Grogan said he’d find it and call back. When he did, the tape recorder was rolling. Grogan gave Scott the number, then asked for the name of the delivery person who had dropped off a parcel at the Peterson home on the morning Laci disappeared.
“Oh, sure, hold on. Let me dig out that paper.”
Grogan could hear papers rustling in the background.
“Oh, ah, Russell Graybill.” Consulting the receipt, Scott said that the driver had been at the house between 10:35 and 10:50 A.M. “Til hang on to this until I see ya or you send someone for it.”
Grogan then asked about the jewelry Laci was wearing the morning she disappeared. “She had on the diamond earrings, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And she had on a wristwatch that is diamond encrusted ... ”
“I believe so.”
“Around the side, what’s the metal on that though, is it gold or silver or … ?”
“Um, I don’t know, she had a couple of ‘em—I think she has a silver one and a gold one. A couple of gold ones.”
“She had two gold ones?” the detective asked.
“Thmk so.”
Just as Scott had failed to check for Laci’s purse, shoes, or jacket in the hours immediately following her disappearance, he still was unsure about the jewelry she was wearing. If Laci had frequently changed her jewelry, of course, this might be understandable. Yet in photographs taken in the weeks before she disappeared, Laci’s jewelry was consistent: the diamond earrings, the Geneve watch, and her diamond pendant. By this time, her grandmother’s expensive ring was already at the jewelers’ being divided into several pieces, including an addition to Laci’s own wedding ring.
“What about the dental records?” Grogan asked. He had already asked Scott twice for the name of Laci’s dentist. Scott had said he didn’t know the name but knew where the office was and promised to call him with the information. Now, two days later, Scott still hadn’t bothered. “Oh yeah, I meant to go,” he said. “I’ll go by there today and get the name of it.”
“One of the things I noticed when I was at the house is you had like ah, four degrees or something up on the wall,” Grogan said. “Are all those vours?”
“Well, that was a joke from Laci,” Scott explained, “a running joke because I went to school for so long.”
When police investigated this “joke,” they weren’t convinced. Three of the diplomas were phony, including a BA in religious studies from Arizona State University dated June 1, 1992, and two from the University of San Diego: a BS in psychology from June 21, 1994, and a BS in business dated June 12, 1996. The diplomas were beautifully matted, framed, and displayed in the Peterson home as if they were legitimate. As the police soon learned, they had been ordered on December 16, 2002, from a website called phonydiplomas.com. It was Scott’s credit card, not Laci’s, that reflected the $269.85 charge, and Scott’s shipping and e-mail address that appeared on the order.
The diplomas received little attention in the press, yet to me it was obvious that Scott had ordered the diplomas for himself, that they were part of his plan to create a new persona. They wouldn’t have fooled Laci, of course, but others, like Amber Frey, might be deceived. The religious studies diploma, I believe, must have been purchased with Amber in mind.
Next, Grogan asked Scott whether Laci had ever driven Scott’s truck.
“She liked it,” Scott told him.
“Either one of you ever been injured in the truck or anything? You ever been in an accident in it?”
“No, never been in an accident. Find probably blood climbing [sic] in it but …”
“You know what that was from?” The detective interrupted, referring to the blood in the truck that Scott just mentioned.
“But I mean I—cut my hands every day.”
“You cut your hand that day? Fiow’d that happen?” Grogan asked.
“Um, reached in that side pocket in the door.”
“What cut you?” Grogan asked.
“I mean, I know, Alan looked at my hands and I know he noticed cuts on my hands so—he knows.” Scott was referring to the first night, when Detective Brocchini had inspected his hands.
“What was in there that cut you?”
“I don’t know, probably just a door or the pocket or something.” He said he bled slightly. “Still my hand, I, you know, I keep cutting it handing out flyers so, that’s the reason I—I keep remembering it.” Scott was not making sense.
Scott’s injury fueled police speculation that Laci scratched him when he was strangling or smothering her. The other drops of blood, found on the couple’s duvet cover, supported this conclusion.
As I learned later, one theory police entertained seriously was that Scott strangled Laci in the bedroom, laying her body out at the foot of the bed where Brocchini saw the indentation in the covers. As he was strangling her, Laci reached up and scratched Scott on the knuckle, causing the tiny blood spatter on the duvet cover near the indentation. Scott could have dripped blood from that cut into the side pocket of his truck when he transported Laci’s lifeless body, hidden beneath the umbrellas, to the warehouse, where he loaded it in the boat and covered it with the tarp.
As he had with Sharon and Sandy on Christmas Eve, Scott knew he needed to explain how he had cut himself the very day Laci went missing. Since no one could know exactly how it happened, why was he worried?
“So you just had like a scuff on your knuckle or something?”
“Yeah, yeah. Still here.”
“Which hand?”
“Ah, left hand, index finger—”
Grogan shifted the subject again. “Did Laci know you had that boat?”
“Of course,” Scott retorted. “Can’t go out and buy something, you know, without telling your wife.”
“She’s been at the warehouse before?”
“Yeah, I don’t know, I mean I had it for a few days before she came and saw it,” Scott offered.
“Can you say when the last time she was in there was?” Grogan asked.
“Ah, it’s probably Friday.”
“Just a few days before she disappeared.”
“Yeah, I don’t know if she was down there the weekend or not. It’s pretty much a common stop for us going to Home Depot—it’s on the way—stop and get a tool or whatever,” Scott said.
“So on Friday, did she stop by and have lunch with you or what?”
“No, no, not lunch on Friday. [I] remember that. Well, I’m not sure if she did or not. 1 mean, I know we’d have lunch, but I don’t know if she came by to say hi or not.”
“You’re not sure if she came by or not.” Grogan inquired.
“No, I think so, but I’m not sure, you know, I don’t—make a note of it or anything.” While he had assured Brocchini just days ago that he and Laci never spoke when he was at work, now he had them lunching there regularly “Craig, I’m sorry, I’ve gotta go,” Scott said. “I’ve got an interview—I’m gonna talk to some press here.” The call ended abruptly, but there is no record that Scott had an impending interview with any members of the press.
At 10:15, Detective Tom Blake gave Grogan a report on the boat purchase. Blake had tracked down the previous owner, a man named Bruce Peterson (again, no relation). Peterson told police that he’d run an ad in a local newspaper to advertise his fourteen-foot Sears aluminum fishing boat, with a fifteen-horsepower outboard motor, a fish finder, and other accessories for $1,500.
On Sunday, December 8, Scott came by to see the boat. Bruce Peterson told him he had only used it a few times in freshwater; the last time was about three months earlier, in September. Scott asked a few questions, then told Bruce Peterson he would take it for $1,400. The owner wanted cash, and Scott promised to return with the money the following day. Bruce Peterson said he did not show Scott how to start the motor.
Scott came back the following day, cash in hand. According to the owner, Scott was polite and gracious throughout their dealings.
Later that after
noon, detectives reexamined Scott’s boat. They had been unable to start the boat when they first examined it on December 26. Water tests confirmed the presence of salt, indicating that the boat had been used in saltwater.
Just after 2:30 P.M. police interviewed a woman named Peggy O’Donnell. O’Donnell worked at a business called Adventures in Advertising that was located in the same industrial park as Scott’s office on North Emerald. O’Donnell claimed that Laci Peterson had visited the complex several days before her disappearance, either December 20 or December 23, and asked to use the bathroom. O’Donnell’s remarks fueled speculation that Laci may have known about the boat, just as Scott claimed, and that she could have left her hair in the boat when she visited the warehouse that day.
Based on the condition of the office when Brocchini saw it that first night, police do not believe that Laci ever entered the warehouse that day. It would have been impossible for her, in her condition, to get to the bathroom area. Pallets of product were stacked floor to ceiling. Even the police had trouble moving about in the cluttered space.
Later on the afternoon of December 30, Scott called Grogan with the information on Laci’s dentist. When Scott admitted, after days of delay, that both he and Laci shared the same dentist, Grogan’s eyebrows shot up.
He listened attentively to Scott as the tape recorder whirred quietly on his desk, capturing a conversation that the public and jury never heard.
“Scott, are you there?” Grogan asked.
“Yeah.”
“On the press issue,” Grogan began. “Obviously, you’ve been going to the press conferences.”
“No,” Scott responded flatly.
“You have not.’’” Grogan was surprised.
“I went to one.” Scot explained.
“All right, the chief’s been getting a lot of inquiries since the beginning of this thing about the polygraph.” Journalists were asking whether Scott had taken a polygraph examination. “I mean every day they ask him about that and every day he doesn’t really lie, but he doesn’t really tell the truth either,” Grogan said. “You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I’m shook up.” Scott said.
“It’s going to make things a little bit uncomfortable, but, we’re probably going to release ... ”
“Okay,” Scott interrupted.
“Okay? I wanted to talk to you about that up front and tell you man-to-man cause I don’t want you to be knocked down by that.”
“I appreciate that, sir.” Scott then asked about getting his vehicles back, along with the keys to his house and office.
Grogan promised to check with the crime scene investigators about the keys. He then asked a series of questions about the anchor police found in his warehouse.
“When you told us you made a homemade anchor … it looks like you made that right there at the shop?”
Scott answered in the affirmative.
“Did you just make one?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay,” Grogan sighed. “… the boat didn’t come with one?”
“No, the guy wanted to keep the anvil mushroom,” Scott explained. “Did um, Kirk McAllister call you?” McAlHster was the criminal attorney he’d retained.
“No.” Grogan responded.
“Okay, I don’t mind answering your questions.”
“All right. Can you tell me when you made that?”
“When?”
“Yeah.” Grogan answered.
“Ah, I don’t know, Friday, Saturday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, maybe, somewhere in there,” Scott said. “Maybe it might have been before that, no, wouldn’t have been before that because I was in Carmel.”
“It looked to me like you made it in that ah, pitcher.”
“I used a plastic bucket,” Scott responded.
“Okay. And then poured it in the pitcher or something?”
“I just used the plastic bucket, little painter’s bucket.” While the pitcher was quickly located by officers, the little white painter’s bucket was never found, nor could Scott explain its absence. Police suspected that Scott had left it on the last anchor and pushed it over-board with Laci’s body.
“Is that what it was set up in?”
“Yeah,” Scott responded.
“Okay. And that’s just rebar or something on the top?”
“Yeah, exactly.” Scott explained that he’d placed the rebar in the anchor to use in affixing a rope.
“Okay. There’s chicken wire in your truck,” Grogan asked. “What was that for?”
“Ah, little trees at my house. See those little stakes I’ve staked up?”
“Okay ... ”
“Cat keeps scratching the hell out of ‘em.”
“All right. Why was it in your truck?”
“Well I bought it, had it in the back of the truck, taking it home to put around the trees,” Scott told the detective.
“Okay, you hadn’t put any up yet?”
“No, no.” Scott told Grogan that he had bought the chicken wire at Home Depot about two weeks earlier; he had left it sitting in the car trailer in his office, and he had just decided to bring it home. While the umbrellas never made it to the warehouse, the chicken wire came home.
“All right that sounds good. Ah, any questions you got for me, Scott?”
“No, no, you’ve been, you’ve been, you know, real good to me so, you’ve been real fair, I appreciate it.” Scott responded. He asked not one question about Laci or the police investigation.
“At some point tomorrow, and this is up to the chief, if they ask about the polygraph,” Grogan started. “We’re gonna say that, you know, you didn’t take the exam. We’re not going to say that you’ve been totally uncooperative ‘cause that’s not true either.”
“Right,” Scott answered dryly. “… All right and if I can get one of those cars back, it’ll be a big help in finding Laci.”
“Okay, all right, thanks a lot.”
“Thanks Craig.”
It was 5:30 P.M. on December 30 when Detective Grogan stepped into a private ninety-minute debriefing at headquarters. Only those officers closest to the investigation were invited to attend.
The topic was a phone call that had come in on the Laci Peterson tip line from a woman claiming she was Scott Peterson’s lover. Her name was Amber Frey.
CHAPTER SIX
DECEMBER 30, 2002
At police headquarters, Detective Al Brocchini was checking on leads coming in to the tip line when a conversation between a member of his team and a female caller grabbed his attention. Brocchini was standing directly behind Beverly Valdivia as she took notes on her desktop computer; his eyes were riveted to the screen.
A woman named Amber Frey from Madera, California, was calling to claim that she was Scott Peterson’s current girlfriend. She sounded credible. She gave a list of specific dates when she claimed to have spent the night with him, and related details of several phone conversations between the two since Laci’s disappearance.
Taking the receiver, Brocchini identified himself, then listened intently as the woman told her story. After seeing a news report about a man named Scott Peterson who had reported his wife missing in Modesto, Amber had attempted to call Brocchini the previous evening. When she couldn’t reach the detective, she dialed headquarters and spoke with a dispatcher, who confirmed that her boyfriend had the same birth date as the Scott Peterson in the news. Upon hearing that. Amber decided to call the tip line.
Amber told the police that she’d been seeing Scott Peterson since November 20, 2002, five weeks before Laci’s disappearance, and had spoken with him on the phone virtually every day since then. Grabbing pen and paper off Valdivia’s desk, Brocchini scribbled furiously as Amber told him about her “single” boyfriend. The two of them had even discussed the subject of marriage. Just as with Janet Isle and Katy Hansen, Peterson first told Amber that he’d never been married, but later changed his story and confessed something quite different.
Amber related
the conversation. It occurred on December 9, just a couple of weeks into their relationship, at her home in Madera, ninety miles south of Modesto. Soon after Scott arrived, she recalled, he suddenly broke down sobbing. He had “lost his wife.” He offered no specifics, and Amber felt uncomfortable asking for more. His anguish led her to believe that Scott was either divorced or a widower. Scott sobbed that “this would be the first holiday without her.” He “did not want to talk about it,” Amber said, so she pressed him no further.
Brocchini asked if the young woman would assist in the investigation by maintaining contact with Scott without revealing that she had spoken with the police. Amber agreed. Promising to call her right back with a meeting time, Brocchini hung up, raced upstairs to find Grogan and Buehler, and called an emergency meeting.
As Brocchini excitedly briefed his colleagues on the call, Grogan quickly realized that December 9 was the very day that Scott Peterson had plunked down $1,400 to buy Bruce Peterson’s aluminum fishing boat. He immediately dispatched Brocchini and Buehler to Amber’s home. This could be the break they needed.
The late December sun peeked through patchy clouds as the officers made the nearly two-hour drive to Madera, a small city in the heart of California’s Central Valley. Home to a portion of Yosemite National Park, Madera County is largely rural. Yet Madera itself is a fast-growing town of 43,000, dominated by young people. The average age is just twenty-six.
It was almost 11:00 A.M. when the detectives pulled up to Amber Frey’s house in Rolling Hills. Standing in front of the cottage were two women, tall and slender, with fair skin and long blond hair. They looked very much alike.
Pulling badges and photo ID from their pockets, the men identified themselves and handed over their business cards, .Amber Frev identified herself and her friend, Shawn Sibley, the woman who had introduced her to Scott Peterson.
For Brocchmi, the name Shaivn rang a bell. Two days earlier, he had heard the same name while interviewing a fellow employee of Scott’s named Eric Olsen.
The police had first learned of Olsen through an e-mail they found on Scott’s computer, in which Olsen informed Scott that he was resigning from Tradecorp. In a subsequent phone interview, the thirty-two-year-old Olsen told police that he had traveled with Scott on several business trips, and that on those occasions Scott was al-ways generous, wining and dining clients and splurging on expensive bottles of wine. Still, he said, he had grown unhappy because Scott had made him financial promises that were never fulfilled.
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