m bleeding, Cliff,” Kent cried out much louder. “Help!”
Cliff immediately headed in the direction of Kent Whitaker, his own safety not crossing his mind. The thought that a man with a gun might still be on the premises did not enter into his consciousness. He simply understood that his friend was in trouble and needed his help.
Cliff made his way toward Kent. As he came upon him, Cliff looked up and saw Tricia directly in front of the entryway to the house, about six feet away from Kent. She was in a kneeling position with her head on the front porch, near the slight step leading into the house. Her legs and lower body were pointed outward toward the street.
Brandon Stanley followed directly behind his father. When Cliff witnessed the carnage before him, he yelled back at his son, “Go back inside and call 911! Now!” Brandon took off back to the house to make the call.
Cliff turned his attention back to the bleeding Whitaker parents. He looked at Kent and asked, “What happened?”
Kent looked at his friend with pleading eyes and reiterated, “I’m bleeding, Cliff.”
“Okay, buddy. Just hang in there. Let me see what I can do,” Cliff attempted to calm his neighbor.
Cliff hustled back to his house, stormed inside, and began yelling to Brandon, “I need something to stop the bleeding! Bring me something so we can bandage Kent up!” He waited as long as he could, but his son never came out with anything to staunch the flow of blood.
Cliff tore out of his house and returned to the Whitakers. He ripped off his T-shirt and placed it on Kent’s left shoulder. “Kent, hold on to this. It will keep the blood from rushing out too fast,” he ordered. He could tell by the looks of Tricia that she needed his help much more than Kent. “Just hold on tight.”
Cliff edged forward, closer to Tricia. She was moaning in pain, but still conscious. “What happened?” he asked her.
Tricia Whitaker looked up at him, pale and bedraggled, and said, “Someone shot us. You need to go. He could still be here.” She began to moan again—only this time, it seemed more drawn out and painful than before. Cliff could sense that she was going downhill rapidly. Unfortunately, he was afraid to move her body in case her blood had already started to clot up; he didn’t want to break up the clots and cause her to bleed even more.
Instead, Cliff began to pray. Tricia Whitaker continued to moan in agony. He looked up from Tricia into the house, where he spotted someone who he thought was Kevin Whitaker. He always thought a lot of the youngest son who had returned from his first semester in college at Texas A&M University. Cliff thought Kevin was “a special kid.”
It was difficult to tell if it was actually Kevin or Bart, since it was dark inside the house. There was a light on in the foyer, which provided him with his only illumination. Cliff was unsure how that person was doing; that is, until he heard a pitiful sound emanating from the victim. Cliff would later describe it as a “death rattle.” It was marked by “very ragged moaning.” Cliff knew that the boy, whom he could finally make out as Kevin, was breathing his final breaths.
Cliff was unable to get to Kevin because Tricia was blocking the entrance to the front door. Besides, he could tell that Kevin was very close to dead. Cliff bent his head and said a silent prayer for Kevin.
The nineteen-year-old son of Tricia and Kent Whitaker stopped breathing.
Cliff knew he needed to get assistance for Kent and Tricia. He quickly moved back and leaned over Kent to see how he could help. He took over holding the bloody T-shirt used as a bandage and held it firmly in place. He then heard the front door to his house open and saw his wife,