Kill for Thrill

by Michael W. Sheetz

  28. Reverend Zikeli leads Leonard Miller’s casket and honor guard down North Pennsylvania Avenue toward the First Lutheran Church. Hundreds of officers line North Pennsylvania Avenue to pay their last respects to Leonard as the honor guard passes. Photograph courtesy the Valley News Dispatch, Tarentum, Pennsylvania.

  29. The First Lutheran Church as it appears today. On the day of Leonard Miller’s funeral service, thousands of mourners and more than seven hundred officers crowded the tiny church to pay their last respects.

  30. Hundreds of uniformed officers lined the streets of Apollo Borough to pay their respects as Leonard Miller’s funeral procession passed by. Photograph courtesy James D. Clawson.

  31. Leonard Miller’s honor guard prepares to load his body into the waiting hearse as a contingent of uniformed officers offer a final salute to their fallen colleague. Photograph courtesy James D. Clawson.

  32. Leonard Miller’s body is loaded into the hearse outside of First Lutheran Church as somber, uniformed officers salute their fallen comrade. Pictured on the left, front to back: Officer Donald Mahan, Officer Charles Sharon and Chief Richard Murphy. On the right, front to back: Officer James Clawson, Officer Robin Davis and Officer Mark Fetterman. Photograph courtesy the Valley News Dispatch, Tarentum, Pennsylvania.

  33. Reverend Zicelli presides over the graveside interment of Leonard Miller’s body. Seated are Evelyn Miller, Frank Miller and an unidentified mourner. Photograph courtesy the Valley News Dispatch, Tarentum, Pennsylvania.

  34. Apollo officer Kevin Gibbons sounds Taps as Leonard Miller’s body is interred at Riverside Cemetery in Kiski Township, Pennsylvania. Photograph courtesy James D. Clawson.

  35. The Apollo police cruiser that was driven by Leonard Miller on January 3, 1980, the night he was gunned down. Photograph courtesy James D. Clawson.

  36. Riverside Cemetery as it appears today in Kiski Township, Pennsylvania.

  37. Leonard Miller’s well-tended grave, where he is buried with his father, Frank, and mother, Evelyn.

  38. A hand rubbing taken from the granite memorial at the National Police Memorial in Washington, D.C. Rubbing courtesy James D. Clawson.

  39. The memorial plaque commemorating the dedication of the Apollo Bridge in honor of Leonard Miller.

  40. The current Apollo Borough Police shoulder patch. Early in 1979, Leonard Miller himself redesigned the Apollo shoulder patch to incorporate the flying eagle commemorating the Apollo lunar landing. At the time of his death, the patch had not yet been adopted, and shortly after his death, officials added his badge number and issued the shoulder patch as the official insignia of the Apollo Borough Police Department. Patch courtesy James D. Clawson.

  PART III

  SERGEANT TRIDICO CONNECTS THE DOTS

  As he approached the doors, Chuck Veshinfski noticed that something was slightly out of place. Randy, always hovering over his paper at this hour, was nowhere to be seen. Curiosity aroused, Chuck hesitated. As he stood there in the morning twilight, staring through the glass, two suspicious-looking men appeared from behind the counter.

  Chuck knew instantly that the scruffy-haired pair must be robbing the place. Remembering the old adage about discretion being the better part of valor, Veshinfski withdrew to the safety of his car. He fumbled in the glove compartment for a piece of paper and started to scribble as fast as he could. The only other car in the store parking lot was a dark brown Ramcharger with a light brown roof and curtains hanging in the side windows. He wrote down the description, tossed the pen and paper on the seat beside him and slipped his car into drive, easing out onto the highway. Chuck Veshinfski drove home, picked up the telephone and called the police. Within minutes, Trooper Michael Steffee was headed toward the 7-Eleven on Route 286.

  Wednesday, January 2, 1980, 11:00 p.m.

  For Tom Tridico, January 2, 1980, would prove to be a turning point of sorts. For the seasoned investigator, crucial clues would surface today that would help pull together the threads of fabric that would lead him into a head-on confrontation with pure evil.

  When he arrived at his office at Troop A headquarters in Greensburg, he did what he did every morning: hung his jacket, poured his coffee and grabbed the log sheet from the day’s previous assignments. Settling into his chair, he began to thumb through the list of cases.

  He hated being responsible for overseeing investigators. The reports, the paperwork, all of it meant time away from what he loved—investigations. As he ploddingly thumbed through the report, he made mental notes about each case. Some had witnesses; some had no leads at all. If a case had a witness or a lead, he dropped it into a pile marked “follow up.” Everything else went into the “inactive” bin. Chuck Lutz’s report on the Sonny’s Lounge burglary, which he already knew about, landed on the “follow up” pile. Michael Steffee’s armed robbery report from the 7-Eleven convenience store landed there too. He continued to the bottom of the pile. After quickly evaluating the last case, he unceremoniously dropped it into the “inactive” bin.

  With the daily assignments complete, he got up from his chair and gathered what he would need for the day ahead. He was anxious to meet with Dickey and Boyerinas to discuss their search of Michael Travaglia’s repossessed truck. He was sure that what they found would move the Levato case forward. As he threw his coat over his arm and flipped off the light in his office, Tom Tridico saw the frozen face of Peter Levato in the back of his mind.

  The weather was gray and overcast. Tom’s thirty-minute drive out Route 66 from Greensburg through Mamont, past Beaver Run and into North Washington to the Kiski Valley Barracks gave him time to think. Today was no different from any other day. Thirty degrees and light snow had been the prediction. No snow yet, but the sky was right for it, Tom thought as he rolled through the countryside. Today was no different from any other day.

  When Tom arrived at the barracks, Rich Dickey and George Boyerinas were already waiting for him—as usual. Tom walked into the tiny squad room and over to where Dickey was seated. Rich glanced up and then slid a brown paper bag toward him.

  “The contents of Travaglia’s truck,” he said.

  Tridico tossed his coat on the back of the closest chair and unfolded the lip of the bag. He dumped the contents on top of the desk: a toy gun, a ski mask, some yellow electrical wire, a set of homemade rope handcuffs and some papers. Picking up the plastic evidence bag containing the wire, his mind reached for the stack of reports in his office. In his mind, he lifted Trooper Mike Steffee’s from the top of the pile and examined it.

  “Steffee had a robbery yesterday out on 286,” he said. “Clerk was tied up with yellow wire.”

  Tom slid his glasses down on the bridge of his nose for a closer look at the wire: “Carol Cable.” He made a mental note to check Steffee’s report more closely and then dropped the wire back onto the desktop.

  Sifting through the papers, Tridico picked up several, skimming over them: letters, bills, phone numbers. They were an assortment of the details that make up a man’s life. As he shuffled through the bits of Michael Travaglia’s life, a slip of paper dropped out of the stack and landed on top of the desk.

  It was blank except for the name “Ray Scalese” followed by a phone number. Tom studied it for a moment and then raised his eyes toward Rich Dickey. “Check this guy out,” he said. Dickey nodded, and Tom dropped the papers back onto the desktop.

  Chuck Lutz walked into the squad room to join the other men. Hired back in the days before EEOC (Equal Employment Opportunity Commission), when state troopers were required to be over six feet tall, Chuck was an imposing figure, rough-hewn and rustic, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair. He dropped his notebook onto a desk and quickly walked toward Tridico and the other men. He thrust a stack of papers toward Tom.

  “Arrest warrant for Travaglia,” he said, “for the Sonny’s Lounge burglary. It’ll give us enough to pick him up until we can make him for that Levato thing.”

  Tridico carefully studied the warrant. Everything s
eemed to be in order. He handed it back to Lutz. “I’ll send out the teletype. Maybe we can round this guy up.” Tridico grabbed his coat off the chair and started toward the door. “But right now, I’m heading out to this kid’s last known address.” He disappeared down the hallway. “I’ll let you know what I find.” His voice echoed down the hall and faded away.

  Tom headed toward the village of Chambers, a collection of middle-class homes spread out over a two- or three-mile patch of land sandwiched between the Beaver Run and Route 66. A mile and a half from Apollo, Chambers sits atop a slight plateau overlooking the Kiskiminetas River. He made a sharp right onto Chambers Street and then slowed his cruiser to a crawl. He looked for street signs.

  The few signs that did exist were old and weathered. They offered little help. He crawled along until he reached the end of the road. There was nowhere else to go—it was either right or left. On the northwest corner, he spotted a sign—Fourth Street. He made the right turn and then headed for the only house on the east side of the street.

  The Travaglia homestead was purchased in 1960 by Bartolo, Joseph and Bernard Travaglia. It sat slightly off the gravel roadway, crowded up against the tree-covered hillsides that look down on a small ravine cut into the rocky hillside. A winding offshoot of the Kiskiminetas River has carved its way toward the Beaver Run Reservoir, eating away at the hillsides and creating this quaint plateau of ground.

  A tidy, two-story structure with a shingle roof, Michael Travaglia’s boyhood home sat patiently, waiting and watching, as Tom stepped out of his car and walked along the frosty grass leading to the front door.

  Once inside, Tom quickly covered the perfunctory formalities that made up the who, what and why of his visit and then launched gently into a measured series of questions. Tom didn’t want to telegraph more details than necessary, but he gently probed the senior Travaglia for vital bits of information that he hoped would bring some closure for Peter Levato.

  Bernard Travaglia’s wary answers to the questions Tom posed signaled a growing concern over his son’s recent behavior. Tom watched Bernard’s face flush as he slowly revealed that Michael had owned a .22-caliber handgun. He swallowed hard, paused and, with a hint of hope, said that Michael had been hunting in Ligonier a while back, and a game warden had confiscated the weapon. Tom voraciously scribbled notes. Bernard’s voice dropped an octave as he added, “At least that’s what Michael said.” Tom felt the older man’s pain. He was a father, too. He understood how it must have felt for Bernard to slowly realize that his child could be capable of murder.

  Tom knew that silence is an interviewer’s strongest weapon, so he paused. He waited for that uncomfortable silence to grow so painful that Bernard couldn’t let it continue.

  “I think he might have taken some electrical cable from my work truck, too,” Bernard Travaglia added at last.

  Tom was very interested. As Bernard Travaglia’s wavering voice dropped the rest of the bits of information one at a time, Tom scribbled the words “Carol Cable” on the bottom corner of his notebook in big letters.

  Whether the hardworking patriarch of the Travaglia family fully grasped the gravity or significance of the information he had just given the affable investigator was unclear to Tom. What was clear is that those seemingly innocuous strands of random data bounced around in Tom’s head all the way back to the barracks. He knew that he was tracking the right man.

  That evening, with the winter sun well below the horizon, Tom Tridico sat in his living room clearing away the jagged details of his day. The monotone voices of velvet baritone newscasters rattled off the highlights and lowlights of another average Steel City day, and Tom drifted in and out of a light slumber. Filtered words bounded around in his head, and the flicker of images that crept through his half-open eyelids washed over him without effect.

  Suddenly, one sharp word poked his amygdalae, jolting his eyes open. The word was “murder.” By the time Tom cleared the fog from his eyes, the news anchor had handed off the story to a shivering field reporter positioned strategically in front of a yellow ribbon of police barrier tape draped in front of the swirling circular ramps of the Smithfield Liberty garage. Now fully engaged, Tom drank in every detail.

  As the velvet-draped body rolled behind him on a rickety gurney, the frozen reporter recounted the details of the recovery of a woman’s body from the third floor of the Gimbel’s Department Store parking garage downtown. “Shot twice with a small caliber handgun, police speculate that the motive for the killing is robbery,” the reporter said. Tom heard nothing more; he only saw. Sitting in the background of the frame, surrounded by evidence technicians and police detectives, Marlene Sue Newcomer’s new Dodge Ramcharger—two-tone brown with window curtains—screamed at him, “Look at me.” He scrambled from his chair and reached for the phone.

  As he dialed the phone, his mental checklist rattled off to-do items at a mile a minute. Eventually, after working his way through the phone bureaucracy, he heard the voice of Sergeant John Flannigan, night supervisor for the Pittsburgh Police Department’s homicide squad, on the other end.

  “Sergeant Flannigan, this is Sergeant Tom Tridico, PSP out of Greensburg,” Tom began as his mind started to equalize. “I think I might have some information on that body recovery you had out at the Gimbel’s parking lot this morning.”

  As the two bosses exchanged information and began to align the details of their respective cases, it became more and more clear to Tom Tridico that Michael Travaglia and his partner were not only responsible for the murder of Peter Levato, but also for that of Marlene Sue Newcomber and possibly numerous other armed robberies. These are very bad men, Tom decided.

  After their brief conversation, Tridico and Flannigan agreed that meeting in person would be best. They set an appointment for 9:30 a.m. the following morning at the downtown headquarters of the Pittsburgh Public Safety Department. Tom Tridico would not make it to the meeting.

  Michael hated Doggone Sam’s hotdog shop. The tiny eatery always stunk of onions, stale bread and fresh Pine-Sol. He tried not to breathe through his nose. The fidgety fluorescent bulbs overhead washed the dingy little shop in bile-green coolness. It reminded him of Halloween. The swirling snowflakes outside the window threw themselves against the glass and then leapt into the night sky, oblivious to the men inside hatching plans of murder and robbery. Michael Travaglia had full control of the meeting. John and fifteenyear-old Ricky Rutherford sat in studied contemplation as Michael laid out the new plan.

  Earlier in the day, Michael and John had stopped at the Smithfield Street arcade long enough for Michael to drop the last of Marlene Sue Newcomers quarter’s into a game of Galaxian. Ricky was already leaning against one of the machines when the men strolled in, and he insisted that they let him tag along. Michael didn’t have a good feeling about Ricky, but the kid had been so persistent that he figured what could it hurt? Michael knew he would regret it.

  Michael preferred that his partners had only as much information as they needed, so he figured that his concise instructions to “wait outside in the alley” were plenty and abruptly adjourned the meeting. With a nod of agreement, the men stood up from the table and then hustled out the side door.

  Pushing headlong into the cold, the men headed down Ninth Street toward the Edison Hotel. The familiar brown weathered stones of the Edison loomed a few hundred feet farther down Ninth Street. Tiny squalls of snow scattered under Michael’s feet as they walked quickly in the direction of French Street. Michael’s new plan had energized them. When they reached the front door of the Edison Hotel, Michael peeled off from the other two men and disappeared inside.

  BILL NICHOLLS BECOMES THE THIRD VICTIM

  John and Ricky continued halfway down the street and then ducked into the darkened alley behind the Edison, where they waited in frozen silence. As the minutes crept by, Ricky nervously moved about, trying to stave off the chill that permeated the January night. Trying to keep warm, he banged his hands together. It didn’t he
lp.

  “It must be an hour already,” he mumbled to himself. John turned to him, “When you see a car coming down the alley and hear a horn beep, that will be Mike.”

  Ricky nodded and then went back to banging his hands together. He wiggled his toes in his shoes to try and get the feeling back. That didn’t help either. His feet were frozen chunks of flesh, and he was starting to regret begging so hard. The idle of an engine crept up behind him and he spun around.

  Bill Nicholls sat proudly behind the wheel of his new silver blue Lancia. He had been the proud owner of the new sports car for all of eighteen hours, and he was eager to show it off to his new friend. As they pulled into the alley behind the Edison Hotel, Michael reached over and tapped the horn. Bill thought this was a bit odd but didn’t give it a second thought—not until the two figures bounded from the shadows toward his car.

  The passenger door flew open and John hurled himself inside the car. Bill was too busy watching the scruffy, disturbing man climbing into his backseat to see Michael slip the .22 revolver from his jacket.

  Bill felt the sting of the bullet before he heard anything. It took him quite by surprise. The bullet screamed through Bill’s arm. It ripped into his flesh, and he jerked his body back against the seat. All he heard was the ruckus created by John and Ricky clamoring into the car. They drowned out Bill’s shrill screams of pain.

  “How did it sound? Was it loud?” Michael asked as John and Ricky clumsily piled in.