Diane Fanning - Written in Blood Innocent or Guilty? An inside look at the Michael Peterson case, subject of the hit series The Staircase

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

Michael Peterson, The Herald-Sun, July 1999

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!

Whats wrong? Mary asked.

My wife had an accident. Shes still breathing!

What kind of accident?

She fell down the stairs. Shes 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, shes 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 dont know. Then the hysterical tone consumed his voice again. Please! Get somebody here, right away. Please!

Okay, somebodys dispatching the ambulance while Im asking you questions.

Its off of a Its 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 didnt mmmm Petersons 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 silencefollowed by the blare of a dial tone that mocked Marys efforts to assist.

Elizabeth Pooles 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 Cedarwh Shes not breathing! Please! Please, would you hurry up!

In response, dispatcher Linda Gant sent out a Code 5 message indicating that the patients 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. Theyre on their way. Can you tell me for sure shes 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.

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. Roses 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 callthe 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, Michaels 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 Kathleens 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.