A Deadly Game Read online

  For months, Laci had been taking McKenzie for morning walks in the nearby park. Sometimes Sharon went along, but in recent weeks, Laci had begun tiring easily, and Laci’s yoga instructor and obstetrician had both recommended that she give up the walks until the baby was born. At first, Laci resisted—she was always head-strong—but now her body was insisting that she slow down. The narrow, sandy footpath that sloped down toward the park entrance no longer provided sure footing, and Laci was less inclined to complete her regular half-mile loop around the leafy grounds.

  Sharon knew it was unlikely that Laci had taken that walk.

  At 5:47 P.M., Ron Grantski dialed 911.

  “I’d like to report a missing person,” he told the dispatcher. It was Christmas Eve, so only a skeleton crew was on duty, but the Modesto Police Department knew the emergency line would probably stay busy. Many people find Christmas one of the loneliest times of the year, and the department often logged an especially large number of calls from people whose anxiety levels jumped during the holiday season.

  Grantski gave his own address—1017 Marklee Way—then Laci’s—523 Covena Avenue, between Encina Avenue and Edgebrook Drive. Their houses were less than two miles apart in the small city of Modesto, southeast of San Francisco and about ninety minutes from the Pacific coast.

  Grantski told the dispatcher that he was relating information from his son-in-law, who had notified him that his stepdaughter, Laci Peterson, was missing.

  The dispatcher who took the call made the following notes:

  STEP-DAUGHTER, LACY [sic] PETERSON, PORTUGUESE/ WHITE FEMALE, 2 6 YEARS, LEFT TO WALK DOG AT DRY CREEK PARK & NEVER RETURNED HOME. SUBJECT IS 5 FOOT 1, DARK HAIR & DARK EYES, 8 MONTHS PREGNANT, UNKNOWN WHO LAST SEEN WITH. DOG RETURNED HOME WITH LEASH & UNABLE TO LOCATE WOMAN ANYWHERE. REPORT RECEIVED FROM WOMAN’S HUSBAND, SCOTT PETERSON. HUSBAND IS NOW LOOKING FOR WIFE IN THE PARK. OFFICER JOHN EVERS DISPATCHED TO THE PARK AT 17:48. AT 17:58, OFFICERS DERRICK LETSINGER AND MATT SPUR-LOCK AND SGT. BYRON DUERFELDT DISPATCHED TO 523 COVENA AVENUE.

  An adult missing person report rarely generates a major response within the first twenty-four hours, but the emergency operator recognized that Laci’s condition made her situation different. The young woman might be injured or experiencing a problem with her advanced pregnancy. And, of course, there was always the possibility of foul play.

  By 6:00 P.M., officers from the Modesto Police Department were en route to both the couple’s home and East La Loma Park.

  Dry Creek Park spans twelve city blocks and is parceled into several small mini-parks. East La Loma Park, barely three blocks from the Peterson home, was the area where Laci usually strolled with the dog. McKenzie had been a gangly, energetic puppy when Laci gave him to Scott for Christmas just a month after they met. He was almost eight years old now, sprouting white whiskers around his muzzle, but Scott still warned strangers that the retriever was very protective of Laci.

  Sharon Rocha was growing increasingly worried as her friend Sandy steered them into a parking lot just west of El Vista Avenue. Jumping out of the vehicle, Sharon hurried across the stubby grass, Sandy trailing behind her.

  During the short ride from her house, Sharon had called Scott and arranged to meet him at El Vista Bridge to begin the search. Now she raced through the park calling out, “Laci!” and peering into the shrubbery, checking trash cans lined along the pathway. She and Sandy were nearly breathless when they reached the site.

  Sharon later recalled that it seemed like “forever” before Scott arrived, although he had said he was already in the park when she last called. She finally spotted Scott walking along the south side of Dry Creek with McKenzie at his side.

  “Scott!” Sharon called, waving her arms. “Scott, we’re over here!” But Sharon couldn’t get his attention. Scott seemed to be lost in his own world. Although he was just fifty feet away, he didn’t seem to hear or see his mother-in-law. It wasn’t until Sharon’s nephew, Zachary Zwald, walked over to him that Scott actually acknowledged the other family members around him.

  Sharon was surprised to find her son-in-law so calm. She later told police that Scott wouldn’t look her in the eye as they spoke about Laci. Eventually the lights of a police cruiser distracted Sharon, and she headed over to meet the police; Scott and the others followed close behind.

  The first uniformed officer on the scene, John Evers, had been on patrol for ninety minutes when the missing persons dispatch came over his radio. A sixteen-year veteran of the Modesto Police Department, Evers noted the darkening skies and dropping temperatures and quickly got down to business.

  According to his radio call, the husband had been the last person to see the missing woman earlier that day. “When was the last time your saw your wife?” he asked Scott.

  Scott told Evers that he’d last seen Laci around 9:30 that morning before he’d left home to go fishing. During their brief conversation, Scott said that Laci had planned to take their dog for a walk in the park that morning, then go grocery shopping for the dinner party at her mother’s that evening. She planned to spend the afternoon baking gingerbread cookies.

  When Scott left the house, he continued, his wife was mopping the floor. He returned in the afternoon to find McKenzie in the back-yard, his leash still attached. Entering through the unlocked patio door, he found the house empty.

  “Is her purse at home?” Sharon interrupted.

  “1 don’t remember,” Scott said blankly.

  “Where does she usually keep it?”

  “On a coatrack by the front door.”

  “I’m going to the house to see if it’s there,” Sharon announced. Officer Evers stopped the anxious mother and told her he’d go check it out himself. She should remain at the park.

  John Evers pulled up in front of Scott and Laci’s home along with Officers Letsinger and Spurlock and Sergeant Duerfeldt in county patrol cars, and quickly established a command center for the missing persons investigation at 523 Covena Avenue.

  The Petersons’ home was a modest, single-story ranch with drab green shingles on the west side of the street. The couple had purchased their three-bedroom, two-bath home for $177,000 in 2000. In less than three years, its value had appreciated by $100,000. The peaceful neighborhood, with its well-kept houses, manicured front lawns, and flower beds, had a small-town feeling. Neighbors tended to stop and chat with one another, and children felt safe playing and riding their bicycles in the quiet streets. The Petersons’ property was surrounded by an imposing six-foot wooden fence. The police noticed that several of their windows looked out on Covena Avenue, but heavy drapes covered the openings and blocked any view—in or out.

  As Officer Matt Spurlock led the men down the brick walkway toward the Petersons’ front door, Sergeant Byron Duerfeldt dialed the unit’s on-call supervisor to alert him to the situation. Carter, the head of the Crimes Against Persons (CAP) unit that night, listened intently as Duerfeldt reported the details: A woman named Eaci Peterson, age twenty-seven, eight months pregnant, was missing from her residence. The husband, Scott Peterson, age thirty, said he had left early that morning to go fishing for the day. When he re-turned home at 4:30, she was missing.

  “Where is Peterson now?” Carter asked.

  Duerfeldt reported that Scott was walking the neighborhood looking for his wife. Other family members were already gathering at the residence. No one seemed to know where Laci might be.

  “I’m requesting the assistance of a CAP detective, sir,” Duerfeldt said. The Crimes Against Persons unit had six full-time detectives as-signed to investigate felony assaults, robberies, homicides, and missing person cases. Carter agreed, then instructed the field sergeant to locate the husband and bring him back to the house for a more in-depth interview. He also wanted calls made to area hospitals in case Laci had checked herself in without the family’s knowledge.

  “Call me back with any new information,” Carter instructed.

  Sergeant Duerfeldt left to find Scott Peterson while his thr
ee uni-formed patrol officers examined the Peterson premises. Officer Spur-lock led the way to the house.

  Duerfeldt found the front door unlocked. Most of the interior lights were on. A carefully trimmed Christmas tree glimmered in a corner of the dining area next to the fireplace. The officers quickly inventoried the presents piled beneath the tree. One large box wrapped in deep blue paper was addressed from Scott to Laci; an-other gift, a Louis Vuitton wallet, was nestled in an open bag. Initial reports assumed that this was Scott’s gift to his wife. However, a credit card receipt showed that Laci had purchased the wallet during a trip to Carmel the previous week, although whether it was for her-self or someone else was never established.

  In the galley-style kitchen, painted a cheery yellow, a chalkboard on the wall read Merry Christmas. There was some leftover pizza sitting on the kitchen counter in an open box, and an open container of ranch dressing nearby. A telephone book on the counter was open to a garish full-page ad showing a young man being handcuffed by a uniformed officer. “Criminal Defense—Former Deputy District Attorney,” the ad read. Among the specialties the lawyer listed was murder.

  The living room, painted a vibrant burnt orange, was furnished with overstuffed couches topped with fluffy throw pillows. But something seemed out of place in the carefully ordered environment. Evers noticed a tan-and-white throw rug bunched up on the floor against the patio door as if something had been dragged over the threshold.

  The officers also walked through the nursery, with its deep blue walls and nautical theme. A small white crib was set up against one wall, its mattress covered with new baby clothes. Miniature sailboats dangled from the ceiling, and a decorative life preserver hung on the wall bearing the greeting WELCOME ABOARD!

  The officers continued their examination, opening closet doors and pulling back the shower curtain, looking for anything out of the ordinary. After checking the rest of the house, the men moved to the backyard through the living room door. They carefully stepped over the bunched up rug, leaving it undisturbed.

  Spurlock noticed that a mop bucket and two mops were leaning against an exterior wall just beside a side door. The bright blue bucket was still wet, apparently from recent use, as was the sidewalk nearby.

  The police surveyed the area quickly, then left the residence. Evers saw Scott standing outside and asked him to check the house for any signs of a struggle or burglary.

  The officers accompanied him back inside. Evers tossed out some questions as they walked. According to Scott, Laci had been wearing a white, long-sleeved crewneck shirt and black maternity pants when he left home that morning. She was barefoot at the time, but she usu-ally wore white tennis shoes when walking McKenzie. He also told the officers that she had been wearing expensive jewelry—a diamond necklace, diamond earrings, and a gold-and-diamond Geneve wristwatch—when he last saw her.

  “Is your wife’s purse still in the house?” Evers asked.

  In response, Scott went not to the hall coatrack he’d mentioned to Sharon in the park, but into the master bedroom. The bed was tidy. Hanging behind some scarves on a hook in the closet was Laci Peter-son’s purse. To most women, this might seem an unusual place to keep an everyday handbag, but Scott went straight there to find it. The blue pocketbook contained her wallet, keys, sunglasses, and other personal items. The young husband told the police that nothing seemed to be missing.

  Although Scott seemed calm about the discovery, Evers knew that finding a woman’s purse left behind like this was an ominous sign.

  “Have you been working all day?” Evers asked.

  “I went fishing,” Scott replied. Pulling a piece of paper from his pocket, he volunteered it to the officer. It was a receipt from the Berkeley Marina for 12:54 P.M. that afternoon.

  The officers exchanged glances. Scott was certainly quick to provide proof of his whereabouts without being asked.

  “What time did you leave the house?” Spurlock inquired.

  “Earlier this morning.” Scott did not pinpoint an actual time.

  “What did you go fishing for?”

  No answer.

  “What did you use for bait?” Spurlock persisted. He wasn’t comfortable with Scott’s awkward answers, and as an avid angler, the officer knew just what to ask.

  “Some type of silver lure,” was the best Scott could do.

  “Where do you keep all your fishing gear?” Spurlock asked.

  Finally, a direct response. “I keep it at my company’s storage facility.”

  Scott began reciting his movements after leaving home that morning. First, he drove to his company’s warehouse at 1027 North Emerald. Checking his e-mail and faxes, he sent a message to his boss in Portugal. After straightening up his work space, he spent some time assembling a mortiser—a woodworking tool—before finally hitching up the new boat to his truck.

  I would later wonder about his use of time. Scott had decided to fish only two hours earlier, according to his own account. It was too cold to golf, he said, so he chose fishing in the bay as an alternative. He left home knowing he had errands to run before the dinner with his in-laws at six o’clock that evening, including picking up a Christmas gift basket by 3:00 P.M. for Laci’s grandfather. Yet, when he arrived at the warehouse, he allegedly spent time cleaning up the interior, working on his computer, and casually assembling the mortiser, all before setting out on the ninety-mile trip to the Berkeley Marina to fish.

  In describing his trip, Scott specifically mentioned that he’d made two calls to Laci from his cell phone during the drive home— one to her cell and another to the house. He left messages, he said, but he never reached her.

  Once back in Modesto, Scott continued, he took a few minutes to unhook the boat and trailer at his warehouse, then drove straight home. It was after 4:30 when he pulled up to the house, saw his wife’s vehicle in the driveway, and noticed the leash still hanging from McKenzie’s collar.

  Given all that, the next sequence of events seems even more pecu-liar. Scott casually described entering the unlocked back door to find the house dark and empty. There were no smells of baking gingerbread wafting through the kitchen, no groceries were stacked on the counter—in short, no sign of Laci anywhere. Scott dealt with the mops and water bucket in the entry hall. Then, having traveled all day without packing anything to eat or drink, he grabbed a snack from the refrigerator. He told the cops that he had assumed Laci was at “Mom’s” to help with dinner that evening. Then, instead of checking his home answering machine or calling the Rochas to confirm this, Scott ran his clothes through the washing machine, since they were “wet from the rain and salt spray.” He then showered and changed.

  It was after five o’clock when he finally called the Rochas. It was only when Sharon told him Laci wasn’t there that Scott became concerned. Laci had been planning to walk McKenzie in the park, he said; he now feared that something had happened to her. As Sharon later confirmed, he spent only a few minutes calling friends and neighbors in an attempt to locate her.

  When the officers asked about the throw rug near the back door to the patio, Scott told them the cat and dog were most likely responsible for its crumpled state. As the officers watched, Scott placed his foot on one corner and straightened it out. Its original suspicious position was never photographed.

  Returning to the kitchen, Scott announced that nothing appeared to be missing or out of place. Before leaving, the officers and sergeant officially secured the residence at 523 Covena Avenue. Just hours earlier, it had simply been the Peterson home. Now it was a potential crime scene.

  The bald and bespectacled Sergeant Duerfeldt waited on the curb for a report from his officers, then called his supervisor, Sergeant Carter. Duerfeldt told Carter that his officers were uncomfortable with some of Scott’s early answers—especially his eagerness to provide a receipt from the Berkeley Marina when asked what he had been doing that day. As Duerfeldt made clear, his men hadn’t asked for any proof.

  There was more. At first, Scott couldn
’t say what he was fishing for; moments later he declared he was fishing for sturgeon, but couldn’t say what bait he used.

  Duerfeldt was also bothered by the fact that Scott had washed his clothes and taken a shower before looking for his wife. It also appeared that he might have mopped the kitchen floor before calling Sharon Rocha. The officer noted that it was another relative, not Scott, who actually telephoned the police to report that Laci was missing.

  Having checked local hospitals with no success, Duerfeldt told Carter that patrol units were searching the neighborhood and nearby East La Loma Park. He also reported that the Petersons’ dog was actually running loose in the neighborhood earlier in the morning, trailing a dirty leash, and that a neighbor had returned the dog to the Petersons’ yard.

  Sergeant Carter thanked Duerfeldt, then quickly dialed Homicide Detective Al Brocchini and dispatched him to the scene. It had been less than an hour since Sharon Rocha had called 911, but Carter wanted a murder investigator on the scene immediately.

  In the years since the O. J. Simpson case, the phrase rush to judgment has become an increasingly prominent notion in our culture, trotted out whenever cops quickly hone in on a particular suspect in the initial stages of an investigation. It is ironic that this expression became associated with Simpson, given the early evidence that clearly implicated him in his wife’s murder: the blood trail from his white Bronco to the Rockingham front door and the infamous bloody glove outside Kato Kaelin’s rear window. But Johnnie Cochran’s “dream team” made “rush to judgment” one of its most successful slogans, and it captured the public’s imagination.

  Some of my guests and viewers accused me of a similar rush to judgment when I questioned Scott Peterson’s story early in the investigation. As we were all reminded throughout the case, everyone is entitled to the presumption of innocence. But the presumption of innocence attaches during trial, not in the course of an investigation. When a person of interest emerges, the police must work to focus on that individual, to establish his involvement or exclude him from suspicion; they cannot merely assume his or her innocence. In my opinion, it would have amounted to investigatory malpractice if the Modesto police had failed to put Scott under the microscope from the beginning.