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 seemed 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
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 seemed 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
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