Savage Son (2 page)

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, Darlene, stick her head outside.

“Clifton, get out of there!” she shouted frantically. “The killers might still be inside their house!” She was frightened to tears and was determined that her husband not join the list of fatalities.

Cliff Stanley had not cared about the possibility of a shooter or shooters still hiding out inside the Whitaker home. Regardless, he continued holding the temporary bandage on Kent’s gushing wound.

Kent then looked up at his neighbor and said, “Cliff, they really could be inside there. I don’t want you getting shot.”

Cliff snapped to and realized that both his wife and Kent were right. He needed to get the hell out of there. But instead of fleeing, Cliff decided he needed some protection of his own. He went to get his shotgun.

“I’ll be right back, Kent.”

Cliff darted up from his wounded neighbor and bolted back toward his home. He went inside, determined to find his weapon, which he did. He began to load the shotgun with bullets when his wife stepped in front of him. She was scared.

“If they pull up,” she said in reference to police officers, “and they see you with that shotgun, they’ll probably shoot you, too. They might think you are the one who shot the Whitakers.”

Cliff knew his wife was right. He felt so frustrated. It seemed as if there was nothing he could do for his friends. He decided it was best to put down his own weapon; however, he knew he had to do something. Instead, he returned back to the Whitakers’ front porch and attempted to comfort Kent.

Cliff then heard the screech of police sirens.

The whole scenario took less than ten minutes. To Cliff Stanley, it seemed like a lifetime. “Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion,” he recalled.

Sugar Land police officer Kelly Gless was the first to arrive at the scene. He slowly exited his vehicle to assess the situation. He was very cognizant of the fact that the shooter or shooters might still be in the house or in the nearby vicinity. Officer Gless noticed Cliff holding a bloody shirt up against Kent Whitaker.

“Sir, could you please step away from that man?” Gless asked Cliff.

“I’m their next-door neighbor. I found them like this,” Stanley assured the officer.

“That’s fine, sir,” Gless responded. “I need for you to step away from that man, and please stand on your driveway.”

Cliff immediately complied, looked at Kent one more time, then retreated back to his yard.

More police cars pulled up onto Heron Way. The revolving lights on top of the vehicles intermingled with the red, green, and white Christmas decorations throughout the neighborhood. It looked like a spinning holiday season kaleidoscope.

Darlene came out of the house to join her husband. Cliff began to pray out loud so Kent could hear him. Cliff and Darlene clutched each other and worried about their newfound friends.

An ambulance pulled up to the location immediately thereafter. The emergency medical technicians (EMTs) jumped out of the truck and quickly examined the scene. The prognosis was grim, especially for Tricia Whitaker. One of the EMTs phoned in a request for a Life Flight helicopter. Tricia would need immediate surgical attention at the nearby Memorial Hermann Sugar Land Hospital. Her chances of holding on were slim.

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.