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 s
cene 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 on Heron Way in the Sugar Lakes Subdivision. It was an unusual occurrence in Sugar Land, but the ten-year veteran detective knew he needed to get over there as quickly as possible. He wrote a note so his wife and kids would know he would be gone, grabbed his keys, and headed over to the Sugar Land police station to pick up his camera and pocket digital recorder.
Detective Slot arrived at the Whitaker house, slightly after 9:00 P.M. When he pulled up to the street, he witnessed a Life Flight helicopter ascending out of the neighborhood. He had no idea who was inside the rescue vehicle; however, he knew it must be serious.
Slot exited his car, walked up to the front porch, and noticed several Sugar Land police officers on the scene. When he entered the house through the front door, he saw the prone body of a young man. It was obvious the man was deceased.
Slot turned to one of the police supervisors on the scene to get the lay of the land, and as much detail about the crime scene as possible. Slot asked another officer to give him a walk-through of the Whitaker house. The detective scanned every room and made special note of the awkward way the drawers were pulled out in the rooms. The manner in which they were pulled was an obvious red flag to the seasoned detective. His first thought was that he was staring at a staged robbery.
While upstairs in the Whitaker house, Detective Slot made his way into what looked like a young college student’s bedroom. It was bedecked with sports equipment, desktop computers, and a framed Texas A&M poster, which had not yet been hung up on the wall. There was even a sheathed ceremonial sword propped up in the corner of the main room.
A quick stroll through the bedroom led Slot into a smaller room with a sloped ceiling. It was readily apparent that this was someone’s game room. A couple of videogame consoles lay on the floor next to at least ten videogames in their cases. College textbooks were laid out on a table, and even more Texas A&M posters were found.
As Slot worked his way farther into the game room, he spotted something a bit out of character. He noticed a couple of boxes of bullets, along with a fairly large black metal box. He could see that the box appeared to be some sort of safe. Upon further inspection, he noted that the safe had been pried open with some sort of metal device. The door to the safe had been bent back, and the black paint had been scraped off around the edges.
Slot made his way back downstairs and to the back door, which was unlocked. He also noticed a window had been cracked open slightly; however, he could see no signs of entry through it. He noted that all of the outside screens for the windows remained intact. Slot also observed that the majority of the knickknacks inside the house, as well as the recent Christmas decorations, were mostly left undisturbed.
Once Detective Slot completed his walk-through, and felt sufficiently updated on what had occurred, he exited the home through the back door, so as to let the crime scene technicians perform their tasks. Outside, the detective continued to search for evidence of escape by the shooter or shooters. The only potential pieces of evidence he spotted were some loose pickets on the family’s backyard fence. He could not determine for sure, though, whether they were loose prior to or after the break-in and shooting.
Detective Slot exited the backyard and made his way around to the front yard. There he encountered Deputy Keith Pikett, from the Fort Bend Coun
ty Sheriff’s Office. Pikett was the canine handler for the sheriff’s department. His specialty was scent-tracking dogs. Pikett was working with three bloodhounds in an attempt to track down the shooter.
Slot stood back as Pikett and his four-legged fellow officers did their magic. The animals made their way over to a Yukon SUV, parked in the street directly in front of the Whitaker home. Slot walked over to the truck, when he noticed a plastic evidence number stand near the right back tire. It was difficult to see in the dark, but he saw a black glove next to the evidence indicator placard. It lay in between the bumper and the curb on the street. One of the police officers walked up to Slot and informed him that he had discovered the glove moments earlier.
Slot continued to work the crime scene at the Whitaker house. He sent Detective Billy Baugh out to check up on Kent, Tricia, and Bart Whitaker. He had no idea that Tricia Whitaker would not make it to the hospital. She passed away while on board Life Flight en route to Memorial Hermann Sugar Land Hospital.
5
December 10, 2003, 10:00 P.M.
Memorial Hermann Sugar Land Hospital
West Grand Parkway South
Sugar Land, Texas
According to Kent Whitaker in Murder by Family, where he detailed the night of the murders, he was joined at the hospital by both of his parents. He described being surrounded by doctors and nurses as well, and realized no one would tell him anything about his other family members. When he asked about Tricia, Kevin, and Bart, he was told by a nurse that he and Bart would be undergoing surgery. No mention was made of Tricia or Kevin. Their omissions worried him.
According to Kent, he spoke with his parents. “Mom, I think there’s a good chance that Tricia and Kevin are dead.” He then looked toward an administration representative for confirmation. “Isn’t that so?” he queried, worried what the true answer would be. The representative stared back at him, an eternity frozen between two strangers. She broke the hold with a slight nod, up and down.
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