That could not have been me.

Fifteen months ago, I wrote an LJ entry in which I mentioned driving up to the scene of a murder in my neighborhood. We had been told that, as far as the police knew, it was a random carjacking, could have happened to anyone. Ronald Whitehead, 62 years old, approached as he waited for the light to change, shot multiple times, body pulled from the car, off it goes. A drug dealer looking for a fast way out of the district. Nobody knew. At the time, I entitled the article "That could have been me."

No, it couldn't have been me. By selling off his estate and cashing in his life insurance policy, Velma Ogden-Whitehead became a millionaire six months after her husband's death. Several of you advised that I watch the papers closely because it might always be one of the family members. And it was. The wife, her son, and her son's best friend-- the last of whom got $1000 out of the deal and who will now spend a lot of time in PMITA prison for his part.

Apparently, the tip-off came from the content of text messages that passed between the son and his accomplice in the hours right up to the murder. Pardon me for saying so, but that's just stupid.