Savage Son. Corey Mitchell
“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.
4
December 10, 2003, 8:30 P.M.
Whitaker Residence
Sugar Land, Texas
Detective Marshall Slot got the call for a shooting