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.
B ILL N ICHOLLS B ECOMES THE T HIRD V ICTIM
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 help.
“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
“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.
B ILL N ICHOLLS B ECOMES THE T HIRD V ICTIM
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 help.
“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
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