#WHEN THE RIVER RUNS DRY ARMOURY SHOW CRACK#

I was still high on crack and I went to bed. and had a spat with my mother about something I was supposed to do for her and never did it. The last time I used it was on January 2 around 8 or 9 p.m. Since this period I have been using it off and on. I never gave him the money and he was hasselling me for it by calling me on the phone and seeing me on the street. Instead of selling the crack, I it for own personal use. I Huwe Burton know an individual by the name of “Bugs” who I owed $200 to for some crack I received from him to sell. The detectives said he confessed to the murder.Īllegedly, he wrote the following in his confession: After hours of interrogation and moments before he was going to leave for home, Huwe allegedly broke down. He should make things easy on himself, they told him, and cooperate. The detectives harped on it, threatening that they might charge him with statutory rape. He admitted to the detectives that he had had sex with a girl he visited the day of the murder. Huwe went with the detectives to the Laconia Avenue station house for his third round of questioning in as many days. Raphael was still stuck in Jamaica on January 5, when two detectives arrived at Eloise’s house. “But he was not as distraught as I might think a 16-year-old would be in finding his mother in that condition.” “We were told by the son that he had just arrived home from the school and found his mother dead,” Viggiano told the New York Times. Sergeant Frank Viggiano, the commanding officer of the 47th Precinct Detective Squad, had doubts. He did so again the following night, but not until after the police questioned him one more time. Raphael Burton, Keziah’s husband and Huwe’s father, was away visiting family in Jamaica at the time, so Huwe, who was questioned by detectives the evening of the murder, stayed with his godmother, Eloise Gilmore, the night of January 3. Soon, red and blue lights flashed through the window of his home, and detectives and EMT workers shuffled in and out. Through tears, he told the responder on the other end of the line that his mom was dead. Huwe’s mother was dead.įrom there, things moved quickly and in a blur. There were two fatal stab wounds in her neck. His mother, Keziah Burton, a 59-year-old registered nurse, was facedown on her bed. Even more odd was the fact that he had not heard from his mother and that she didn’t seem to be home. It was odd that the car still was not back that evening, though. His mom’s car was not there that afternoon, so Huwe (pronounced Hugh) had guessed that she was off at the store.

He had attended Evander Childs High School that day and, after coming home briefly in the afternoon, gone over to a friend’s house. On the evening of January 3, 1989, Huwe Burton, then 16, walked into his home on the third floor at 3515 Eastchester Road in the Bronx. Traveling with the mass of fellow runners, it takes him 26 minutes and 41 seconds to get there.įor Huwe Burton, 26 minutes is nothing. He feels an extra bounce in his brand-new shoes on this crisp fall morning as he inches closer to the start line of the New York City Marathon. Moving in small, staccato steps to avoid clipping the heels in front of him, he barely notices the claps, cheers, and whistles filling the air. After what seems like forever, the starting horn blares, and he lurches forward. Shoulder to shoulder with thousands of others, he shifts his weight from side to side and situates the drawstring on the basketball shorts he wears over sweatpants.

When the river runs dry armoury show