Savage Son (15 page)

January 2004
Whitaker Residence
Sugar Land, Texas

After the murders, Bart moved back into the house where he grew up. Every day he would cross over the threshold where his family was slaughtered. He claimed he moved back home to help his father sort out everything and to be there for him, if needed.

More than one month after the murders, both Kent and Bart began their intensive physical therapy on their shooting wounds. According to Kent, his “was a mess.” Apparently, the bullet that he was struck with “broke into high-velocity shrapnel” when it hit him “that shredded the muscle mass in [his] chest and upper arm before shattering [his] humerus bone.” He added that he would “always have a hollow cavity beneath the bullet hole in my shoulder, where the tissue was destroyed beyond repair.” Kent was kept immobile for nearly seven weeks, which led to “significant (and potentially permanent) loss in [his] arm’s range of motion.” Kent’s painful therapy included rebuilding muscle mass by focusing on “scar tissue [that] had to be painfully stretched and pulled apart before it became too set.” If he did not undergo the rigorous therapy, he might have to spend the “rest of [his] life with a severely restricted and weakened right arm.”

According to Kent, the therapy could be torturous at times. Kent shared that he was assisted by a physical therapist who was a “huge guy who would have me lie on my stomach as he pried his fingers under my shoulder blade and…tried to pull it off. I felt like a Thanksgiving turkey as he yanked and pulled.”

On the other hand, Bart’s wound was much less severe, so his regimen was far less taxing and painful than his father’s.

Kent believed the physical therapy sessions, combined with helpful gifts from God, would lead him on a healing path of recovery—of the physical, spiritual, and emotional kind.

January 7, 2004
Harbour Town
Willis, Texas

Steven Champagne lay in his bed, provided to him—generously enough—by Bart Whitaker. He was much later to rise these days. A combination of general malaise and guilt mixed together to create a certain sense of ennui, which seemed to glue his backside to the bed. He had no desire to wake up anytime soon.

He had no choice.

Steven was awoken by a loud rapping on the front door of the townhome. The disheveled young man tossed on some sweatpants and a T-shirt to go check and see who was waking him up so ridiculously early in the morning. He was definitely not a morning person, and whoever was making an early-morning house call was certainly not endearing themselves to him. He shuffled to the door, unlocked it, and opened it up to see the nonsmiling visages of two Sugar Land police detectives. Needless to say, Steven was caught off-guard and completely surprised.

“What can I do for you?” Steven asked the detectives.

“Good morning, sir, my name is Detective Marshall Slot, from the Sugar Land Police Department,” the medium-sized lead detective, with the crew cut, proffered. “This is Detective Glenn White,” he said as he nodded toward his fellow detective. “We’d like to come in and talk to you about the owner of this townhome, Bart Whitaker.”

Steven appeared confused at first; however, he somehow managed to regain his composure. “Certainly, Detective,” he acquiesced. “Please come on inside.” He stepped back from the door to allow the two detectives unencumbered entrance. As the men stepped through the main opening, Steven asked, “Is everything okay with Bart?” He was trying to play it cool.

“He’s fine, son,” Detective Slot responded as he stepped inside.

“That’s good,” Steven acknowledged.

“I’m sorry, son. What is your name?” the detective asked.

“Oh, excuse me. I’m Steven. Steven Champagne. I’m a good friend of Bart’s. I live just a couple of houses over.”

“Sir, do you mind if I ask—if you live a couple of places over, why are you sleeping here in Mr. Whitaker’s townhome?”

“Bart let me move in after his mother and brother were killed,” Steven answered. He was keeping his cool much better than he thought he would be able to when this inevitable day came. “I guess that’s why you guys are here, to find out who killed Bart’s family? I still can’t believe it happened.” Steven invited the detectives to have a seat on the couch in the living room.

Detective Slot dismissed any notion of engaging in small talk. Instead, he got right down to business. “Mr. Champagne, are you friends with Bart Whitaker?”

“Yes, sir. I work under Bart at the Bentwater Country Club, as well as living two doors down from him.”

“Where were you on the night of the murders?”

Steven lied and told the detectives he was “out at a bar” with “a friend from work” named Patrick. He just hoped the detectives did not decide to call up Patrick to verify his whereabouts that night.

“Very good, sir,” Detective Slot thanked him. The three men continued to talk for nearly two hours. However, Steven became less nervous the longer he spoke with the men. They obviously had no idea who he was, and it was apparent to him that they did not consider him to be a suspect. They just asked him about his job, and mainly about anything he might have seen or heard about on or around December 10. Steven actually considered both detectives to be quite friendly toward him.

The rest of the time was spent mainly talking about Bart. Steven did not believe he gave up any valuable information on his friend. Of course, why would he? Giving up Bart would be like injecting the needle into his own arm. If Bart was willing to hurt Steven or Steven’s mother for not even participating in the murder scheme, he had no doubt whatsoever that Bart wouldn’t hesitate to rat him out to the police, given the chance. Steven hoped he never had to find out.

January 14, 2004
Harbour Town
Willis, Texas

One week later, Steven was suddenly jolted out of his slumber by the sound of his telephone. He picked it up and answered, “Hello?” He was barely coherent.

“Steven, it’s Chris,” he heard on the other end of the line. He had not spoken to Chris since the night after the murders.

“What’s going on, man?” Steven asked. He was nervous and could tell his friend was scared. “What’s wrong with you?”

“The cops were here!” Chris seemed terrified. “They think I’m involved in it, Steven. I think they know I shot Bart’s mother and brother. I don’t know how they know, but I think they know!”

For the first time since the murders, Steven was also terrified. It had all seemed a bit too surreal to him. Hearing the panic in Chris’s voice raised the stakes for him. If the police were onto Chris, it would only be a matter of time before they set their sights on him.

“Chris, calm down. Tell me what happened.”

“They were here, man! Two detectives just left my place. I don’t know. I think they know what’s going on, but they aren’t really saying. But I think they know I was directly involved.”

Steven attempted to calm Chris down and told him he was going to call Bart and see what he wanted to do. Bart told Steven to get Chris up to Sugar Land so the three of them could talk about what was going on, and how to deal with the police officers.

Steven called Chris back, and after much cajoling, he convinced Chris to get out of his parents’ house and come visit them. Chris attempted to beg off because he claimed he did not have enough money for gas to make the jaunt, but eventually he relented and drove to Sugar Land. Once he arrived, Bart suggested that they go to the movie theater and talk during a screening of the three-and-a-half-hour fantasy epic
Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.
Bart figured the length of the film would give them plenty of time to deal with their current problem of the police.

Bart made sure both Steven and Chris made it to the movie theater to discuss what had transpired between the cops and Chris. He told Steven that they were there to “support” Chris through the difficult time. Of course, Bart was mainly concerned that Chris would crack and let loose the truth as to all of their involvement in the double murder. Bart could sense that Chris was “getting weak,” and he wanted to put an end to it immediately.

The three young men bought their tickets and took their places near the back of the large screening room. As the first reel of the film began to unspool, Bart scooted Chris over a couple of seats away from Steven so they could be closer to the corner. Bart did not notice the man sitting directly behind them, an undercover police officer.

Steven turned his attention to the Peter Jackson–directed spectacle of Hobbits, Orcs, and Mordor as Bart attempted to calm Chris down. Steven felt secluded away from his friends, plus he had a nagging suspicion about the man sitting behind them. He believed they had been followed through Sugar Land and into the theater. He was starting to get nervous, as he believed the so-called filmgoer was actually an undercover police officer. He hoped to God that Bart and Chris were not talking about the actual murders.

After the movie ended, the three friends took off from the theater. Steven checked out Chris to see if he was cool. Apparently, whatever Bart said to him did the trick; he no longer seemed freaked out. Furthermore, the man sitting behind them did not follow them outside the building, so Steven could breathe a bit easier.

January 21, 2004
Harbour Town
Willis, Texas

Two weeks after their first encounter, Sugar Land detectives Marshall Slot and Glen White paid Steven Champagne a second visit, again at Bart’s townhome. Unlike the previous visit, the detectives arrived in the evening, and they did not appear to be as nice as they had been the first time around.

The detectives began to go through the same set of questions they had asked Steven previously: Where did he work? How did he know Bart? What was he doing on the night of the murders? Steven answered the questions exactly the same way he had two weeks prior, including the information about going out to a bar the night of the murders with his friend Patrick.

“We spoke with Patrick,” Detective Slot informed Steven. The young man worried that his Adam’s apple might come bursting through his throat, he gulped so hard. “He said that the two of you did not go out together on December tenth.”

Steven did not respond.

“Why would he say that to us, if it weren’t true, Steven?” Slot asked.

“I have no idea why he would lie to you,” Steven calmly replied. “Maybe he just got the days confused.”

“No, Steven. He seemed very adamant that the two of you did not go out together that night.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Detective,” Steven replied, seemingly nonplussed.

“Steven, is there something you want to tell us? I’m sure it will make you feel a lot better to get this off your chest.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Detective.” Steven remained calm and did not crack under pressure.

Detective White leaned in toward the young man. “C’mon, Steven. We know what happened that night. Bart put you up to it, didn’t he?”

“What are you guys talking about?” Steven continued to play ignorant.

“The murders, Steven. Tricia Whitaker. Kevin Whitaker. Bart’s family. He put you up to this, didn’t he?” Detective Slot continued the interrogation.

“Wait a second.” Steven acted stunned at their insinuations. “You guys think I was involved in killing Bart’s mom and brother. That’s insane.”

“Is it?” Detective White countered.

“Of course, it’s insane. I cannot believe you guys would try to pin something like that on me.”

“C’mon, Steven. I know you want to confess and get it off your chest. It’s got to be eating at you every day,” Detective Slot persisted.

“I’m sorry, Detectives, but I am going to have to ask you to leave my house,” Steven boldly commanded. “I had absolutely nothing to do with the Whitaker murders, and I want you off the property now.”

“Okay, Steven,” Detective Slot responded. “But you think about it and give us a call if you decide to change your mind.” The detectives nodded, turned around, and exited the premises.

Steven closed the door behind the men. He could not let out a yelp of anxiety that he so desperately needed to release.

February 2004
T.G.I. Friday’s
Lake Woodlands Drive
The Woodlands, Texas

Bart invited Steven out to dinner at a nearby T.G.I. Friday’s. Steven correctly assumed Bart was checking up on him to make sure he would not spill the beans. He was right.

“So, how are you doing?” Bart asked with a sly smile.

“I’m doing all right. How ’bout you, Bart?”

“All things considered, I’m doing pretty good.” Bart took a menu from between the salt and pepper shakers on the table and began to peruse it. Once he knew what he wanted for dinner, and confirmed that Steven was ready, he motioned to the waitress to come take their order. After she left, Bart started in with a little chitchat.

It was not long before the conversation turned to the overriding issue in both men’s lives: the murders.

“I can’t believe Chris didn’t take out my dad,” Bart bemoaned.

Steven simply nodded. He did not want to have this conversation in a restaurant, but he could tell Bart was determined to do so.

“He was at point-blank range. How do you
not
kill somebody who’s standing directly in front of you, and you shoot them?” he asked incredulously.

“I don’t know,” Steven quietly answered.

“I don’t know, either.” Bart chuckled at the thought. “Less than a foot away from him, and he doesn’t die. Unbelievable.”

Bart took a sip from the water that the waitress had brought to their table. “Of course, Chris’s failure to complete the job pretty much screws everything up. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I figured as much,” Steven responded.

“There’s no way we can collect on the life insurance money, since my dad didn’t die.”

“Yep,” Steven muttered.

“We are going to have to do something about that,” Bart reasoned in his head and spoke out loud.

“What are you talking about, Bart?” Steven wanted to know.

“I think you know.”

“What?”

“We’ve got to finish what Chris couldn’t,” Bart stated emphatically.

Steven began to get paranoid again. He just knew Bart was going to say something about the murders (or even more murders) loud enough to where some of the other customers in the restaurant could overhear them. “Bart, keep your voice down, man. I don’t want anyone to know what the hell happened.”

Bart smiled at him. A mischievous grin flashed as he lowered his voice, only slightly. “I need to make a plan so we can deal with my dad.”

“Bart, you’re fucking crazy,” Steven scolded his friend. “There is no way you can make a foolproof plan to kill your dad. And even if you were able to pull it off, everyone would suspect you. I mean, c’mon, man, it would be too damn obvious. To everyone.”

“I know it would look fishy, but I feel like I could pull it off again, and be sure that he dies this time,” Bart answered.

“No, man. No. No, I don’t want anything to do with this anymore, Bart,” Steven pleaded.

“What do you mean?” Bart seemed genuinely surprised, if not a bit hurt by Steven’s reaction.

“I don’t want any part in killing your dad,” Steven declared.

Bart paused momentarily and looked Steven directly in the eyes, as if to size him up, right then and there, to determine if his friend still had his manhood intact. Steven shifted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable. Bart nodded and said to Steven, “We’ve got more work to do.”

It was work that was never completed. Bart did not pursue the follow-up murder of his father.