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Laci: Inside the Laci Peterson Murder
     

Laci: Inside the Laci Peterson Murder

3.2 25
by Michael Fleeman
 

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Praying for a happy ending, friends and family stood by Laci's grieving husband Scott. Four months later, Laci's decomposed body was found in the murky waters of San Francisco Bay. The body of her child had washed ashore about a mile away, after a possible "coffin birth." It was a sad closure to an exhaustive search, and a grim end to a marriage that by all

Overview

Praying for a happy ending, friends and family stood by Laci's grieving husband Scott. Four months later, Laci's decomposed body was found in the murky waters of San Francisco Bay. The body of her child had washed ashore about a mile away, after a possible "coffin birth." It was a sad closure to an exhaustive search, and a grim end to a marriage that by all accounts had appeared to be perfect.

Scott Peterson's behavior had cast a mysterious shadow over the death of his pregnant wife: his alibi on the day of the disappearance was questionable; he admitted to an affair with another woman; and when he was finally charged with capital murder, he had altered his appearance. Almost immediately, the media condemned Scott, even though he maintains his innocence. Is Scott Peterson a victim of circumstantial evidence? Despite the state attorney general's claim of a "slam dunk", the case that has gripped the nation is much more complex, and is yielding even more questions, doubts, accusations, and shocking revelations.

Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781429904339
Publisher:
St. Martin's Press
Publication date:
04/01/2007
Series:
St. Martin's True Crime Library Series
Sold by:
Macmillan
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
288
Sales rank:
135,961
File size:
2 MB

Read an Excerpt


CHAPTER 1
“Hi, Mom.”
It was Scott Peterson on the line.
Sharon Rocha was preparing Christmas Eve dinner for the family when her son-in-law called.
There was concern in his voice.
“Is Laci there?”
“No,” Sharon said.
She hadn’t spoken to her daughter since the night before.
“Well,” said Scott, “she’s missing.”
The wording was peculiar.
Laci was missing. Not gone. Not out.
Then a horrible feeling overcame her.
Sharon Rocha knew immediately that something was terribly wrong.
Scott called at least two more times on the evening of Tuesday, December 24, 2002, when a cold fog descended on Modesto.
The next time he phoned, he told his mother-in-law that he had called everybody he could think of and nobody knew where Laci was.
The third time Scott called his in-laws’ house, about 6:30 p.m., his mother-in-law told her husband, Ron Grantski, to phone the police.
When the officers arrived, it took very little to convince them of the urgency of the situation. Scott hadn’t seen Laci since that morning. When he got home in the late afternoon, her car was there, her purse was there, her cellular phone was there. But not Laci.
There was no note, no message on the answering machine, no word left with any family or friends. This wasn’t like her. She was outgoing and bubbly, but not impetuous or irresponsible. She was the Mini–Martha Stewart to her friends, the gracious but strict hostess who served dinner at eight, and don’t be late—and be sure to dress accordingly. She wrote notes for holidays and special occasions. Surely, she would have left a note if she were to leave before such an important evening.
She was the model of manners and comportment, of doing things right, of expecting the same of others.
She was also eight months pregnant—with their first child, a boy, whom they planned to name Conner.
Scott rounded up the neighbors. In the misty darkness, with temperatures dipping toward the 40s, they searched throughout his La Loma neighborhood. Scott looked distraught, scared.
Teary-eyed, he ran down Covena Avenue, past the END sign where the street dead-ended into a well-trod footpath. He went through the open gate and headed down the steep path into East La Loma Park.
She must be in the park. She had been getting ready to walk the dog.
Scott searched. The neighbors searched.
The police officers went into the park, probing the darkness with their Maglites, looking behind the bushes and rocks, walking up and down the banks of Dry Creek, searching under the footbridge. In the foggy skies, a helicopter from the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department strafed the grounds with its powerful searchlight.
The officers roamed the streets of the La Loma neighborhood, just northeast of downtown Modesto, looking for any traces of the pregnant woman, interviewing anybody they could find, to see if they’d seen or heard anything.
They found a neighbor, Karen Servas, who hadn’t seen Laci that day, but had seen her dog. At about 10:30 that morning, Servas was pulling out of her driveway onto Covena when she saw a golden retriever she recognized as McKenzie, scampering down the street, trailing a muddy leash.
She led the dog to its home at 523 Covena, where the gate to the back yard was open. That must have been how the dog got out, Servas thought. She put the dog in the yard and closed the gate and thought nothing of it until the police showed up later that evening and asked her if she had seen anything unusual that day.
By midnight, a small group of friends gathered in front of the green house and wondered and worried: Where could she be?
The next morning, Christmas Day, Scott called his parents down in San Diego. They had always been fond of Laci. She had sent his mother a heartfelt note on the first Mother’s Day after they were married and signed it with her name and a happy face. His mother knew it was her son calling because she recognized his voice. But she couldn’t understand him. He was crying, blubbering, incomprehensible, save for a single word.
“Laci.”
The little green house at 523 Covena sat a block and a half from where the tree-lined street hit a fence of gray weathered wood. The house had wood siding, a red brick chimney, a wide driveway and wood gate that opened to a newly installed swimming pool and patio, where there was an outdoor chess set with marble pieces shaped like frogs. There were young palm trees growing next to the front window, the curtains uncharacteristically closed—Laci had liked the morning light—and a garden of camellias, azaleas and geraniums tended by a careful and trained hand.
At the street’s end, the fence had a gap where a heavy gate must have once swung. It was now only two thick posts, one blackened by fire. It opened to a footpath, the dirt worn down to a U-shaped trough a foot deep, leading down a steep embankment bordered by chain-link fencing topped by razor wire. The path leveled to a field of brush with green park benches and saplings braced by posts in fields of tall green grass. The field was intersected by an asphalt bike trail lined by tall street lamps. The trail wound through groves of mature oak trees. Across the bike trail and over the field, a wooden footbridge—the floor made of planks that would make a thump-thump-thump sound as the bicyclists rode over them by day—spanned a gorge cut by Dry Creek, which wasn’t dry at all, but a slowly moving stream twenty feet wide in spots, waist-deep, flowing past reeds, trees, rocks and dead branches.
It was here, in East La Loma Park, on this cold dark foggy night—Christmas Eve—that Scott Peterson, his neighbors and police searched.
He had come home, he would tell police, to an empty house and a missing wife. Her Land Rover was parked in the driveway. Her purse and phone were inside. He had last seen her at 9:30 that morning. She was working in the newly remodeled, Spanish-tiled kitchen, her sanctuary, with the TV on, the channel turned to one of her favorite shows, Martha Stewart Living.
She was wearing a white blouse, oversized to accommodate her pregnant belly, and dark pants. She was getting ready to walk the dog, he said, probably on the usual route, down Covena Avenue. The morning was cold and dreary, temperatures in the 50s, but feeling much colder, the fog lifting off the ponds and lakes and streams and canals and irrigated fields, shrouding the heartland of California.
Scott would tell police that he had gone outside, retrieved a couple of patio umbrellas from the back yard and put them in his new 2002 Ford F-150 pickup. Rain was in the forecast from a series of storms from the Northwest and he wanted to protect the umbrellas from the elements. He drove to a storage unit where he kept supplies from his job—he was a sales representative for California and Arizona for Tradecorp, a Madrid-based manufacturer of specialty fertilizers—and where he also kept his 14-foot Sears Gamefisher aluminum boat with the 15-horsepower outboard motor. It was a 1991 model, eleven years old—but for him it was new. He’d bought it fifteen days before from a man with his same last name, but not related. The deal was sealed on a weekend and he had returned the following Monday with the cash when the bank had opened. Scott said he’d put the umbrellas in the storage facility and took the boat out, hitching it to the pickup, then driving out of town, out of Modesto.
Scott’s destination was the San Francisco Bay, eighty miles to the northwest, and if he took the most direct route, his drive would have taken him down arrow-straight Highway 132 past vineyards, fields of fragrant alfalfa, groves of almonds, dairy farms smelling of cow manure. He would have gone past Mapes Ranch, which brags on a roadside sign to be the “Home of ton bulls” and says “Breed the best and forget the rest.” He would have gone over the San Joaquin River, then onto the freeway, Interstate 580, which crosses the Delta Mendota Canal and the water lifeline to Los Angeles, the California Aqueduct, before heading over the 1,009-foot-elevation Altamont Pass, where the hills are covered in power-generating windmills that look like huge propellers mounted on towers. The highway drops into the San Francisco suburbs of Livermore and Dublin before reaching the bay cities of San Leandro, Piedmont and, finally, Berkeley. At the bottom of University Avenue, down the hill from the University of California, Berkeley, is the Berkeley Marina. There would have been little to no traffic this holiday Tuesday and the drive wouldn’t have taken much more than an hour and a half.
At the north end of the marina, next to Cesar Chavez Park, and just off Spinnaker Way, is a parking lot and boat ramp. The administrative offices at the harbor were closed this Christmas Eve morning, but there was a skeleton crew on duty: two maintenance workers, a groundskeeper. A couple of them would remember seeing the Ford F-150 truck and Sears boat near the boat ramp.
He wouldn’t need anybody on duty to pay the five-dollar launch fee. The fee system was automated. Five one-dollar bills placed into a yellow machine generate a business-card-sized slip of glossy paper with blue stripes down the sides informing the user: “This side up on dash.” The ticket says, “Welcome to the Berkeley Marina” and provides the time and date the ticket was purchased and the time and date it expires.
The concrete ramps have floating docks on either side, and a third dock in the middle. Once in the marina, his little aluminum boat would have cruised the still waters past sailboats in their slips, then to the mouth of the harbor, where the water on this dreary morning would have been as gray as the sky and where, in all likelihood, the Golden Gate Bridge to the west, the Bay Bridge and San Francisco skyline to the south, and the Point Isabel Regional Shoreline to the north, all would have been invisible through the fog and clouds.
Leaving the harbor, just off the left bow of the little aluminum boat, would have been an eerie bay landmark, the crumbling shell of the Berkeley Pier, jutting three miles into the bay.
He would later say that this trip to the bay was for the purposes of fishing for sturgeon, which he had been told were running. He had long been a fisherman—his earliest memories were of fishing in San Diego while his family played golf on a riverside course. His first date with his wife was on an ocean fishing boat. He was a golfer, too, and could well have hit the links at the Del Rio Country Club north of Modesto rather than go to the bay. But the plan was what it was, and he would say that he spent the better part of Christmas Eve day bobbing in San Francisco Bay in his aluminum boat trying his luck.
By late afternoon, he would tell police, he was back ashore, driving the truck, the boat behind him, making the return trip to Modesto. He placed calls on his cell phone, at least one to his wife, but he never reached her, and another to a friend named Greg Reed, who would remember hearing a voice that sounded “great.” Scott wanted to make sure everybody was still on for a New Year’s Eve gathering that he was looking forward to.
He returned home, he would later say, to the green house at 523 Covena Avenue in the late afternoon or early evening, just hours before he and his wife would go to her mother and stepfather’s house nearby for Christmas Eve dinner. As he pulled up to the house, he saw his wife’s car—the 1996 Land Rover—parked in the driveway. The house was empty.
There was a message from his father-in-law on the answering machine reminding them to bring whipping cream to the dinner. There was no message from Laci.

Meet the Author

Michael Fleeman is an associate bureau chief for People magazine in Los Angeles and a former reporter for The Associated Press. His books include the true crime stories The Stranger in My Bed and Love You Madly. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children.

Michael Fleeman is a Los Angeles-based freelance writer and editor and the author of 10 true-crime books published by St. Martin's Press, including the New York Times best-seller The Stranger in My Bed and most recently Crazy for You about the Andrea Sneiderman murder case in Atlanta. Fleeman will be appearing in the second season of Investigation Discovery's "Tabloid," a series about sensational true-crime stories.

A graduate of UC Berkeley and the Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism, Fleeman previously was West Coast Editor of PEOPLE.com, overseeing entertainment and crime/human interest reporting for PEOPLE magazine's website out of Los Angeles. Prior to that, he was a reporter for the Associated Press in Los Angeles and New Jersey, covering the O.J. Simpson and Timothy McVeigh trials, general assignment and entertainment.

Fleeman has covered all the major awards shows and film festivals, including the Oscars, Golden Globes, Emmys, Grammys and SAG Awards, and his work has been repeatedly honored by the Los Angeles Press Club. His O.J. Simpson trial coverage was nominated by the AP for a Pulitzer Prize.

A frequently requested public speaker and television commentator, Fleeman appears regularly on Entertainment Tonight, "E! True Hollywood Story," Inside Edition, HLN's "Showbiz Tonight," CNN and a variety of true-crime programs on TruTV, Investigation Discovery and Oxygen. He most recently participated on panels at the conference of the Greater Los Angeles Writers Society.

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Laci 3.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 25 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is, more or less, a joke. I can't even bring myself to finish it, it's so badly done. The book is chock-full of errors, I know this from reading Sharon Rocha's book and reading the information on the website, this book is inaccurate and it makes the author seem unintelligent. Bottom line: If you can't take the time to research your story right and try to get the best and most accurate information possible, you shouldn't be writing a book. I doubt I will ever purchase books from this author, or this series of True Crime books again. I wouldn't reccomend this book to anyone, not anyone who wants a truthful account of the tragedy that is the Laci Peterson story. I think the author was just trying to cash in on someone else's misfortune. Sorry to say, but that's the vibe I got from it.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I am a person that is very interested in this case and the details around it, so i decided to read this book. For one, anyone who remotely tuned into the news at the time of the murder could have wrote this book. There was nothing new to it, and the author drew out into a 250 page book, what could have been wrote in a 50 page book. I would not suggest this book to anyone.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was written well before the trial. If Fleeman wants to keep this book in circulation he should do us all a favor and update his Laci yarn. Of course, why bother? Catherine Crier, in her book 'A Deadly Game' has written a superb account that is simply untouchable. With primary sources and thousands of never before seen police reports, Crier left all the other Laci authors sitting in the dust licking thier wounds. Nice try Fleeman, but I'm sticking with Crier.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Having read a number of books prior to this one on the Peterson case, I find this one is lacking in the quality of writing and attention to detail that is provided in Catherine Crier's, Amber Frey's, and Anne Bird's books.
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AnabellesMommy More than 1 year ago
If you know nothing about this case, this is an ok book. But it is nothing more that what you have read/heard in the media.
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hockeyrules More than 1 year ago
It kept me reading the entire book. It was really interesting since I wasn't all that familiar with the events that took place with this case. If you like true crime books, I would recommend this one!!
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OneReadingMomma More than 1 year ago
Reading this book is like watching a movie with no climax. As I neared the book's end, I kept wondering how the author was going to cover Scott Peterson's trial with only a handful of pages remaining.... he didn't. He covers the pretrial in painful detail, then uses less than five pages to cover the trial itsself, verdict and sentencing. I was very let down by this book!
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Guest More than 1 year ago
I really liked this book. When i first heard of this case a few years back it caught my interest. I woud always read about the case in People Magazine and see it on the news. I think it is terrible what happened. Reading this book gave me so much more information then i ever could have recieved by just reading magazines.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book was amzing. I never wanted to put it down. It gave alittle of both sides of the story . It gave me a differnt point of veiw of the case.
Guest More than 1 year ago
The book tells the whole story from beginning to end (all the details known, anyway). I think this is a good book, well worth reading.
Kay2001 More than 1 year ago
Guest More than 1 year ago
We may really never know why and how scott could do this crime, they seamed to have the pictuer perfact marrige but what led scott to kill his butifull wife and unborn son, if he was not happy he could have told laci that he thought that may be they should seperate for a whiel or he could have gotten a divorce but to kill his wife and unborn son well that was just wrong i know that i never got to see or meet laci but she would have been a grate mother to conneri all so feelk that she is watching over her family and friends and we all will meet her some day and may be she can tell us what really happend that day when scott killed her,i dont think that she is watching over scott at all but i do think that she is watching over AMBER FRY and is thank full that she was abiel to come forword and be her and conners voices when they could not speak.joanna
Guest More than 1 year ago
Laci Petterson was a loving woman. Her hopes of having a baby were coming true. She took care of herself and was ready to name her baby boy Conner.Who in their right mind would murder a woman that was everything in a person who always smiled and gave hugs and kisses who just called to say her pregnancy test was possitive.Everyone would like to know who murdered Laci and why they did it.