Written in Blood: A True Story of Murder and a Deadly 16-Year-Old Secret that Tore a Family Apart

THE STAIRWELL

The chance of a criminal getting caught is only slightly better than getting hit by lightning.

-Michael Peterson, The Herald-Sun, July 1999

1

For Mary Allen, December 9, 2001, started as a long and lonely shift in the 9-1-1 call center in Durham, North Carolina. Another night spent on the outskirts of tragedy, aware of its presence but barely touched by its shadows.

At 2:40 A.M., she responded to an incoming call. Mary had no idea that she just took the first step onto the world stage of a long-playing drama.

Durham 9-1-1. Where is your emergency?

Breathing heavy, Michael Peterson responded: 1810 Cedar Street. Please!

What’s wrong? Mary asked.

My wife had an accident. She’s still breathing!

What kind of accident?

She fell down the stairs. She’s still breathing! Please come!

Is she conscious?

A bewildered Peterson did not seem to understand the question. What?

Is she conscious? Mary repeated.

No, no, she’s not conscious. Please!

How many stairs did she fall down?

What? Huh???

Calmly, Mary repeated the question. How many stairs did …

The back stairs!

How many stairs?

Oh, ah, ah … His voice quaked with each syllable.

Calm down, sir. Calm down.

Without warning, the heavy breathing ceased and Peterson responded in an off-hand manner, Oh, fifteen, twenty. I don’t know. Then the hysterical tone consumed his voice again. Please! Get somebody here, right away. Please!

Okay, somebody’s dispatching the ambulance while I’m asking you questions.

It’s off of a … It’s in Forest Hills! Okay? Please! Please!

Okay, sir, she continued as Peterson whimpered. Somebody else is dispatching the ambulance. Is she awake now?

Oh my, he moaned.

Hello?

I didn’t mmmm … Peterson’s words disintegrated into an inarticulate blur of noise.

Hello? Allen asked again.

He whispered, Breathe. Oh, God. Incomprehensible mumblings burbled on the line. Breathe, he whispered again. All Mary could hear now were strained and rapid inhalations and exhalations that sounded like the panting of a dog.

Then there was silence—followed by the blare of a dial tone that mocked Mary’s efforts to assist.

Elizabeth Poole’s dispatch scratched out on the airways. See an unconscious person 1810 Cedar Street. Engine 5, Medic 5. Unconscious person, 1810, 1-8-1-0 Cedar Street from East Oak Drive to Sycamore Street. Female fell down, fifteen to twenty stairs, hysterical caller is not able to give much further information, just advised it was accidental. OPS channel 2, OPS 2, Engine 5.

From their vehicle, Jayson Crank and Andrew Johnson of the Durham Fire Department responded, Engine 5 is 10-17.

10-4, no further, signaled Elizabeth. Medic 5, did you copy your call to 1810 Cedar Street?

10-4, en route, came loud and clear from the EMS vehicle bearing Jay Rose and Ron Paige.

Medic 5, 10-4.

At 2:46 A.M., Michael Peterson called in again. Once again, Mary Allen answered, Durham 9-1-1. Where is your emergency?

Where are they? Michael Peterson gasped. This is 1810 Cedar—wh … She’s not breathing! Please! Please, would you hurry up!

In response, dispatcher Linda Gant sent out a Code 5 message indicating that the patient’s condition was critical. This change of status meant Durham police were now on their way to the scene, too.

Sir? Mary asked.

His voice jumped up an octave. Can you hear me?

Sir? Sir?

Yes.

Calm down. They’re on their way. Can you tell me for sure she’s not breathing?

A small click was the only answer she received.

Sir … ?

A dial tone echoed in her ear. Hello … ? Hello … ?

Over the next few hours, each person entering 1810 Cedar Street was shocked by the copious amount of blood. Blood on the walls. Blood on the floor. Blood on Kathleen.

Blood. A word that Michael Peterson left unspoken.

2

Two minutes after receiving the call, Jay Rose and Ron Paige were on their way, with Paige behind the wheel. Their siren split the silence of the night. They divided up the duties they needed to perform on the scene. Rose’s responsibilities were greater because it was his turn to ride in the back when transporting the patient to the hospital. A couple of minutes later, they barreled their cumbersome vehicle down the narrow roads of the exclusive neighborhood of Forest Hills and killed the siren.

A Christmas wreath hung on the front door of 1810 Cedar Street, obscuring the house number. The truck shot past the residence. As soon as they saw the street number on the next mailbox, they realized their mistake. Paige turned the truck around and pulled into the Petersons’ circular drive. This was no ordinary house call—the EMS responders arrived at a million-dollar mansion with a magnificent swimming pool and other trappings of a wealth they would never know.

From the back of the truck, Paige grabbed the Thomas Pack, a bag filled with equipment, Band-Aids, pads and other medical supplies needed for emergency treatment. Rose snatched up the Life Pack, consisting of a monitor to determine the electrical activity of the heart and a defibrillator. They rushed down the elegant slate sidewalk.

By curious coincidence, Todd Peterson, Michael’s adult son, arrived at the same time as the first responders. He brushed past them and into the open door of the home. Paige and Rose heard a man sobbing inside as they approached the entrance.

Walking over a burgundy, gold and black rug, they saw the bottom half of Kathleen’s body protruding from the stairway to the left. Michael Peterson crouched over her body crying. No one was making any attempt to administer CPR, cardio-pulmonary resuscitation, a standard first aid procedure.

The paramedics were prepared for broken bones or paralysis from a broken neck. They were not prepared for what they found. In his career, Rose had responded to thirty or forty falls and he never once saw so much blood. He was stunned. It looked more like the scene of a massacre than a tumble down the stairs.

Kathleen’s body sprawled across the hardwood floor of the hallway, her legs spread wide. Drying blood covered the soles of her bare feet. A red-splattered roll of paper towels lay by her left foot. Next to the roll and a few wadded used towels, sat one of Michael Peterson’s athletic shoes—splatters of blood standing out in sharp relief on the white leather.

Dried blood splotched over both legs of Kathleen’s gray sweatpants. Between her spread legs, a pair of blood-spotted socks lay on the floor. At her hip and waist area, her pants were soaked to capacity with a dark, wet red. A scarlet pool flowed across the floor from under her body.

Bloodstained, half-clenched hands rested in an awkward position in her lap. Her shoulders contorted at an artificial angle against a bottom step. Her head fell backward—leaving her neck exposed as if on a sacrificial altar. The expression that greeted the emergency responders was one of abject horror.

Dried blood caked her hair in clumps as it lay on a stack of bright red towels—their original snowy whiteness disguised by a recent baptism in blood. All around her, dark red smears and spatter covered the stairs and the doorjamb and rose up high on the walls.

On the way to their patient, the paramedics asked her age and how long it had been since her fall. Mike Peterson only said, I just went outside to turn out the lights and came in. Then he wandered away from the stairwell and into the kitchen.

Behind the paramedics, men from the Durham Fire Department entered the house. Firefighter Jayson Crank was the first one in. He turned and pulled back the door for the others to enter. He noticed a smear of blood on the inside of the door beneath the spot where his fingers held it. But no blood lifted to his gloves—it was too dry to transfer.

The fire department personnel did not go near the body. They stood three abreast between the entranceway and the stairwell, blocking Kathleen’s body from view and preventing any civilians from entering the area from that direction.

The emergency medical technicians knelt beside Kathleen—Rose on the right side, Paige on the left. The coppery scent of spilled blood permeated the air they breathed. They worked the rapid assessment protocol with efficiency and with few words exchanged. Each man moved in rhythm to the actions of the other as if each step were choreographed for the stage. Their instinctive timing and teamwork were impeccable.

Kathleen’s pupils were dilated to 6 mm, indicating a lack of oxygen to the brain. There was no verbal activity from their patient, no motor response, no spontaneous eye movement. They determined her level of consciousness score was 3 of 3—the lowest possible score on the Glasgow Coma Scale. Kathleen had no pulse, no respiration, no blood pressure.

Paige put cardiac monitor leads on Kathleen just as he heard Todd Peterson say, She’s dead, Dad. The paramedics are here.

Todd may have made his assessment a bit quicker than the professionals on the scene, but he was right. No response registered on the cardiac monitor. There was zero electrical activity from her heart. Kathleen Peterson was dead—very dead according to Ron Paige. And it appeared as if she was dead long before Paige and Rose ever got the call to respond.

Paige stood guard by the body while Rose sought out Michael Peterson. He found him outside on the patio by the pool. The newly widowed husband was no longer crying. He was barefooted, wearing a tee shirt and shorts, and covered in blood. Small drops were scattered up and down his arms and legs and on his hands. Although his shirt was a dark navy blue, the large amount of blood on its surface was still obvious. On his khaki shorts, large red stains created a more dramatic contrast on both the front and back sides. All the blood on Michael Peterson appeared to be dry.

Rose asked Mike for Kathleen’s birth date. Peterson just gave him a blank stare. When asked for her medical history, Peterson did not respond.

Rose returned to Kathleen’s side. The two paramedics stayed by the body protecting her and the scene until they were relieved by Durham police officers.

Corporal Juanita McDowell and Officer Victor Figueroa of the Durham Police Department were the first officers on the scene. They entered the house where the emergency medical technicians were still checking for vital signs. McDowell saw Michael Peterson in the kitchen area with Todd’s arm around his shoulders.

The officers saw a chair lift attached to the wall of the stairwell. The seat was folded up, but still they wondered if it played a role in the incident. They also made the mistaken assumption that Kathleen was disabled. They did not know the lift had been installed by the previous owner and simply was never removed by the Petersons.

In less than ten minutes McDowell knew that this scene did not look like a typical accidental fall. There was too much blood—and it no longer had the sheen she always saw where the blood was freshly spilled. She called the criminal investigations division on her radio.

Avoiding the stairwell area, McDowell walked the long way around to the kitchen and asked Todd Peterson for a telephone. He stepped to the edge of the stairway and plucked a portable phone off a step there before Paige or Rose had a chance to object. McDowell then put Todd and Mike out on the patio.

At the door, firefighters contended with the arrival of Todd Peterson’s friends, Ben Maynor, and Heather Whitson. Todd phoned Maynor minutes earlier and told him to come to the house, and to bring Heather, a medical resident at Duke University.

In a loud voice, an intoxicated Maynor insisted, Get out of the way. Get out of the way. She’s a doctor, she can help.

The firefighters turned to the sober Whitson, dressed in a burgundy top and black pants for the casual holiday party she had just abandoned. I’m a doctor. Is there anything I can do?

No. It’s too late for that. You need to wait outside.

Todd came to the door and intervened. Telling the firefighters it was all right, he ushered Ben and Heather inside. Please look at my dad, Heather, Todd requested. He is in shock.

The medical resident went out on the patio where Michael Peterson sat with a blank look on his face. At her arrival, he stood up and paced back and forth, crying and moaning.

The Petersons’ two English bulldogs, who had been placid earlier, were now growling at the emergency responders and trying to push their way into the house. At McDowell’s request, Christina Tomasetti, who had arrived at the house with Todd Peterson, corralled the dogs and put them in a closed room.

Christina caught a glimpse of Kathleen Peterson at the foot of the stairs. She jerked her head away from the bloody scene. She had no desire for a closer look. As she put the dogs in the den, she learned that Kathleen was dead.

McDowell stepped outside and awaited the arrival of the investigators.

1810 Cedar Street was now a crime scene.

3

ID Tech Dan George knocked on the closed side door and was told to come in. From the kitchen, he observed the victim from a distance of four or five feet. He saw large quantities of blood all over the floor, the wall and the victim’s hands and feet. He realized that the blood on the floor was congealed and what was on the wall was smeared and dried. To his experienced eye, the evidence did not appear to point to an accidental fall. He left the house to contact the criminal investigation division (CID).

As he exited, he saw a drop of blood on the slate porch. He went to his car to get a flashlight and continued his search for more blood. He found a trace on the mortar between the bricks of the sidewalk about six feet away from where he saw the first drop. He put small pieces of paper by the blood and moved a planter into the path to avoid inadvertent trampling of the evidence.

Todd Peterson came out of the house to move his car. McDowell asked him, Is the victim handicapped?

No, Todd said. She drinks a lot and did a lot of drinking four hours earlier.

When she asked him who was in the house at the time, he told her that only his dad and his stepmother were at home.

Ben Maynor stumbled out of the house. He reeked of alcohol and his speech was slurred alerting police that he was too intoxicated to be moving vehicles out of the way as he planned. He was sent back inside. The presence of Todd’s drunken friend added a layer of chaos to a complicated scene filled with dozens of officers and first responders who were trying to do their jobs.

Sergeant Terry Wilkins arrived and took charge of the scene. He spotted the lower half of a body at the foot of the back stairs. He continued forward until he saw the large area of blood outside the staircase in the hallway. He stopped moving—he realized the scene needed to be secured with more crime-scene tape.

Wilkins noted a large spot of blood outside the staircase in the hallway near the front of the door. It had a glazed surface with no sheen of wetness. It was then that he got his first look at Michael Peterson—he was covered with blood and in an apparent state of shock. Wilkins said nothing to Peterson at the time. He was too focused on analyzing and securing the scene.

Peterson went into the kitchen and stood in front of the sink. He turned on the water and put his hands under its flow. Wilkins ordered Peterson to stop and he complied. Mike and Todd Peterson and Ben Maynor were then sent out onto the patio with an officer. Between the door and a table, they walked past a splash of spilled liquid and a silver tea kettle—an odd location for an item that seldom escaped the kitchen.

Wilkins sent home the neighbors who had been drawn to the house by the flashing lights. A few minutes later, Wilkins saw Christina Tomasetti again. She had attended a party with Todd earlier that evening and was now in the foyer area by the foot of the spiral stairs with Heather Whitson. He directed them into the den. He advised them not to talk to each other so that the perceptions each one had were not tainted by the memory of the other one.

At 3:09, Investigator Art Holland stirred from his sleep at the sound of the page from CID Sergeant Fran Borden, who was on the scene but had not yet entered the house. With his many years of experience in criminal investigation, it was not unusual for him to receive a call in the middle of the night. He was a committed officer and loved working homicide. Some cases were hard to believe, some were hard to solve, but he welcomed the challenge and relished the added knowledge that every case brought to him.

He thought this call to the wealthy, older community of Forest Hills would be a routine matter. To the best of his knowledge, an elderly woman fell down a flight of stairs in a wheelchair—a tragic accident, but nothing more. He figured he’d make a brief appearance, assess the situation and return home to his bed. He told his wife that he’d probably be back in an hour. It would be twenty hours before he saw her again.

When Sergeant Borden entered the residence, he observed smeared blood on a kitchen drawer and on the glass-front cabinet above. That was the first red flag for this seasoned investigator—the first indication that things were not as they seemed.

When he observed Kathleen’s body, he was surprised by its position—it was in a straight line, her neck in complete alignment with her spinal cord. That was the second red flag.

Then he noticed that the blood coating her body—the massive amount around her waist area, in particular—had a discoloration that indicated it had begun to dry. That was the third red flag.

He was now convinced that the scene was not consistent with any other accident, in his experience, where a victim had fallen down the stairs. This was a suspicious death. This stairway was a crime scene. He exited the house to await the arrival of detectives. Borden made the official crime scene declaration at 3:40 A.M.

Outside, the cool, damp night air grew chillier. Michael Peterson complained about the cold and attempted to enter the home several times to get a change of clothing. Wilkins tried to locate the sweatshirt and pants Peterson requested, but could not find them. He allowed Mike to go into the house and get them from a linen room off the kitchen. When Mike returned to the patio, he did not change clothes, but continued to complain.

Just before 4 A.M., Detective Holland of homicide and a domestic violence detective arrived at the house. Something clicked in Holland’s head at first sight—too much blood. It did not look like a fall. He and Borden conferred outside and decided a search warrant was needed before they re-entered the premises. Holland went to headquarters to draw up the necessary paperwork and obtain the signature of a magistrate.

Canine Officer Trent Hall was on Durham Freeway near route 15/501 at a traffic stop when he heard the call over the radio. Half-listening, he heard something about officers responding to 1810 Cedar Street. Immediately, he thought of someone he knew and liked, Mike Peterson, but could not recall his exact address. From the number of officers being called to the scene, he knew this was not routine and he was worried about his friend.

When he could not get details over the radio, Hall went to the scene to make sure it wasn’t the Peterson house and that Mike was okay. He parked in front of the gate, blocking the entry of other cars. He was told about Kathleen’s death and asked if he could be of any assistance. When he was told he was not needed at this time, he strung crime-scene tape across the entrance to the driveway and left the scene.

4

The chill night air drove the men inside, where they joined the two women in the den. Heather requested to use the bathroom. None of the officers knew where to find one, so Heather led them to the upper floor via the foyer stairs. They checked the room before she entered. They waited outside until she was done. Then they checked the room again and escorted her downstairs.

Christina requested a trip upstairs, and the process was repeated. Christina told the officers that she had brought Todd Peterson to the house and that they had arrived right after the fire department had.

When Christina returned, Todd told the officers that Michael and Kathleen were the only ones in the house at the time of the accident. They both drink heavily. If you want my opinion, they were probably shit-faced and she fell, he said.

The police had their hands full in the den. Three of their charges were not a problem at all—the two women sat side by side on the sofa and Michael Peterson paced the floor. But Todd Peterson kept trying to leave the room, was asking to talk to his lawyers, asking for a time frame for when they could leave, asking for a grief counselor—asking for anything and everything that crossed his mind—and talking to the drunk Ben Maynor at every opportunity. Wilkins was paged to the den, where he explained again the need to refrain from verbal communication, and requested that they remain in one locale. Mike said, What is this? Do I need to call a lawyer?

When Ben and Todd would not stop their whispered conversations, the two women were taken into the living room, where each sat on a separate couch and were told there was to be one hundred percent no talking. Both complied without a word—stretching out on the sofas to take naps with blankets the officers supplied.

In the den, Ben, Michael and Todd got the same message: In order for you to stay together in this room, there is one hundred percent no talking. If you talk, you will be separated.

The officers felt some discomfort with what they had to do. It was a suspicious death. But what if the suspicions were unfounded? If so, Michael Peterson was nothing more than a grieving widower and they were preventing his son from comforting him.

Michael Peterson removed his bloodstained clothing, dropped it all to the floor and pulled on the sweatpants and sweatshirt. Ben Maynor picked up the discarded clothing and tried to turn them over to a uniformed officer. He would not accept them, because chain of custody procedures required that an ID tech remove the clothing from the scene.

Ben placed the garments on the windowsill near Mike’s desk as requested. They were instructed not to go near the clothing. The two dogs were not eager to follow these orders, but someone shooed them away every time their twitching noses approached the window.

In the den, Mike settled down at his computer. He surfed the Internet and checked his email. He had stopped crying, but mumbled a lot—at times, mentioning the email his wife received about a meeting she was supposed to attend.

Todd Peterson picked up a phone and called his father’s brother, a civil attorney in Reno, Nevada. Uncle Bill, Kathleen is dead.

Bill Peterson dropped the phone to the floor. When he retrieved it, his shock was obvious to his nephew. I need you to calm down, Todd said, and I need to ask you some questions.

Todd went on to describe his view of the situation at the house to his uncle: The family was sequestered, two women were not being allowed to use the bathroom, crime-scene tape was all over the place, one police officer was being abusive, and they were being treated as suspects. Then he asked, Is this normal?

A cold dread spread through Bill’s chest. He knew without being told that this was a custodial investigation and it appeared the police had fixated on his brother as a probable murder suspect. It’s absolutely not normal, he said.

What should I do? Todd asked.

First thing, go up to your dad and instruct him not to say anything.

Todd said that a police officer was talking to him. In fact, he said, the cop had his arm around Mike’s shoulders.

Go up to that police officer, Bill ordered, and tell him that your dad is represented and his attorney is on the phone and has instructed him not to talk anymore. And I want to talk to the chief detective on the scene.

Bill Peterson was cool and calm in the courtroom. He was bright and articulate, and he represented his clients well. But this wasn’t just any client—it was his brother. And it wasn’t a civil squabble over money—it was a criminal matter, and the most serious felony of all.

After a moment, Todd returned to the phone. "Dad will follow your instructions, but there is no detective in the house to talk to