These officers knew that in three short days, hundreds of uniformed men and women would line the streets of this town and join them to honor one of their own. Outsiders would stand by and watch with awe and respect as the seemingly endless line of police cars snaked its way behind the sleek black hearse up Second Street and out to First Lutheran Church, wondering and trying to understand.
The honor guard, with military precision and tear-stained, grey granite faces, would escort Leonard past his parents and into the church and stand guard among the throng of mourners hoping to say one last goodbye to the man whom they wished they had known better—or at all.
Thousands would file past the flag-draped coffin carrying Leonard home, solemnly and hopefully praying for a peaceful rest for the man whose life was taken in utter hatred and violence so soon before his time and so senselessly.
In three days, this would all come to pass. Nevertheless, for now, the ritual shared among these few, the ones for whom Leonard’s death meant more than most, would be a private affair—closed to outsiders. At this moment in time, the ultimate show of solidarity, the thread that runs deep among all police officers and across all generations, pulled these men and women together for one last time to speak in soft, wavering voices; to speak the words of comfort that attempt to make sense of a senseless act.
Mortal men can scarcely comprehend a death that touched so many, and yet, it is mortal men whom we expect to bring sense out of it. With Leonard’s passing, the fleeting and fragile flame of compassion wavered in the night and, for a moment, was snuffed out. But, as with hope, compassion is an eternal flame borne by the men and women who honor him, and it sparked anew here in the somber little station house fifty miles from where Michael Travaglia and John Lesko awaited the rush of police detectives. For as Leonard touched so many, he passed on that flame with the confident knowledge that no sacrifice, great or small, could forever extinguish it. Leonard served with honor, with pride and with dignity; and in his death, these men and women grieved. Yet in his honor, they would carry on the flame of compassion and service that he so clearly sparked.
As the quiet collection of officers filed from the station, the process of healing and understanding was still years from complete. However, in those moments of shared private communion, the reality of man’s mortality and the fragility of life had been pushed a little bit farther toward the backs of their minds. The communal grief shared by these brothers in arms would allow them to lay their heads on their pillows, rise again in the daylight and once more feel the tug of forty pounds of leather, steel and lead against their hips. They would move forward and carry on the honorable calling that they had shared with Leonard—their hearts would be heavier, but they would carry on.
The door to room 616 flew open, rebounded off the wall and clattered back into Frank Amity as he stormed into the room. A thunderous chorus of police commands and shouted orders exploded in the air as the remaining four men ran headlong behind him into the room.
Michael Travaglia was dressed in jeans and a torn sweatshirt, and a look of utter shock flashed onto his face. Staring at the men, his eyes leapt first to one, then to another and then to the doorway. He leapt to his feet and sprang toward the open door. The room was polluted with police officers.
As he sprinted for the door, a detective took a step to his left and cut off his escape route. With no path to freedom, two detectives pounced on him and immediately wrestled him to the ground. A grunt escaped his lips as his body fell beneath the weight of two burly detectives. With one on each arm, they forced his flailing hands behind his back and snapped first one and then the other handcuff onto him.
On the other side of the tiny room, Frank Amity had cornered John Lesko. He stood motionless beside the bed. His face was blank, emotionless, and he stared into Amity’s eyes without actually seeing. In a flash, John reached beneath the sheet and seized the .22-caliber revolver hidden there. As Lesko raised the revolver toward Amity, Frank began screaming for him to drop the gun. As John Lesko’s arm raised higher and higher, Frank Amity’s right index finger pulled tighter and tighter. When Frank had about six pounds of trigger pull on the seven-pound trigger, John Lesko’s face registered an epiphany. Apparently sensing immediate death and choosing to live to fight another day, John relaxed his grip on the gun and let the revolver slip from his grasp. As the .22 clattered to the floor, Frank wondered if John Lesko knew just how close he had come to being on the business end of a .357-caliber bullet.
Once the revolver hit the floor, Amity and the two remaining detectives leaped onto Lesko and wrestled him to the carpet. Without resistance, John slipped to the ground and placed his arms behind his back. The clack-clack of a pair of Smith & Wesson handcuffs was music to Frank Amity and his partners’ ears. It signaled the end of a tortuous manhunt.
John Lesko and Michael Travaglia were in custody. After a weeklong rampage spanning three counties, police had apprehended them without exchanging a single shot. Frank Amity, Tony Condemi, Regis Liberi, Ronald Freeman, John Leckei and the other men of Pittsburgh’s homicide bureau had been victorious.
Police led the two men down from room 616 and through the lobby where they had so recently targeted and kidnapped their victims. As they walked from the hotel to the waiting police cruisers, there was a sigh of relief that escaped along the valley and up the three rivers. The police had finely arrested these murderous, violent men. The system upon which we all rely to keep society safe had succeeded, and justice would force these barbarous monsters to take responsibility for the heinous acts they had committed.
As the ebullient officers exchanged handshakes and high-fives, the two damaged men disappeared down Penn Avenue in a cloud of exhaust and gently dancing snowflakes. Now en route to Western Avenue’s police headquarters, Michael Travaglia and John Lesko’s reign of terror was over.
Friday, January 4, 1980, 2:00 a.m.
Tom Tridico jerked awake to the sound of his desk phone nearly clattering off its cradle. Groggy, he leaned forward in his creaky, fifteen-year-old wooden chair and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. On the seventh ring, Tom finally reached over and snatched up the receiver, silencing the incessant ruckus.
“Tridico.”
Still wrapped in sleep’s twilight, Tom stared blankly ahead as he listened to the caller on the other end.
“I see. I see. That’s great. Fantastic job. I’m on my way.”
Tom slowly lowered the receiver onto its cradle and sat staring straight ahead. Then he glanced at his watch. He smiled. Less than twenty-four hours after Leonard Miller’s body fell to the cold pavement outside Apollo, the men who had snatched his young life away from him were in custody. Tom knew that he had a great deal of work left to do, but the suspects were talking, and he knew that confessions always make for stronger cases. He was optimistic.
Tom stood and stretched his aching legs, and as he prepared to head to the Pittsburgh Police Department, he thought about justice, good and evil and promises—and he was relieved. Tom Tridico was no longer scared.
EPILOGUE
On the day of Leonard Miller’s funeral, mourners arrived in the tiny town of Apollo by the hundreds, some from as far away as Johnstown near the center of the state. Most knew Leonard only by the photo that had appeared in the Valley News Dispatch just days before, yet all of them drove the hundred or so miles necessary to pay their respects to a comrade. As the church filled with solemn-faced police officers, one could not help but be taken aback by the Christmas decorations that still adorned the altar.
Leonard Miller’s death had followed behind one of the most holy Christian holidays, so closely in fact that many could not help but note the significance of this throng of congregants gathering to pay respects to a man who had sacrificed his life so that others may have safety.
Evelyn and Frank Miller sat in the front of the church—silently, with dignity, with pride—as Chief Rick Murphy and Officers Thomas Coulter, Jim Clawson, Robin Davis and Donny Mahan slowly escorted the fla
g-draped coffin of the fallen officer into the church. The somber silence inside the First Lutheran Church rippled with soft sobs as Leonard’s pallbearers carried his casket past the seven hundred mourners and down the aisle toward the altar.
The angelic strains of “Oh Touch Me Lord” filtered through the air as Reverend Frederick Zikeli took his place in the pulpit and prepared to address the gathering. Speaking in solemn and reverent tones, he called upon the parishioners to honor Leonard for his high and noble goals, lest they be in vain. “We have lost a good friend, a committed citizen, a fellow police officer,” he continued, urging the throng of mourners not to forget the wonderful soul and person Leonard Miller was.
The scriptural quote printed on the front of the bulletin, “There is no greater love than this, that a man should lay down his life for his friends,” seemed to capture the enduring spirit that began to fill the church as remembrances of Leonard Miller echoed through it, honoring who he was and what he had meant to so many people.
As Mayor Bill Kerr, struggling with the overwhelming emotion of the moment, approached Frank and Evelyn Miller, silence overwhelmed the congregation. When he presented the Millers with a posthumous commendation for Leonard’s heroic service, he offered, “For what he said, for what he did, for what he stood for, Leonard will always be at our side.”
As Leonard’s pallbearers carried his coffin from the church, the gentle rustle of fabric broke the still, frozen silence as the eighty uniformed officers in Leonard’s Honor Guard snapped to attention and, with military precision, offered one final salute. Those who could, held back their tears. Those who could not, wept as the young officer’s body was gently slipped into the hearse and began its final ascent up First Street toward the cemetery.
The crisp report of the twenty-one-gun salute and the final strains of the bugler’s horn have long since faded from the hills above the Kiskiminetas River where Leonard Miller’s body lies. The scars left by his passing have not. For the people Leonard touched, there is no amount of time, no measure of justice and no explanation that will ever fully close those wounds. They are destined to remain close to the surface.
He was a man of honor. He was a man of justice, and above all, he was a man of heart. His passion and compassion have become legendary, and to this day local residents honor and remember him. From the Leonard Miller Adelphoi House for troubled youth to the Leonard Miller Memorial Bridge that now stands where he lost his life, his friends have not forgotten. Determined that Leonard’s high and noble goals, his sense of pride in public service and his commitment to selfless sacrifice will not be forgotten, fellow officers such as Robin Davis, Jim Clawson and the many others who have followed in his footsteps carry on his tradition of service.
In Bill Kerr’s own heartfelt condolences to the Millers, he summarized the truth underlying the pain and hurt: “Leonard will always be at our side.”
And so it was his presence that I felt nearly thirty years ago as I walked down the dimly lit hallway leading from the station house out onto Pennsylvania Avenue. And following in his silent footsteps, I rattled the doors of the plaza and carried on his legacy and his promise just as thousands of other officers have done. Leonard’s true legacy, and that for which we shall always remember him, is that which truly identified him as a giant among men—he understood that “there is no greater love than this, that a man should lay down his life for his friends.” For that, we are all truly grateful.
AFTERWORD
In homicide investigation, statistics bear out the adage that you are three times more likely to die at the hands of an acquaintance than at those of a stranger. While random acts of violence are certainly known to occur, it is the domestic squabble or the drunken bar fight that is more likely to snuff out your life.
In the puzzling world of Michael Travaglia and John Lesko, these normal precursors to murder are practically nonexistent. The randomness—the inability of either man to point to a single identifiable “why”—has shocked and perplexed the men who investigated the aftermath of Travaglia and Lesko’s ruthless binge. Indeed, it is this very question that the news media and the family and friends of four innocent people continue to ask to this day.
As often happens, in the days and weeks following things of this nature, rampant speculation gained momentum, fueled by bits and fragments of the truth as it filtered down to the public. Among them, most frequently discussed were the obvious drug, alcohol and satanic involvements that the men themselves had identified as possible precipitating events. However, the reality, which makes the weeklong episode that much more bewildering, is that, even thirty years later, neither man can definitively explain what within him snapped, sending him careening down the slope of psychopathic murder and blood lust.
By the time the story had been told and all the facts were recorded in detailed taped statements, the better part of January 4 had slipped away. Michael Steffee and Tom Tridico had recovered William Nicholls’s body, and the Pittsburgh Police Department could take pride in a job well done. By taking the pair into custody, they had put an end to a chain of events that reached far beyond the boundaries of their city.
What had begun eight days earlier had traversed three counties and reached as far away as sixty miles. It had touched the lives of dozens of family and friends and involved nearly one hundred officers in an unprecedented manhunt. It had ensnared four unsuspecting, unaware victims in a trap of mortal danger. When it ended, the Pennsylvania State Police and the Pittsburgh Police had fulfilled their promise to society and to their community and had tracked the killers to a successful conclusion.
Law enforcement had done its job. From there, the court system took over and began the next phase of the criminal justice process. This phase has dragged on for thirty years.
APPENDIX
In the Travaglia and Lesko cases, prosecutors had to make a multitude of complex decisions quickly, and each would affect the outcome of the case dramatically. Exactly what to charge the defendants with, whether to hold separate or consolidated trials, which cases to prosecute first and other equally difficult strategic and legal questions would color the final verdict of each defendant’s case. The men charged with making these decisions were Gregory Olson and Albert Nichols, district attorneys for Indiana and Westmoreland Counties, respectively.
Olson and Nichols made the decision to offer the defendants a deal in Indiana County and try them for Leonard Miller’s murder in Westmoreland County. As part of this plea, Olson agreed to defer sentencing of both defendants on the Nicholls murder until after the trial of Officer Miller. This was a decision that would have far-reaching implications.
Lesko and Travaglia both agreed to this arrangement, and on May 19, 1980, in front of Judge Robert C. Earley, both pleaded guilty to second-degree murder in Indiana County. Although they would later file a motion to withdraw their pleas and stand trial for the Nicholls murder, the judge would deny that motion.
Having effectively disposed of the three companion cases in Indiana County, prosecutors were now free to focus entirely on prosecuting Lesko and Travaglia for Leonard Miller’s murder. As part of their strategy, prosecutors decided to offer fifteen-year-old Ricky Rutherford a grant of immunity from prosecution for the murder of Miller in return for his testimony implicating the remaining two defendants in the homicide.
Any time a prosecutor agrees to trade charges for testimony, there are far-reaching implications. These implications include the credibility of the witness, as well as the ethicality of offering an admitted killer what amounts to a free pass for murder. However, whether the state would have been successful in convicting Travaglia and Lesko without the testimony of Rutherford is questionable.
What the prosecutors lacked, and what the confessions of both men failed to establish in these cases, was intent. To remedy this, prosecutors were confronted with the unenviable choice of exchanging Ricky Rutherford’s testimony regarding the intent of the other two defendants for his freedom. Without it, prosecutors alrea
dy knew that Travaglia and Lesko would possibly be able to avoid a conviction for first-degree murder, maybe sidestep second-degree murder and could even end up with a conviction for felony murder. This meant the difference between the death penalty and perhaps ten to fifteen years in prison—maximum. Faced with this dilemma, Nichols chose the lesser of the two evils and struck a deal with Rutherford for his testimony.
With the crucial components of the case in place, the prosecution was set to move forward. After the court heard and disposed of a number of standard—and some creative—pretrial motions, the defendants were set for a joint trial early in January 1981. On January 5, 1981, jury selection began, and on January 19, a fully qualified jury was empanelled. The trial got underway the week of January 21.
The standard litany of witnesses paraded before the jury, including Tridico, his team, ballistic and laboratory experts and, as expected, Ricky Rutherford. Rutherford’s testimony about the killing of William Nicholls—over defense objection—and the facts leading up to the shooting of Leonard Miller were crucial to the prosecution’s case.
Rutherford’s testimony was everything that Albert Nichols had hoped for. Between his description of the killing of Nicholls and his statement detailing Lesko’s warning—“Lay down in the back. This is gonna turn into a shooting gallery”—Rutherford proved to be worth his cost to the prosecutor. Establishing that Travaglia had the intent to kill and that Miller was not just the victim of an accidental shooting was in Rutherford’s hands, and the prosecution’s confidence seemed well placed.
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