Praying for a happy ending, friends and family stood by Laci's grieving husband Scott. Four months later, Laci's decomposed body was found in the murky waters of San Francisco Bay. The body of her child had washed ashore about a mile away, after a possible "coffin birth." It was a sad closure to an exhaustive search, and a grim end to a marriage that by all accounts had appeared to be perfect. Scott Peterson's behavior had cast a mysterious shadow over the death of his pregnant wife: his alibi on the day of the disappearance was questionable; he admitted to an affair with another woman; and when he was finally charged with capital murder, he had altered his appearance. Almost immediately, the media condemned Scott, even though he maintains his innocence. Is Scott Peterson a victim of circumstantial evidence? Despite the state attorney general's claim of a "slam dunk", the case that has gripped the nation is much more complex, and is yielding even more questions, doubts, accusations, and shocking revelations. Michael Fleeman is an associate bureau chief for People magazine in Los Angeles and a former reporter for The Associated Press. His books include the true crime stories The Stranger in My Bed and Love You Madly . He lives in Los Angeles with his wife and two children. CHAPTER 1 “Hi, Mom.” It was Scott Peterson on the line. Sharon Rocha was preparing Christmas Eve dinner for the family when her son-in-law called. There was concern in his voice. “Is Laci there?” “No,” Sharon said. She hadn’t spoken to her daughter since the night before. “Well,” said Scott, “she’s missing.” The wording was peculiar. Laci was missing. Not gone. Not out. Then a horrible feeling overcame her. Sharon Rocha knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. Scott called at least two more times on the evening of Tuesday, December 24, 2002, when a cold fog descended on Modesto. The next time he phoned, he told his mother-in-law that he had called everybody he could think of and nobody knew where Laci was. The third time Scott called his in-laws’ house, about 6:30 p.m., his mother-in-law told her husband, Ron Grantski, to phone the police. When the officers arrived, it took very little to convince them of the urgency of the situation. Scott hadn’t seen Laci since that morning. When he got home in the late afternoon, her car was there, her purse was there, her cellular phone was there. But not Laci. There was no note, no message on the answering machine, no word left with any family or friends. This wasn’t like her. She was outgoing and bubbly, but not impetuous or irresponsible. She was the Mini–Martha Stewart to her friends, the gracious but strict hostess who served dinner at eight, and don’t be late—and be sure to dress accordingly. She wrote notes for holidays and special occasions. Surely, she would have left a note if she were to leave before such an important evening. She was the model of manners and comportment, of doing things right, of expecting the same of others. She was also eight months pregnant—with their first child, a boy, whom they planned to name Conner. Scott rounded up the neighbors. In the misty darkness, with temperatures dipping toward the 40s, they searched throughout his La Loma neighborhood. Scott looked distraught, scared. Teary-eyed, he ran down Covena Avenue, past the END sign where the street dead-ended into a well-trod footpath. He went through the open gate and headed down the steep path into East La Loma Park. She must be in the park. She had been getting ready to walk the dog. Scott searched. The neighbors searched. The police officers went into the park, probing the darkness with their Maglites, looking behind the bushes and rocks, walking up and down the banks of Dry Creek, searching under the footbridge. In the foggy skies, a helicopter from the Stanislaus County Sheriff’s Department strafed the grounds with its powerful searchlight. The officers roamed the streets of the La Loma neighborhood, just northeast of downtown Modesto, looking for any traces of the pregnant woman, interviewing anybody they could find, to see if they’d seen or heard anything. They found a neighbor, Karen Servas, who hadn’t seen Laci that day, but had seen her dog. At about 10:30 that morning, Servas was pulling out of her driveway onto Covena when she saw a golden retriever she recognized as McKenzie, scampering down the street, trailing a muddy leash. She led the dog to its home at 523 Covena, where the gate to the back yard was open. That must have been how the dog got out, Servas thought. She put the dog in the yard and closed the gate and thought nothing of it until the police showed up later that evening and asked her if she had seen anything unusual that day. By midnight, a small group of friends gathered in front of the green house and wondered and worried: Where could she be? The next morning, Christmas Day, Scott called his parents down in San Diego. They had always been fond of Laci. She had sent