Marino: “You said when you used to see her on campus, she seemed to keep to herself. What about at other times? What I’m wondering is if it was her habit to be friendly with strangers. You know, like if she was in a store or at a gas station, did she talk to people she didn’t know? Or if someone came by the house, a deliveryman, for example, was she the type to invite the person in, be friendly?”
“No. She rarely talked to strangers, and I know she didn’t invite strangers into the house. Never. Especially when I wasn’t here. She’d lived in Boston, was acclimated to the dangers of the city. And she worked in the ER, was familiar with violence, the bad things that happen to people. She wouldn’t have invited a stranger in or been what I consider particularly vulnerable to that sort of thing. In fact, when the murders started happening around here, it frightened her. When I’d come home on the weekends, she hated it when I’d leave . . . hated it more than ever. Because she didn’t like being alone at night. It bothered her more than it used to.”
Marino: “Seems like she would have been careful about keeping all the windows locked if she was nervous because of the murders around here.”
“I told you. She probably thought it was locked.”
“But you accidentally left it, the bathroom window, unlocked last weekend when you was replacing the screen.”
“I’m not sure. But that’s the only thing I can figure . . .”
Becker’s voice: “Did she mention anybody coming by the house, or an encounter somewhere, with someone who made her nervous? Anything at all? Maybe a strange car she noticed in your neighborhood, or the suspicion at some point that maybe she was being followed or observed? Maybe she meets some guy and he puts the move on her.”
“Nothing like that.”
Becker: “Would she have been likely to tell you if something like that had happened?”
“Definitely. She told me everything. A week, maybe two weeks ago, she thought she heard something in the backyard. She called the police. A patrol car came by. It was just a cat messing with the garbage cans. The point is, she told me everything.”
Marino: “What other activities was she involved in besides work?”
“She had a few friends, a couple of other women doctors at the hospital. Sometimes she went out to dinner with them or shopping, maybe a movie. That was about it. She was so busy. In the main, she worked her shift and came home. She’d study, sometimes practice the violin. During the week, she generally worked, came home and slept. The weekends she kept open for me. That was our time. We were together on the weekends.”
Marino: “Last weekend was the last time you saw her?”
“Sunday afternoon, around three. Right before I drove back to Charlottesville. We didn’t go out that day. It was raining, raw. We stayed in, drank coffee, talked . . . ” Marino: “How often did you talk to her during the week?”
“Several times. Whenever we could.”
Marino: “The last time was last night, Thursday night?”
“I called to tell her I’d be in after play practice, that I might be a few minutes later than usual because of dress rehearsal. She was supposed to be off this weekend. If it was nice, we were thinking of driving to the beach.”
Silence.
Petersen was struggling. I could hear him taking a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
Marino: “When you talked to her last night, did she have anything to report, any problems, any mention of anybody coming by the house? Anyone bothering her at work, maybe weird phone calls, anything?”
Silence.
“Nothing. Nothing at all like that. She was in good spirits, laughing . . . looking forward, uh, looking forward to the weekend.”
Marino: “Tell us a little more about her, Matt. Every little thing you can think of might help. Her background, her personality, what was important to her.”
Mechanically, “She’s from Philadelphia, her dad’s an insurance salesman, and she has two brothers, both younger. Medicine was the most important thing to her. It was her calling.”