A Perfect Husband (2 page)

The Peterson mansion, once known as the John Buchanan House, was built in 1940 by a wealthy man who wanted a large stylish home that offered elegant areas for entertaining. Located in the posh suburb of Forest Hills, the mansion was, in certain respects, unusual. It was more modern, more upscale than many of the large old homes one might visit in the area. But at the same time, the Peterson house had all the high-end appointments—the traditional hardwood floors, the built-in bookshelves, the crystal chandeliers, the wide, sweeping spiral staircase—all the formal trappings evident in the homes of wealthy Southerners.

But the Peterson mansion was an enigma, because in a sense, the place seemed caught in between the old and the new worlds. Certain of the elements reminiscent of the old South were present, but others were distinctly missing, such as the traditional Corinthian columns and entryway parlors, things considered standard in old Southern homes. Oddly, there was something about the architecture that made the old house seem newer. There were large windows and outdoor patios, not real reminders of yesteryear. There were two worlds, it seemed, present in that old house, and perhaps the most symbolic reminders of that were the Petersons' two staircases. One was a sweeping oval shape, a centerpiece of the home, while the other lead down to the kitchen area, a more practical structure, hidden behind doors.

The home had a few multipurpose rooms, but they were split up in a strange way. There were two living rooms, with a foyer in between them. And then there were two entryways to the house. One was a more casual back door, often left unlocked. The other was the formal entrance off Cedar Street, which no one really used. It was more or less for show. Reminiscent of an earlier age, the Peterson house had some other strange features. There was a buzzer in the formal dining room that had once been used to page servants. And, like in the days of old plantations, there were bathrooms in the basement that had been built so that servants would not share the toilets used by their white homeowner employees.

In a sense, to look at it with an untrained eye, the Peterson home was a place that seemed cobbled together, almost like a patchwork gone astray. But the Peterson home was purposely built in that strange fashion, it rambled on, with its many separate wings downstairs, its five huge fireplaces, and its six sets of bedroom suites upstairs. Not that it wasn't beautiful. The home was gorgeous, with all its nooks and crannies, all its rooms set off with glazed hardwood floors, fourteen-foot ceilings, and elaborate crown moldings.

But then the interior decor of the house was another contradiction. Among the Petersons' typical Americana antiques were prized rare items, pieces supposedly from the Ming Dynasty. Mixed in with their contemporary green and black marble furnishings were elaborate Oriental screens, gold carvings, and porcelain objects on pedestals. The Petersons' home had all kinds of bizarre elements. There were antique cars that were never driven. There was even an unused bomb shelter out in the back of the property, sitting discreetly off the garage at the end of the circular driveway.

Then there was Michael Peterson's personal office and library, an unusually large space, very masculine, very imposing, which enjoyed its own private wing off the main entryway. Distinctly different from the rest of the mansion, Michael's office was heavy and dark, covered in a series of dark redwood panels. With such a massive amount of dark wood, Peterson's office, at times, seemed ominous. It was certainly not an inviting place. If anything, his office was intimidating. It was understood that Michael Peterson didn't want people in there. That was his writing place, his sacred ground.

At the other end of the house was the main living area, Kathleen's domain. An airy space filled with modern furniture, glass tabletops and leather couches, it was white, light, and cheerful. The eat-in kitchen was alive with lush green plants, colorful gadgets, ornate Asian bowls, and a collection of gourmet cookbooks. This part of the house showed off Kathleen's Mother-Earth style. She was clearly a good homemaker. She filled the place with floral designs, oak baskets, beautiful pottery, and vivid art prints.

The Petersons were certainly eclectic, and their home reflected varied tastes. Michael and Kathleen never seemed to care that their style didn't fit with the traditional color schemes or home furnishings of their neighbors. If the Petersons' trappings seemed unusual, that was by design. The Petersons liked the idea that their home reflected a global sensibility. There were the many artifacts Michael collected from his bygone eras—from places like Germany and Japan. There were American quilts that belonged to Kathleen and her first husband, Fred. Other pieces of Americana belonged to Michael and his first wife, Patricia. There were also the items Michael collected from his friend, Liz Ratliff. They were sentimental things, rare chests of drawers, old crafted lamps, and a great tapestry that hung above the winding spiral staircase.

There were so many ornate pieces of art, so many rare things—it would be difficult for anyone to keep track of it all. In one corner would be a large carved Chinese warrior figure dating back thousands of years; in another spot, simple blue-colored steins, marked handmade, from Germany. The Petersons had so many different histories in the family, their collection of home furnishings presented a large cross section of the world. There was no theme.

The Petersons didn't live in such a way that seemed quite pulled together. There was nothing about the home that seemed indicative of the Southern region in which they dwelled. No interior decorator would have condoned the ornate, rather garish Oriental artifacts strewn everywhere. But then, the Petersons were not concerned with the mixed image their home might portray. They weren't the types who wanted a perfect home, pulled neatly together by a decorator's touch. Quite the contrary. They were unusual folks, Michael and Kathleen, who had both traveled the globe extensively. They knew about fine living, and they liked to do things their way.

In fact, the Petersons didn't even employ a regular housekeeper. Kathleen did most of the housework herself. Of course it was a lot for her to handle. For so many years, she not only took care of Michael, but she had her daughter, Caitlin, whom she had custody of from her previous marriage, as well as Michael's four children, Todd, Clayton, Margaret, and Martha. Growing up in that house, the mix of kids were like another version of the Brady Bunch. There were the typical fights and jealousies, the sibling rivalries to be expected, but with Michael and Kathleen's constant love and devotion, the kids seemed to be turning out pretty well.

By the time the Petersons were living on their own, Michael and Kathleen finally having their own private “nest,” the only person working for the Petersons was their maintenance man, Clyde. Mainly he took care of the yard and lawn furniture, little things like that. Clyde had worked for the family for years, doing odd jobs around the house. But as far as the rest of the chores and responsibilities of the home, with the children gone, Michael and Kathleen were able to manage the upkeep of the house alone.

Being a very private person, Michael was opposed to having any extra people underfoot. He was content, helping Kathleen with house chores when necessary. That suited his needs. Perhaps Michael thought paid servants were a waste of money. Perhaps he was a guy with a sense of humility. Whatever the reason, Michael felt he could tend to his own home maintenance.

As for Kathleen, she made it clear that she enjoyed taking care of things on the domestic front. It was her way to keep her house a home. Even if it took her hours to dust all the artifacts in the huge mansion, Kathleen was happy to do it. She didn't mind polishing silver; she didn't mind having to clean so many bathrooms. And then there were certain areas Kathleen never had to worry about—Michael's office, for example, was a place he meticulously kept clean and neat. And his other work areas were maintained the same way. Whether it be his workout gym or his car garage, Michael made sure to keep up his own end of the bargain, happy to take care of his own space.

For both of them, the house seemed to be one of their greatest joys. Michael and Kathleen loved entertaining. They often had neighborhood parties and the Peterson home was a place where everyone was made to feel comfortable. Kathleen, who spent most of her time in the kitchen, would serve countless meals, sometimes formally, in the grand dining room; other times she would opt for family style, from her granite countertops that served as eating spaces alongside her stove.

Kathleen's kitchen, like so many other kitchens, provided the main source of life in the home, with its informal dining area and large wood-burning fireplace. Her kitchen, with its adjoining family room, was a place for people to kick up their heels and relax. Being a hostess was a pleasure for Kathleen. She loved filling her home with people on the weekends, whether she was working with her kids on school projects in the living area, sipping champagne by the fire with a handful of dinner guests, or preparing simple meals, homemade goodies, for her neighbors and friends.

 

 

That was where the Petersons were, Kathleen's kitchen, on Saturday night, December 8, 2001. It was in the early part of their special evening together and Michael and Kathleen were just finishing a light dinner when their son Todd unexpectedly happened to drop by. Todd was the only one of the five children who still lived in the Durham area. It wasn't that unusual for him to pop over to the house, but that particular evening he was in his own world, and he was not very interested in what was going on in his parents' lives.

Todd hadn't meant to disturb them. He told Michael and Kathleen that he was on his way to a party with his new friend, Christina, who knocked on the door about a half hour later. A pretty girl, whom Todd formally introduced, Christina didn't have much to say. Todd seemed to be in a rush. He said he wanted to find something in his room, then he'd be ready to take off. The Petersons tried to exchange some pleasantries with Christina, but she seemed distracted.

Since Michael and Kathleen were about to watch their rental video of the film
America's Sweethearts
, they decided not to pay too much attention to Todd and his girl. After all, he was a grown man with a life of his own. Over the years, they had met so many girls who'd been interested in Todd, but they had learned, the hard way, not to intrude into Todd's personal life. Their eldest son, Clayton, had been a handful. Now Todd seemed to be the more unsettled of their two boys. He was quite a catch—Todd was a
GQ
-type, the kind that girls went gaga over. Yet he seemed to have trouble finding satisfaction in life, despite being tall, muscular, and handsome.

Kathleen had given up trying to figure Todd out. Their son Clayton had gotten his act together; he had graduated first in his class from college and had found love with a kindhearted girl. But Todd, well, he seemed to have so much wasted talent. Kathleen had spent years worrying about Todd, trying to help him figure out a career, trying to encourage him in relationships. But all of her efforts seemed futile.

It was no wonder, then, that Kathleen didn't feel the need to make a fuss about Todd's comings and goings. He and Christina seemed to be on edge, itching to get out of there. Perhaps Todd's date realized they were intruding.

Whatever the case, Kathleen decided not to devote too much energy to Todd that night. It was important that nothing interfere with her private time. Kathleen needed the romance back with her husband. She needed to be in the comfort of his strong arms.

On December 9, 2001, just after 2:40 in the morning, a frantic man dialed a 9-1-1 operator to report an emergency. The caller was breathing heavily as he told a Durham, North Carolina, emergency operator that his wife had an accident at their Cedar Street home. The caller was bordering on hysteria. His wife, he said, had fallen down the stairs. She had an accident, he reported, his wife was not conscious . . . but she was still breathing.

The caller seemed confused. He kept repeating that his wife wasn't conscious. He wanted an emergency crew to come over immediately. He had already given the address. But the operator wanted the man to calm down. She could hardly understand him, his voice was so shrill and his breathing so loud. The emergency operator assured him that an ambulance had already been dispatched, that she just wanted to ask him some questions.

But the phone was going dead. The 9-1-1 operator could hear the caller in the background yelling, “Oh, God!” Then their connection was lost. The operator dialed Engine 5, Medic 5, to be sure that an emergency crew was enroute. She spoke directly to the rescue team, asking them to copy the address on Cedar Street. Then just as she was completing her radio call, repeating that an unconscious female had fallen down a flight of stairs, a second emergency 9-1-1 call came in.

The caller could hear static through the phone. There was the sound of radio operators and in the background someone yelling “Code 5!” With each passing second, the caller was getting more frantic. Time was standing still.

But the caller said nothing more.

The phone had gone dead again. All that was left was a dial tone.

 

 

Eight minutes later, the paramedics, who had made a wrong turn in the wooded neighborhood, raced up the long driveway on Cedar Street. All the lights were on in the house. They rushed in and found the victim of the fall, a forty-eight-year-old white female, without any pulse. Durham Police Department Officers McDowell and Figueroa were the next to arrive on the scene. Within minutes, Corporal McDowell asked communications to notify the Crime Investigation Department. The emergency medical services team hadn't even attempted to revive the woman's heart beat; it was clear that the woman was deceased. Police at the scene tried to identify the male there, the person who made the 9-1-1 call, but the gentleman was so hysterical and upset, he was just crying out of control.

Officer Figueroa, who had arrived at 2:50
A.M.
, observed that the victim, Kathleen Hunt Atwater Peterson, lay at the bottom of the backstairs with her head tilted up against the stairwell. Beside her were a pair of male athletic shoes, white socks, and a pair of clear-gel flip-flop sandals. Under her head was a blood-soaked roll of paper towels.

At 3:07
A.M.
, Durham Investigator Dan George arrived and made his way around the fire trucks and patrol cars, approaching the back entryway to the residence. Investigator George deliberately walked through the back door, trying to stay clear of the victim. Dan George spoke with Officer Figueroa about securing the residence. It was such a huge place, they would need plenty of backup. He noted that there was blood on the walls and on several steps leading up the stairway and was assured that the Crime Investigation Department (CID) were on their way.

He didn't want to stay long. He wanted to wait for the Crime Scene Investigation teams. Dan George felt there was foul play . . . and just as the police investigator began backing out of the doorway, the kitchen door opened and Michael Peterson, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, running barefoot, came rushing past him. Peterson was covered in blood from head to toe.

“Do you want me to see her again?” a male voice suddenly called out.

The voice was Todd's, coming from behind Michael. Todd was trying to console his dad. He was offering to check on Kathleen. Then, like lightning, Michael approached his wife, bent down over her, crying and moaning, and began to caress her. The officers present had no chance to prevent it.

It was awkward. The police needed to find a way to remove Michael Peterson from the body. Without being harsh, finally, after a few failed attempts, they decided to ask Todd, who somehow managed to move his dad away.

But the damage had been done.

The scene was contaminated.

Michael Peterson had transferred bloodstains from Kathleen's body to his own.

And, as if that weren't trouble enough, when Investigator Dan George accompanied Michael and Todd Peterson back toward the kitchen area, he was surprised to see a civilian standing there, a young lady whom he recognized. She was Christina Tomessetti, the daughter of one of his best friends, and he wondered what Christina was doing there, alone in the kitchen, just waiting by the sink. Christina told Dan George that she and Todd had been at a party, that they had arrived at the house just moments after the fire trucks had gotten there.

As the uniformed officers attempted to secure the scene, two other civilians suddenly appeared out of nowhere. They were Heather Whitson and Ben Maynard, other friends of Todd's, whom he apparently had called for help. Todd knew they were in the neighborhood, all of them had just seen each other at the party, and Todd had specifically asked Ben to bring Heather, who was a medical resident at Duke University. Todd hoped Heather could be of some type of assistance, to his dad at least, if nothing else.

At first, when Heather and Ben had arrived on the scene, the Durham police were refusing to let them enter. But immediately, Todd appeared at the front Cedar Street entrance, asserting that it was okay for his friends to come in. He needed someone to check on his dad. Todd insisted, and he wouldn't take no for an answer. The police, trying to walk on eggshells in the midst of such family grief, didn't argue with Todd. They permitted his friends to enter.

Todd took his friends around the front entrance of the house, around the spiral staircase. The three walked into the kitchen through the formal dining room, and once there, Heather and Ben tried to console Mr. Peterson. But the man was so distraught over the loss of his wife, there was nothing they could do or say. He was all bloody, but he didn't really need any medical attention. He was just in shock.

Peterson kept mumbling and crying. He couldn't believe his wife, Kathleen, was dead. He just didn't believe it. He didn't know how he could live without Kathleen. He didn't know how a thing like this could have happened. The two of them were having a few drinks. The two of them were celebrating. The last thing he knew, he had gone out to the pool area, and had taken the dogs outside for a while. He thought Kathleen had gone upstairs to bed. He couldn't understand how something like this could have happened.

It was impossible to think that his Kathleen was gone.

She was his life....

For some time , Michael Peterson could not be convinced that Kathleen was dead. To appease his father, there was a point when Todd asked to see the body himself, and the uniformed officers let him approach.

When Todd knelt down, police used a flashlight to help him take a look at his stepmom. Without asking, Todd touched Kathleen's leg. There was no sign of life.

With the flashlight blaring, everyone in the room got a close-up view of Kathleen Peterson's head, which seemed to be propped up at the foot of the stairs. People were aghast at all the blood around Kathleen's body, all the blood staining her clothes.

They noticed bruises, and such a strange look of pain on her face....