Written in Blood

by Diane Fanning

  The worst part for Tom was listening to the moans that escaped unbidden through Cheryl’s lips. When tears rolled down his face in response, he wanted to wipe them away, but his hands were covered in too much blood.

  Around 2 o’clock that afternoon, the mortuary service arrived to take away the body of Elizabeth Ratliff. Mike Peterson directed the removal of the body. He did not help with the cleaning, but was busy nonetheless. Then he worked the phones calling the different military offices and government agencies that handle the details surrounding the death of a government employee overseas.

  Time and again, Cheryl and Tom thought they were done with their onerous chore. They’d step back to examine their work and one of them would notice more blood. They got back to work cleaning stray spots on the refrigerator, off the trunk beneath the stairs, off the steps. They hunted down every drop of blood, not wanting to leave the smallest bit of evidence for the girls to see.

  At 5 o’clock that afternoon, Mike placed a call to Liz’s sister, Margaret Blair, in Rhode Island. He told her there had been an accident—Liz had fallen down the stairs and died. When Margaret asked for a further description, he told her it was peaceful—that “there was only a little blood behind her ear.”

  After hanging up, Margaret called her other sister, Rosemary, and shared the news with her. Then she called a family friend who was a nurse. She asked the woman to meet her at her mother’s house. Margaret had serious concerns about the physical impact on her mother when she and her husband, Jim, delivered the news of Liz’s death. It was November 25, 1985. Their father had died on November 25, 1975. Margaret shuddered at the coincidence. This November 25 would be the most difficult day of her life.

  When Cheryl and Tom were satisfied that every trace of blood was gone, they went up to the Petersons’ house and retrieved Margaret and Martha. The week Liz died, Barbara O’Hara was too spooked to return to the house to care for them. The Schumachers stayed in the home and cared for the girls through Thanksgiving week.

  The day after Liz died, second-grader Amy Carlson came home from Rhein Main Elementary School in tears. She sobbed as she told her mother, Donna, that her teacher was dead—Ms. Ratliff, the teacher whom Amy loved and talked about every day.

  Amy said that Ms. Ratliff committed suicide. She was full of sorrowful questions. How could she do this? How could she leave us? How could this happen on stairs? How can you kill yourself by throwing yourself down stairs?

  Amy knew something was wrong with the story she heard, but at her young age, could not understand what. The questions about Ms. Ratliff stayed with her for years. Donna had never met Amy’s teacher. The school sent no information home. Down the street was another mother who hadn’t known Liz. She, too, had heard it was a suicide.

  Was the story about Liz killing herself merely an idle rumor that ran through the community, creating a life of its own? Or was it a story planted with malice? Or one circulated to protect someone from suspicion? No one knows the truth of its origin; nonetheless, the suicide story left a deep scar on Amy’s heart—one that she carried with her to the end of her short, tragic life.

  When Pat Finn heard the news of Liz’s death, she flashed back to her friend Patty and her husband Michael. She had learned first-hand that Patty’s fantasy image of Michael Peterson was divorced from any connection with reality. She remembered the constant negative comments Mike made about Liz. She remembered thinking that he was obsessed with talking about her.

  She called the Criminal Investigation Division of the Military Police. She told them of her suspicions that Michael Peterson was involved in the death of Elizabeth Ratliff. They did not follow up on her call. To Pat, the military seemed determined to whitewash the incident and avoid scandal at all cost.

  20

  Liz’s body was transported to the 97th General Hospital in Frankfurt for an autopsy under Army auspices. The base there had four staff pathologists in 1985—not one of them was a forensic pathologist.

  Dr. Larry Barnes, a graduate of Kansas City College of Osteopathic Medicine, was assigned to perform Liz Ratliff’s autopsy. He was in his third year of his tour of duty in Germany. Trained in pathology at an Army school at Fort Campbell, Kentucky, he was well equipped to handle the typical general pathology work like tissue pathology on a removed appendix or the clinical pathology of blood analysis.

  He did not have much experience in autopsies, however. In fact, this was only his fifth one. The other four had all been on the victims of vehicular trauma. He had never conducted an autopsy on a person whose death was the result of foul play—he had never seen the results of blunt force trauma, gunshots or knife wounds. He had no significant training in forensic pathology.

  He followed medical—not forensic—protocol during the two-hour procedure. He did not have equipment to weigh the organs or to take height measurements. He made eyeball estimates and noted them on the chart. No photographs were taken of the external examination. No diagram was made of Liz’s wounds.

  He found 100ml of blood in her skull. There should not have been any there. He noted a hemorrhage at the junction of the brain and the brain stem with blood extending down into the spinal cord.

  He did not take a skull x-ray. He conducted a visual search for signs of a depressed skull fracture, but did not find any. Barnes made one slide of an area of the brain he thought exhibited vascular malformation, which caused both the hemorrhage and tissue degeneration. He made one slide of a liver section.

  The report Barnes submitted indicated Liz’s death was caused by a “cerebellar hemorrhage.” An initial view of the document by the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology stated that the slide of the brain tissue demonstrated a vascular malformation, a finding that supported Barnes’ stated cause of death.

  A neuropathology consultation by Dr. Andrew Parisi in April concluded that no final determination could be made. He did not find a vascular malformation. This finding contradicted Dr. Barnes’ conclusion. On the back of the report, he left the following note: “There is nothing diagnostic of von Willebrand’s disease in these actions. This is not a typical demise.”

  The final report from the director of the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology, however, stated that Elizabeth Ratliff’s demise was a “sudden unsuspected death due to a spontaneous intercranial hemorrhage, complicating von Willebrand’s disease; natural.”

  Barbara did not believe this was true. She told everyone that she knew there was something more to Liz’s death—there was too much blood. By the time she let it go, she was certain everyone thought she was crazy.

  Michael Peterson accompanied Liz’s body back to the States. Patty Peterson did not attend the funeral of her best friend. On December 2, 1985, Liz’s sister, Margaret, delivered the eulogy for her sister in the service at Holy Cross Catholic Church. The funeral procession crawled through Bay City. On the side of the roads, men stopped, pulled off their hats and held them to their hearts. Others bowed their heads or flashed through the blessings of the cross. Margaret Blair was surprised at these signs of respect and found a warm place in her heart for the people of Texas. Liz was laid to rest beside her husband, George, in Cedarvale Cemetery—a pair of flat gray granite stones with bronze plaques marked the spot where they were reunited.

  With calculating insight, Michael Peterson remembered to bring Liz’s will with him to Texas. He filed the last will and testament of Elizabeth Ratliff at the Matagorda County Courthouse on December 4, 1985. The fate and future of Margaret and Martha Ratliff now rested in the hands of Patty and Michael Peterson. With this responsibility came an estate valued at $44,000 and a monthly check from the government for the two orphans.

  There were questions, though, about the official evaluation of the estate. Liz’s BMW was not on the personal property list. Nor was the court in Texas aware of the tapestry Liz and George purchased at a bargain for $20,000 when they honeymooned. Also not listed were the Polish antiques from the mid—to late-eighteenth century or the hand-carved swan cradle, the
French pots, and the rugs from Afghanistan. And what had happened to the money from George’s life insurance policy that Liz had set aside for her girls’ future? Years later, when the contents of the document were revealed, suspicion arose that someone had lied to the Texas courts.

  In Texas, Margaret Blair learned about the provision in Liz’s will for the guardianship of the two girls. She was not surprised. She knew her sister had a close relationship with Patty Peterson for some time.

  After the Thanksgiving holiday weekend, Barbara moved back into Liz’s house to care for Margaret and Martha. Mike took care of all the household financial affairs and gave Barbara a raise.

  Barbara did not feel safe in the house. At night, she often heard sounds, as if someone were prowling around. She knew an unknown person had been in the house when she noticed items shuffled on George’s desk as if someone were looking for something. On another morning, she awoke to find the living room door leading to the garden standing wide open. She spoke to Mike about it and he promised to check on things when he was out for his late evening rambles and every morning when he walked the dog.

  Barbara got to know the Peterson family more intimately during these months. Their house, she said, was a disaster—very untidy and very dirty. Patty had no interest in housework and Michael had no clue. From time to time, Barbara cleaned their house for them. Barbara and the Petersons also worked out a mutual baby-sitting agreement that served both families well.

  As a rule, Patty stayed late at school to do all her paperwork and preparation for the next day instead of bringing it home. That meant Mike had to feed Clayton and Todd. The evening meals for the little boys were TV dinners more often than not.

  Barbara thought the two Peterson children were lovely boys, although they often wore unkempt clothing. Todd was an affectionate child. When she read to him or told him stories, he snuggled up as close as he could and looked up at her with big, gorgeous eyes. He could listen to her for hours.

  Clayton, on the other hand, was more reserved. He could not sit still for anything. He preferred telling her what was wrong with a story rather than sitting down and enjoying it.

  Barbara saw a change in Mike—a more violent, aggressive side of him emerged. He became mean and impatient. She had suspicions about the cause, but he was her employer and she kept her thoughts to herself.

  Mike displayed a clear favoritism for Margaret, who was a friendly, outgoing and intelligent girl. Martha was more shy and sensitive. She developed a fear of Mike, hiding behind Barbara whenever he came to the house. Martha came home from the Peterson’s on a number of occasions with black-and-blue marks on her body, but Barbara overlooked it—children often get bruised in play.

  Then, Barbara went away for a week and left the girls with the Petersons. When she returned, Martha had two black eyes and blue marks behind her ears. This time, Barbara confronted Mike about what had happened. He said that Martha was a “bad, bad girl” and she needed “to learn manners.” Barbara swore Mike’s voice was filled with glee when he told her that he had rubbed Martha’s nose in the carpet like a dog when she’d wet the floor.

  Soon after that incident, Mike Peterson moved back to the States, taking Margaret and Martha with him. After six months of being a mother to the girls, Barbara missed them. It tore at her heart. But how much more, she wondered, did the little girls suffer?

  Barbara helped the packers crate up Liz’s things. Then she cleaned the house one last time, locked the door and walked away. Leaving that house of death brought her a strong sense of relief.

  Margaret and Martha, having lost their mother and father, were now separated from their nanny. The path of their days was defined—a life that was a long litany of loss.

  MICHAEL PETERSON

  “Some people are simply not meant for one another. Though not wicked or evil by themselves, together they feed each other’s weaknesses, turning petty faults into cruelties, and fuel the fires of vanity, jealousy and greed.”

  –Michael Peterson, The Immortal Dragon, 1983

  21

  In early 1986, shaken by Liz’s death, Patty tried to contact her old friend, Pat Finn. When she dialed her number, she discovered that the phone was disconnected. In the silence of their falling-out, Patty was unaware that the Finns had moved to a new home in Berlin. She went to the DOD office, and asked for and received Pat’s new telephone number.

  When she called, Pat snapped, “How did you get my number?”

  Patty was infuriated by the question and said, “Don’t worry, I will never call you again.” She slammed down the phone. It was the last time Pat and Patty ever spoke.

  On June 6, 1986, Mike arrived in Rhode Island at Jim and Margaret Blair’s home. He left Martha there and traveled to Texas to leave Margaret with George’s family. These visits were explained to be temporary and were intended to allow Mike and Patty to get settled in a home in Durham, North Carolina.

  Before Mike left Rhode Island for Texas, however, he made a proposition to the Blairs. Martha was too much for him to handle because of her frequent temper tantrums. He asked if they would keep her on a permanent basis.

  Margaret and Jim were delighted at the thought of keeping Martha. But what about Margaret? The girls were so close. The only immediate family they had was each other.

  Michael would not entertain the possibility of both girls staying in Rhode Island. With heavy hearts, the Blairs declined his offer. They believed it was too important for the girls to remain together.

  In July, Margaret Blair received a phone call from the Ratliff family in Bay City. George Ratliff, Sr., had a heart attack. Could she please come to Texas and pick up her niece? Margaret flew down and brought her namesake home.

  The girls had a carefree summer making cookies, planting in the garden and picking up seashells on the seashore. One night, they lay out on the cool grass and stared up at the black sky watching as meteors showered to earth.

  On bad weather days, their older cousins, Jodie and Damon, entertained them with puppet shows at the foot of the double bed. A big favorite was the reenactment of the story of Pinocchio. And each evening before they climbed into bed, the two little girls said their night prayers: “God bless Mommy and Daddy in Heaven.”

  Margaret and Martha enjoyed their visit, but beneath the pleasures they experienced flowed a dark stream of sorrow. Great loss walked with them all their lives—loss that at this age they could feel, but could not comprehend. Often they asked, “My mommy’s dead. My daddy’s dead. When are you going to die, too?”

  After their Rhode Island summer, Margaret Blair drove the girls down to Durham and settled them into their new home with Michael, Patty, Todd and Clayton. One day during her stay there, Margaret heard screaming in the backyard and came running. It was so loud, she was certain it could be heard all over the neighborhood. When she reached the kitchen, she encountered a placid Patty.

  Margaret asked her what was going on. Patty simply said, “Oh, that’s just Michael.”

  Looking out the window, Margaret saw Mike’s continued rant. The cause of his distress was a bicycle—Clayton had left his bike on the ground behind his father’s car.

  Worry about the safety of the girls surged through Margaret. She told herself she was overreacting. Patty was very nurturing and loving with her boys. And she was just as nurturing and loving with the girls. It was Patty who mattered to Liz. She stuffed her worries down deep in the back of her mind.

  Michael and Patty continued their complaints about how difficult Martha was to raise. They told Mike’s sister, Ann, that Martha had tantrums and was manipulative.

  Ann was puzzled. A 3-year-old manipulative? What could Martha possibly do? When Ann asked Mike and Patty, they gave her an example.

  When the family went out shopping, they said, Martha would stand stock-still all of a sudden, and wail, “Oh, my mommy died,” and start crying. Patty insisted that she did this just to garner the attention of the other shoppers. Another demonstration that Martha was a g
rand manipulator, they said, was when she called all sorts of women “Mommy.”

  Ann, on the other hand, thought this kind of behavior was to be expected from a little girl who in three short years had lost her mother, her father and her nanny. When Mike and Patty asked if she would take Martha, Ann readily agreed. She was so excited about it, she told all her friends. And then, Michael changed his mind.

  Some wondered why the Petersons were not more concerned about Clayton’s behavior. He spent all his spare time up in the rafters of the garage tinkering with wires and mechanical objects. Once on a family trip to Hilton Head, he dismantled a Jacuzzi, then could not put it back together. Mike had to pay for a replacement.

  A block away from the Peterson home was the house of Fred and Kathleen Atwater. Their daughter, Caitlin, was wedged between the two Ratliff sisters in age. The three girls met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. After that, they often played together with Barbie dolls at each other’s houses.

  One day in 1988, Michael came home to discover two one-way flight tickets to Germany in the mailbox. The passengers named on the itinerary were Margaret and Martha Ratliff.

  Michael was furious. He confronted Patty. She told him that the Geislings, a wealthy older couple who had never been able to have children of their own, wanted to adopt the two girls.