A Deadly Game Read online

  The police turned their attention to Scott despite some obvious reasons to look elsewhere. Laci Peterson’s family certainly did not believe Scott had anything to do with her disappearance. There were no initial reports of trouble in the marriage. There were no reasons Laci would choose to disappear or do herself harm.

  In cases of foul play, the culprit is statistically most likely to be a spouse or someone else known to the victim. A 2001 study conducted by doctors at the Maryland Department of Health and Medical Hygiene found homicide to be the leading cause of death among pregnant woman. In many cases, experts believe, fear of fatherhood may bring on such violence. Pregnancy is a life-changing event, especially for men, who may view the emotional and financial responsibilities as “huge stones around their necks,” according to criminal profiler Pat Brown, president of the Sexual Homicide Exchange.

  It’s also important to note that Laci Peterson was a very low-risk candidate for a violent attack by a stranger. She was alone for an hour at most on that Christmas Eve morning after Scott left the house. The closed living room drapes prevented someone on the street from seeing Laci inside. In cases of kidnapping or sexually motivated crimes, the perpetrator has often conducted some sort of surveillance of the potential victim to determine vulnerability and availability. The window of opportunity in this residential neighborhood, when people were likely to be home preparing for the holidays, was almost nonexistent. Although the Petersons’ back door was unlocked, there was no evidence whatsoever that someone entered the house and struggled with the young mother-to-be before forcibly removing her from the home. If burglary were the motive, it would be highly unusual to choose a house with a car parked out front. When the police arrived, they found expensive jewelry readily accessible in the master bedroom. And Scott and Laci’s dog was found in the yard dragging his leash, another reason to believe that Laci was not accosted by a stranger inside the house.

  Laci Peterson’s advanced pregnancy had curbed her activities in the weeks before the murder. She limited herself to short walks, errands, and visits with friends. In her condition, she was not gallivanting about in dangerous places at odd hours. While Laci was an attractive young woman who might have been a target if she had gone walking in the park, she was not only eight months pregnant, but also accompanied by her large and protective companion, McKenzie. Whether it took place in the house or the park, Laci’s daytime abduction from a populated location would have been highly risky for a stranger bent on harming her.

  However, Scott Peterson’s initial behavior gave the police real cause for concern. Why was he so sketchy in recalling the details of a fishing trip he had taken just that morning? Why did he wait so long to raise an alarm when he came home to find his wife missing and his dog trailing his leash? Why didn’t he check with his wife’s obstetrician, or the hospital where she was scheduled to give birth? Although Scott told Officer Evers that Laci was the one mopping when he left the house, his removal of the mops and dumping of the water suggesred that Scott himself might have been cleaning up after some suspicious activity. Although a logical explanation would later emerge for the fact that the Peterson’s phone book was open to an ad for a criminal defense attorney, no alert detective could have dismissed the discovery out of hand. Far more damning evidence would come to light as the police continued their investigation, and it was good police work—not a precipitous rush to judgment—that had police scrutinizing Scott’s involvement in those early hours.

  As time passed, the search for Laci Peterson intensified. The Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Office sent its helicopter, Air 101, to traverse the area surrounding Dry Creek Park. On the ground, the Modesto Police Department’s K-9 Officer, D. Gonzalez, responded with his search dog, Dino. They worked the area east of El Vista Bridge to La Loma Avenue, including the creek banks and brushy areas, up and down the trails, through the picnic and playground areas, and into the gully on the south side of Dry Creek. The team would also check the backyards of residents that bordered the park.

  When Officers Letsinger and Spurlock left the Covena home, they headed over to Dry Creek Park to join the search. Upon arriving, they saw Laci’s stepfather at the footbridge.

  “Do you know where Scott’s been all day?” Spurlock asked.

  “I believe he went golfing this morning,” Grantski responded.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Officers Spurlock and Letsinger exchanged glances but said nothing. Excusing themselves, they proceeded with their search of the park, following the trail south to the pump station, then north past the footbridge and back again. By then it was quite dark, so they returned to the Peterson home.

  Officer Evers was standing on the front lawn of the ranch house with Scott Peterson. “Find anything?”

  “Not yet,” Spurlock replied.

  As the three men stood chatting, Scott’s stepfather walked over. “Were you able to get in a game of golf this morning?” Grantski asked Scott.

  Scott hesitated. Then, speaking a little too quickly, he said, “I didn’t play golf today. It was too cold. I went fishing instead.”

  Grantski looked puzzled. He glanced at Spurlock and Evers, then turned back to his son-and-law. “Nine-thirty or ten o’clock in the morning is way too late for fishing,” he said. “You should have gone earlier. What were you fishing for?”

  There was no response.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DECEMBER 24, 2002, NIGHT

  CAP Homicide Detective Al Brocchini could hear the helicopters as he sped down Route 108 toward the Peterson home. He was following the details via the police scanner bolted to the dash-board of his unmarked car. Friends and neighbors were already assisting in the search, and officers were calling in with bits of information: some gloves at Wilson and Encina Avenues, a burnt white shirt in one of the park fire pits where Jennie Street intersects North Morton Boulevard.

  Brocchini had planned on a quiet Christmas with his family in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains, but he agreed to return to Modesto for this investigation. Sergeant Carter was comfortable calling on this detective on Christmas Eve. With seventeen years on the job, a son on the Modesto police force, and no young children at home, Brocchini was the obvious choice; Carter was confident that Brocchini’s wife of twenty-five years would be more understanding than most spouses on that day.

  Sergeant Carter wanted Brocchini to talk to Scott Peterson, to get a reading on whether Laci Peterson’s disappearance seemed like a voluntary departure or something more sinister. There were other possibilities, such as an accident or kidnapping, but Brocchini was not working those angles.

  “If Laci is not found by patrol or by investigation, you are to call Detective Craig Grogan to assist,” Carter ordered.

  Barely five foot six, with a youthful face and wide brown eyes that sparkled behind silver-rimmed glasses, the heavy-set Brocchini looked like a cop even in his business suit. Nine years with the MPD and eight before that with the Alameda County Sheriff’s Department had left their mark; his rough-and-tumble demeanor contrasted sharply with his cherubic features.

  Christmas lights illuminated the house numbers along the broad two-lane road that dead-ended at Thousand Oaks Park. Brocchini spotted police officers on the lawn of 523 Covena as he pulled up be-hind several patrol cars lining the curb. The frigid air hit him like a slap as he climbed out of the heated vehicle and onto the patchy grass, where Officer Evers, tall and lean in a navy-blue uniform, stood waiting. Brocchini joined Evers and the two walked over to the driveway, where Scott Peterson stood speaking with a friend.

  “This is Detective Al Brocchini,” Evers interrupted.

  Looking down at the detective, Scott nodded, but expressed no outward concern.

  “I’d like you to walk me through the house and point out anything that looks out of place,” Brocchini said. As he led them up the concrete driveway, Brocchini noted that Scott Peterson didn’t appear particularly worried.

  Once inside, Br
occhini immediately checked the home’s entrances and exits. While nothing seemed amiss, he too was getting a bad vibe from the husband. He knew the feeling. His gut was telling him to slow down and pay close attention.

  “This type of investigation has many different aspects,” Brocchini told Scott as the three men strode across the shiny wood floors to the master bedroom. “There are officers canvassing the neighbor-hood and the park in search of your wife, but it’s my job to interview you as the last person to see Laci alive.

  “It’s going to be uncomfortable for you because I have to ask difficult questions about your relationship with your wife,” he continued. “It’s been my experience that you’ll end up not liking me very much. Keep in mind, I’m only doing my job.”

  “I understand,” Scott nodded, agreeing to cooperate in “every way.”

  Brocchini sensed otherwise. Normally, police would wait at least twenty-four to forty-eight hours before initiating a full investigation in a missing person case, but Brocchini’s instinct wouldn’t let him wait. What he saw next, as he entered the bedroom, confirmed his feelings. A fluffy white comforter had been pulled up over the pil-lows, in what looked like an attempt to tidy the bed. Yet, at the foot of the bed, where one would normally fold back the covers, Brocchini noticed an indentation that spanned the width of the bed, as though a body had been laid out there. The detective did not note his observation in a police report, but a crime scene photographer later captured the suspicious impression on film.

  “There’s her purse,” Evers announced, pointing to the blue handbag on the hook behind some scarves. “Her stuff is in there.” Scott watched as the detective verified its contents. It was clear that Laci would not have left home voluntarily without her pocketbook.

  The officers followed Scott across the hall to what appeared to be a guest room and secondary work space for Scott and Laci. The room had a double bed covered by a light blue blanket and a generic-looking desk, file cabinet, and bookshelves.

  On the desk, next to two laptop computers, Brocchini spied an open pocket knife. On the floor, in front of a partially open closet, was a blue Nike duffle bag. It was unzipped and part of a green rain jacket was poking out.

  “Did you take something from that bag?” Brocchini asked.

  Scott said he’d removed a pair of white tennis shoes and placed them on the dining room wet bar before leaving for his fishing expedition that morning.

  Brocchini noticed an open space on the top shelf of the closet where it appeared the bag had come from. A second duffle bag, which had apparently fallen off the top shelf, was resting on the clothing rack between the top shelf and the closet wall. It looked as though the second duffle bag had fallen when the Nike bag was taken down. When questioned about the bag’s location, Scott claimed he was just “sloppy.”

  In another closet, the detectives found several rifles.

  “Do you own any handguns?” Brocchini asked.

  Scott said he owned a Clock, but it had been stolen from his car a few years earlier. “I’ve got a second handgun, a Llama .22-caliber that I’ve owned since before my eighteenth birthday. I normally keep it in the desk in the spare bedroom, but for the last month I’ve been keeping it in the glove box of my truck, since my last pheasant-hunting trip about a month ago. It’s loaded with ammo.”

  Trailing Scott to the TV room/den that now occupied the converted garage, Brocchini noticed a washroom partially hidden behind bifold doors. He paused to examine a stack of stained white towels heaped on top of the washing machine. “The maid probably used those the other day,” Scott volunteered. “They were in the washing machine. I took them out so I could put my clothes in.”

  Reaching inside, the detective pulled out a pair of blue jeans, a blue T-shirt, and a green pullover.

  “Those are the clothes I wore fishing today,” Scott said.

  “Why did you wash them as soon as you got home?”

  “They were wet from the bay and the rain.”

  Having spotted an overflowing laundry basket in the master bed-room, Brocchini wondered why Scott hadn’t added these items to his small wash load. When he asked about the Petersons’ maid, Scott explained that it had been her third time to the house. She was hired to clean every other Monday.

  Breaking with protocol, Brocchini now decided to proceed with a full-blown investigation based on an assumption of foul play. “Can I get her phone number?” he asked Scott. “And can I get a look at your cell phone for the call history?”

  Scott handed over his phone and watched as the detective copied down all of the incoming and outgoing calls.

  At one point during the walk-through, Brocchini noticed the couple’s golden retriever in the backyard. The dog hadn’t barked when he and Evers first entered the house, and Brocchini was curious to see how McKenzie would respond to him. Stepping outside, he approached the retriever, who greeted him happily when the detective knelt down to pet him.

  “That’s unusual,” Scott remarked.

  “Is he your dog?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How old is he?”

  “He’s about eight or nine years old. I’ve had him since before I was married.”

  “Is he protective of Laci?”

  “Yeah, like around the pool man if I’m not here.”

  Outside the back door, Brocchini saw the bucket and two mops. Scott said that Laci had been cleaning that morning.

  “I brought the bucket in and set it near the front door,” Scott explained. “When I left to go fishing, Laci was mopping.”

  “How did the mops get outside?”

  Scott explained that when he entered through the back door, his pets raced in ahead of him. When the cat ran toward the bucket, he said, he took it outside and dumped the water, afraid the cat might drink from it if he left it visible.

  Leaving the house, Brocchini strode over to Scott’s bronze-colored 2002 Ford pickup. It was backed in facing the street, next to a dark green Land Rover parked in the opposite direction.

  “Can I look inside the car?”

  “Yeah,” Scott replied, unlocking the vehicle with a remote key.

  In the cargo bed of the four-door F-150, there were five four-foot long patio umbrellas wrapped in a blue tarp. Scott said that he’d intended to store the umbrellas at his shop, but simply forgot to take them out on his two trips to the warehouse that day. The ex-pensive umbrellas had been left in the open truck bed the entire time Scott was out on the bay. Next to the umbrellas was a toolbox containing some articles of clothing, a nylon rope, and a bag of shotgun shells. A light brown canvas tarp lay bunched up near the vehicle’s tailgate.

  Moving forward to the passenger compartment, the detective swung open the driver’s door. When it bumped against Laci’s vehicle, Scott immediately demanded he stop the search.

  “I can move the truck forward,” Scott said. Then, producing a glove, he offered to hold it between the door and the Land Rover.

  Brocchini promised to be more careful, but he was surprised at Scott’s reaction. Was this young man more interested in a scratch on his car than the safety of his wife? This was a moment worth noting. In my experience, a close family member who worries about protecting his property at a time like this is a suspect who should be watched. None of the items in Scott and Laci’s home were damaged. Yet, even as the police were watching him, Scott let his proprietary interest in the SUV overwhelm both his concern for his wife and his common sense. In hindsight, Scott’s behavior suggests control issues as well: From these early moments, he began posturing aggressively around the detective investigating his wife’s disappearance.

  Returning to his inspection, Brocchini saw the camouflage jacket Scott said he’d been wearing on his supposedly rainy fishing trip. The jacket was dry to the touch. A sports bag nearby contained two fishing lures, still in their package, and a store receipt. Two other sacks from shops in a nearby mall contained clothing, along with purchase slips dated several weeks earlier. In the glove box was the Ll
ama .22-caliber handgun Scott had mentioned, loaded with a magazine of live ammo. There was no round in the chamber.

  Without hesitation, Brocchini collected the pistol and marked it as evidence.

  Shifting his focus to Laci’s vehicle, a 1996 Land Rover Discovery, he saw a cell phone on the front seat still plugged into the dashboard. He tried to turn it on, but it flickered and immediately switched off. The phone’s battery was dead.

  As the two men stood in the driveway, Laci’s mother was over on the front lawn watching. She had barely glimpsed Scott since their brief meeting in the park more than four hours ago. Now she tried to catch his eye again, but he still seemed to be avoiding her. Sharon thought his behavior was out of character but put it out of her mind when she realized that she’d never seen him under such stress.

  The waiting was physically and emotionally exhausting, and Sharon finally sat down on the curb to rest. By that time, five marked police cars lined the street, and the number of people on the scene was increasing. Officers in navy blue uniforms and the investigation team in jeans and sneakers joined the detectives already on-site. Her friend Sandy was with her when Scott finally walked over.

  “You know, if they find blood anywhere that doesn’t mean any-thing,” Scott told his mother-in-law. “I’m a sportsman. Just look at my hands. I could drop blood anywhere.”

  Sharon was too upset for the strange statement to register, but the exchange bothered Sandy, and later she reported it to the police. When I first heard this story, I wondered if Scott was simply taking a page out of O. J. Simpson’s playbook. When questioned about blood drops appearing in his Bronco and on the walkway to his home, Simpson deftly explained that he had cut his knuckle twice—once before he left on his “alibi” trip to Chicago, and a second time on a glass in the Chicago hotel room when he was told about Nicole’s death. He later revised this by saying he cut himself all the time.