Mother: 'I don't even want to know' By Michael BeDan, News Staff Writer September 21, 2002 SANTA MONICA, Calif. - Patricia Phillips' cellular phone is ringing. Her son Brian is dead, and no one is going to find him anywhere. Sharks have devoured him or he is buried somewhere or who freaking knows? Miles, her other son, the kid she named Kevin - he's in a coma in a San Diego hospital. That's what the FBI agent is telling her. Tranquilizers. He overdosed. Phillips already knew. She listened to Miles' phone message; she answered the phone when reporters called to reiterate the news. She knows, already. Miles Weston Dabord, aka Kevin Williams, her son - he told her he was going to off himself last Friday. Dabord is a suspected murderer, according to law enforcement officials. He killed Dele, his brother, and two others, they say. He's Phillips' son. And Phillips is doing her best to reconcile. "I don't even want to know what happened," she says, 10 minutes after the FBI tells her that Miles is in Scripps Hospital near San Diego. "I used to want to know. I don't want to know now. It wouldn't do anything." She is sitting in her dining room while Miles clings to life in a hospital bed. She can't go to the hospital. The FBI told her to wait 24 hours. She is trapped. She smiles, talks about Dabord's childhood, how he doted on his brother, Brian Williams, aka Bison Dele, the NBA star, the free spirit Dabord allegedly snuffed out and, perhaps, dumped in the ocean. "He took care of Brian," she says. "If he would cry, Miles would find me." Phillips likes to remember the vacation the three of them took to the Grand Canyon "Mom and two super-sized boys. "It was the trip from hell," she says. "The problem is my boys are now 6-foot-10 and 6-foot-8. I rent a luxury-sized car. I should have rented a van." The boys squeezed into the car. And they complained. "Are we there yet? Can you move your legs? It's my turn in the front seat," Phillips says they said. Now she's home alone. She lives by herself because she is a "loner." She talks to the FBI, her family, her friends. She ignores everyone else. The phone rings 35 times in four hours. She has 17 messages she has not heard. Her cellular phone is the only phone she answers. FBI agents call her there with updates. Family calls her there. A reporter calls her there, and Phillips scolds him. "Erase this number and never call me here again," she says. It's been months. Phillips posted a Web site. She called the FBI. No one paid attention. Suddenly, everyone is paying attention. Too much. "People call me and say, 'I understand Brian was well-liked in the NBA,' " she says. "A complete Pollyanna. I can't talk to them." A pile of pictures sits, scattered in a bedroom in her apartment. "You can look at them," she says. Brian Williams grimaces in a portrait. He's wearing a Denver Nuggets warm-up suit. A girl is wrapped in his arm. She is smiling. Miles Dabord's right arm embraces his mother in a photo snapped the day she earned her anthropology degree from UCLA. Phillips finds photos of the boys when they were innocent. Brian Williams is on Kevin Williams' lap, Lilliputian in his brother's arms. Phillips smiles. "They were so big for their age that people used to say things like, 'Oh, he's such a sweet boy,' " she says. "They thought they were (r****ded) because they were so big. I had to defend my boys - he's only 2 years old. "They thought they were 7 or 8 because they were so big." Something went wrong. Miles despised Brian/Bison. The two never saw eye-to-eye. Phillips says Dele had a "Zeus" complex. She says Miles never measured up. "I thought they might finally figure it out on this (boat) trip," she says. "I thought they would bury it." Instead, there is a murder investigation. Phillips has two FBI agents on 24-hour call. "I can call them or page them, whatever," she says. She thinks it's much bigger than the triple homicide being reported nationwide. "Why would they need 17 FBI agents in Tahiti?" she says. "Maybe it's just three murders, but I don't think so." Her last conversation with Miles wasn't a conversation at all. Miles left a voice message. He told his mother he was going to kill himself. He told her he loved her. It was the first time he had called her in three years. "If I had answered, with our differences, maybe we never would have gotten to the point where he says he loves me," she says. "Maybe if I had actually answered the phone, maybe my concern for him sounding so drugged would have taken him in a different direction. Maybe the conversation with him would have taken us in a different direction and he never would have gotten to, 'I love you.' " Phillips said it's come full circle. "I have this baby picture of (Miles)," she says. "There's this little old man looking back at me. I was the only person he knew, the only person he trusted, the only person he accepted. In a way, those three phone calls brought it full circle. "All his insecurities about not being as valued as Brian, not being as loved as Brian, not being Brian."
