batshit crazy theories), a confusing inability on the part of cops and detectives to actually figure out how to prosecute the crime, and a whole host of interpersonal elements that make things even juicier.
Let’s rewind: it was December 9, 2001. Novelist Michael Peterson and his wife of four years, Kathleen Peterson, were lounging by the pool at their North Carolina home.
They’d had some wine and were feeling tipsy. Kathleen went inside the house and Michael stayed outside. When he entered two hours later, he saw his wife dead at the bottom of the staircase, surrounded by a pool of blood.
But something was off: first, there was the absurdly showy 911 call from Peterson himself that seems ripped straight out of a late-career Bette Davis movie.