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communicated by telephone, usually chatting at least three times a day. As September drew to a close, Larry and Rozanne’s pattern continued, although there were difficulties.
    On Wednesday, September 28, while Little Peter was with his father, Rozanne spent the night at Larry’s. But the next morning when she returned home, she discovered that someone had broken into her house, shattering a window in the kitchen, which was at the rear and sheltered from the street. The only thing that was missing, as far as she could tell, was a key that had been in the lock on the back door.
    Immediately, Rozanne called a glazier, who replaced the broken pane, and a locksmith. When the locksmith arrived, Rozanne was highly agitated, pacing impatiently as he put a new deadbolt on the front door.
    “Why do you think nothing was taken?” he asked her, seeking to make conversation in an effort to relieve her anxiety.
    “I don’t think it was a burglar,” Rozanne replied. “I think my husband did it.” It would turn out she was wrong.
    The next day, Friday, September 30, Rozanne saw Larry only briefly because they both had things that needed to be taken care of. The next time she saw him was Sunday, when she came over in the middle of the afternoon and stayed until about six P . M .
    The following day, Monday, October 3, Rozanne and Larry went to dinner; Rozanne went home shortly after six. They talked on the telephone at about eight-thirty and again at about ten, but she was in a foul mood and told him only that she would come see him the next morning before she went to pick up Little Peter.
    On Tuesday morning, Rozanne left Larry’s apartment at about eleven-fifteen to retrieve Little Peter. Larry went back to work. She told him she would see him that evening at about six, after she took Little Peter to his father’s for dinner.
    When Larry returned to his apartment at noon, there was a message on his machine from Rozanne saying that she and Little Peter were going to lunch, then she was going to take him to his ice-skating class. She would be back at her house by midafternoon. “Please call,” she added, “and remember that I love you.”
    Larry tried to call her at three, but got no answer. He tried again fifteen minutes later, and again he received no response. At about four-thirty, he called his sister Karen and asked her if she had heard from Rozanne. When she said that she had not, Larry said he was going to go looking for her. “Maybe she’s had more car trouble,” he said, recalling the flat tire earlier in the day.
    “I’ll go with you,” Karen volunteered.
    Larry drove to his parents’ house and picked up Karen and the two of them decided to retrace Rozanne’s usual routes to see if perhaps she was stuck on the side of the road. But they quickly got jammed in rush-hour traffic on North Central Expressway and decided that the plan was not a good one.
    “I’ll just go back to my apartment and wait,” Larry suggested. “She may be on the way there now.”
    When he got home, though, he discovered he was too restless to sit. A few days before, he had ordered a new bicycle from a local shop, so he decided to pick it up and take it for a test ride. While he was pedaling down a quiet street in his neighborhood, a large car loomed up behind him and bumped him into a ditch. Larry was unable to get a good look at the driver, but he thought it was an elderly woman.
    Cursing and bleeding from a number of minor cuts, Larry limped home and doctored himself with Mercurochrome. Then he picked up the phone and tried calling Rozanne again. But it wasn’t Rozanne who answered the phone; it was Little Peter. When the child told Larry that his mother was “sick bad” and a male voice commanded him to hang up the phone, Larry paled. Perhaps influenced by all that Rozanne had told him, Larry believed it was Peter Gailiunas’s voice. He would later admit he could not be sure.
    Close to panic, he called the attorney who had filed