On May 29, 2016, sometime after 5 a.m., I awoke to knocking on my door and found two police officers. They gave me a small piece of paper with a name and number on it and instructed me to call the number. When I called, I was informed that my son was gone.
Keivan was the eldest of my only two children, my sons, and my last to bury. He was my best friend, my protector, my baby. He was the joker in our family and among his friends. He loved riding his motorcycle. He was close with his half-sister Whitney. Most importantly, K was the father of two sons, who had just turned one and 13 when he was killed. His boys were his pride and joy, as he was mine. K was preceded by his younger brother, Jalonnie, and stepfather Mike, leaving to mourn him his children, me (his mother), his girlfriend, and countless family and friends.
Despite hundreds of witnesses, including police and numerous security cameras, his case reminds unsolved.
