`Keep it on the front page'

Recalling my November 2007 stakeout of the notorious criminal cop, Drew Peterson.

Stakeouts are typically associated with law enforcement types on the lookout for bad guys. But it happens in journalism, too, requiring patience, persistence and—if the moment of confrontation arrives--pluck.

From there, whether you get a compelling story is a matter of luck.

We’re coming up on the 17^th anniversary of one such episode, the time I staked out a notorious longtime police officer, Drew Peterson, for the Chicago Tribune.

Drew was suspected of killing his fourth wife, Stacy, only two weeks earlier. And scrutiny was mounting over the circumstances of his third wife’s death.¹At the time, Peterson was an emerging household name nationally.

And on the heels of that red-hot notoriety, here I was outside his house.

Part of the Media Horde

It’s 5:10 a.m. on Sunday, November 11, 2007 as I park my car a few doors down from my target: the suburban Chicago home where Peterson lives with his two young children. A Focus sits in the driveway.

My job: keep an eye on the home of Drew Peterson and see what, if anything, happens.

Since his wife Stacy’s disappearance two weeks ago, Peterson has become a person of keen interest. An arrest might come at any moment and the paper wants someone on hand to capture the details if it happens.

Nearly three hours later, a few minutes before 8 o’clock, a man emerges from the house, ducks into the car and drives off. After a brief chat with a Bolingbrook police officer parked about a block away, he climbs into the Focus and drives off.

A few minutes later, I approach the officer and ask if the man was Drew Peterson. Nope, comes the reply—it was just some guy asking for directions to a Dunkin’ Donuts.

“Yeah, right,” I think.

About 20 minutes later, the Focus returns. By this point, I’ve phoned in the car’s license plate to a Tribune editor and learned that the motorist is likely Paul Peterson, presumably Drew’s brother. The driver gets out, opens a rear door…and pulls out two large Dunkin’ donuts plastic bags.

Well, I’ll be…

Overcoming the astonishment and amusement of the moment—that cop hadn’t been spinning a yarn, after all—I walk to the edge of the driveway and confidently holler: “Paul!”

Instead of fleeing inside, as I suspect he might, Paul walks briskly, amiably toward me.

“Keep it on the front page,” he declares.

Huh?

He’s obviously trying to make a big show of being pleased with the media coverage, which is laying out his brother’s highly questionable background.

But by his tone, and in light of the growing number of volunteers gathered on this cold morning, it’s clear that Paul's referring to the search for Stacy.

`Left or Right?’

He comes within a foot of me, then thrusts both bags my way.

“Left or right?” he booms. I hesitate, unprepared for this scenario. Am I not the one asking questions here?

“Um…right,” I reply, playing along.

He hands over the bag, then asks that we “stay away from the kids,” an apparent reference to Drew’s four children. As Paul speaks, I notice fingers moving aside blinds from inside a window by the front door.

Is that Drew? I can only imagine what he’s thinking as he spies his brother talking to me. One guess: “Hey, little bro, just hand over the doughnuts and get inside!”

I lob one last question: “How’s Drew doing?”

“Everyone’s upset,” Paul answers, then heads inside.

I stroll over to five volunteers milling about in front of the house next door and remark on the doughnut donation. I set the bag on the ground. They eye it like poison.

“I don’t want any,” one says, prompting murmurs of agreement.

Time to Ring the Bell

Twenty minutes later, the two dozen doughnuts remain untouched. Along with the primary Tribune reporter, I decide this bag’s our ticket to the Peterson door.

Exercise a little pluck, see if luck kicks in.

I ring the bell, smiling as I wave off a volunteer trying to shoo me away.

Ten seconds pass, then the door opens a crack. Paul peers out cautiously. Feeling like a Girl Scout trying to hawk overpriced cookies, I summon my best sales pitch.

“Hi, Paul. Nobody seems to want these and I thought I should bring them back to you.”

A moment’s pause, then I get to my real mission: “Is Drew open to being interviewed?”

“No,” Paul says, retrieving the doughnuts. With more than a trace of annoyance, he adds, “We’re trying to be nice, and you guys…”

His words trail off. The door closes.

I tried my best to set the stage for luck to surface, but this stakeout's reached its end.

The story in the next day’s edition of the Chicago Tribune.

Two-thirds into the story, my interaction with Paul shows up.

1. In 2012, Peterson was convicted of murder in the death of his third wife, Kathleen, shortly after their 2003 divorce. Incarcerated in an undisclosed prison, he’s never been charged in the presumptive death of his fourth wife, Stacy.