DECEMBER 1989: A NIGHT OF TERROR; NIGHT STALKER SURVIVOR IS UNSUNG HERO.

Byline: Dennis McCarthy

I hate the word victims,'' she said as her voice rose in anger. ``We are survivors.''

A few people in the crowded restaurant turned their heads to look at her, wondering why this woman was talking so passionately about such a notorious murderer?

I watched them cease their own conversations to listen, trying to work out her relationship to the infamous Night Stalker.

Now, they knew. She was a victim - a survivor. She was one of the few who came face to face with Richard Ramirez in the middle of the night and lived to talk about it.

But it wasn't Ramirez who Ginny Petersen wanted to talk about. She is sick of hearing his name, sick of seeing that smirk on his face, sick of hearing people glorify him even as they vilify him.

The Night Stalker is where he should be, she says, locked away on San Quentin's Death Row. Yet, in almost the same breath she will say she doesn't want to see him executed. In her mind, justice would be better served if he lived out his days in prison and was never allowed to draw a free breath of air again.

What she does want to talk about is her husband, Chris - an overlooked hero in this gruesome chapter of one of L.A.'s most notorious murder rampages.

The real heroes

In doing so, maybe she can set the record straight for our children on who the real heroes are out there, she says. As a teacher, she has listened to young boys idolize Ramirez, unaware that she was one of his victims.

She has asked them why? The answers always come back the same, she says. Because he is famous.

That is the criteria - fame. It doesn't matter whether it's a movie star, rock singer, athlete - or mass murderer. Being on the front page, having your face on TV - that's what counts. That's all that counts.

``But what about your parents?'' she asks the children. ``Aren't they the real heroes?''

The children give her a blank stare. Parents? They aren't famous.

It was the early morning hours of Aug. 6, 1985, in a house on Acre Street in Northridge. At the foot of her bed stood a man, laughing. Richard Ramirez.

``Chris thought it was one of my brothers playing a joke,'' Ginny Peterson says. It was no joke.

She points to a tiny scar next to her left eye. ``The bullet came through here and went out the back of my head,'' she says. ``I see the hole every time I look in the mirror and feel the pain.''

A second bullet

As Ginny fell back on her pillow, Chris sat up. The next bullet gun ended up at the base of his brain, at the top of his spine. It ultimately took part of his memory and much of his strength.

The bullet is still there. Trying to remove it might paralyze him, doctors say. So he lives with the pain - a big man who used his size and strength in blue-collar jobs, but now is tied to a desk job.

The growl started low, Ginny says. To her, it sounded like that character on the old TV show ``Hill Street Blues'' - Detective Mick Belker.

All that stood between Richard Ramirez and the little girl crying in the next room was Chris Peterson. That's where the growl came from - a wounded bear of a man protecting his child.

Chris came out of bed with a vengeance. Richard Ramirez stopped laughing and started running. He stopped at the door to take one more look at his victims.

Staggering, bleeding - Chris Peterson was still coming at him, the growl in his belly now a primal scream.

The famous Night Stalker - the idol of some naive, little boys in Ginny Peterson's class - kept running.

And the unfamous father bundled up his little girl and drove his wife to Northridge Hospital - with a bullet at the base of his brain, near the top of his spine.

They didn't want to leave the house on Acre Street but the memories were too vivid, the notoriety too much for them. So they've moved out of San Fernando Valley.

Chris and Ginny Peterson have melted into their new community - just another couple raising a little girl and trying to make ends meet.

Killer Idolized

But the lack of public recognition for what her husband did that terrifying night has bothered Ginny. She sees little boys idolize a murderer and the men who ultimately captured Ramirez receive cash rewards and a hero's recognition.

For Chris, there has been nothing but the love and gratitude of his family.

``It is not the $15 plaque,'' Ginny says. ``I could go out and buy one. It is the public recognition that this father - not famous - is a hero in this tragic story.''

Ginny pauses and smiles - unaware that people sitting at the nearby tables in this Granada Hills restaurant are totally engrossed in her story.