Kill for Thrill (3 page)

At the intersection, he looked left and right and then made a cautious left turn onto Grove.

Michael Travaglia gripped the wheel of the Fiat Lancia tightly as he flew toward Apollo. His boney knuckles were white with anticipation. In the passenger’s seat, John Lesko pulled a .22-caliber revolver from the waistband of his pants, fiddled with the cylinder and then, obviously reassured, slid the six-inch barrel back into his greasy bluejeans.

In the backseat, fifteen-year-old Ricky Rutherford sat riveted, eyes fixed on the centerline of the highway as it sped past. Ricky had joined Michael and John only one day before. Tonight was a night that he would regret for the rest of his life. Coolly, John glanced at Michael, “Where are we headed?”

“We need money, right? I know of a perfect place just up the road.” Zipping past Hancock Avenue and around the gently curving highway, the three men rode in silent, unspoken agreement, each anticipating their approaching adventure.

Leonard pulled into North Plaza and parked his car. Bracing for the cold, he turned up the black fur collar of his jacket and stepped onto the gray parking lot. The sound of the slamming car door bounced off the washedout clapboard siding of the sleeping Chambers Hotel and then echoed down Warren Avenue. He mashed the button on his Kelight and then readjusted his collar so that the back brim of his round, felt, Smokey the Bear–style hat was nestled tightly against the back of his collar. He hated the hat, yet for the little warmth it could provide, he would wear it anyway. He tucked his neck down into his jacket like a turtle and set out toward the bank.

Taking a tactical approach to the giant glass façade of the Apollo Community Trust, Leonard flicked the light back and forth inside the lobby until he was satisfied that it was empty. He took two giant steps up to the door and gave it a quick tug—rock solid, just as he had hoped. He glanced at his watch—4:36 in the morning. Only three and a half hours until he was home, warm in his bed. All Leonard Miller wanted on that subzero January night was to get to the end of his shift and curl up under the warm blankets in his own bed.

Leonard crossed west on Warren Avenue and for good measure rattled the doors of the pharmacy—still no signs of life or mischief. Reassured that all was well in Apollo Borough, Leonard briskly pushed his way through the cutting wind that scuttled across the plaza parking lot and made his way toward the relative warmth of his waiting cruiser. Once he was again safely situated behind the wheel, he fired up the 350-cubic-inch police interceptor engine and headed toward the only oasis in the vast midnight wasteland—the Stop-N-Go.

On the southwest end of the plaza, two lonely cars snoozed in stalls in front of the Stop-N-Go. Luminescent warm light spilled out of the tiny store onto the sidewalk, inviting Leonard inside. Linda McLaughlin and Thomas Bodnar had already sought refuge from the chilling winds and hovered over two steaming cups of syrupy convenience store coffee. Leonard slipped his car in beside the others and quickly joined them inside.

To the north, the glow of city lights inched above the horizon. Michael sensed the nearness of his quest and goosed the sports car along. As he stared down at the yellow line, his thin lips curved into an evil smile at the thought of another robbery. The headlights pierced the darkness, quickly eating up miles of salt-stained highway. As they roared closer and closer to Apollo, the tension in the car rose to a palpable level. It made each gentle curve in the highway feel as if it were the hairpin of Monte Carlo. Then, almost as if Michael had willed it, the bridge appeared in front of them.

The Apollo Bridge stretches fewer than 150 yards across the shallow Kiskiminetas River. It is the dividing line between Westmoreland County to the west and Armstrong County and the borough of Apollo to the east. The metal grating that covered its deck made a distinctive
hum-thrumming
sound as the Lancia skimmed across. Then the sound caromed off Patrick’s Pub and ricocheted down into the valley to die.

As the trio emerged from the east end of the bridge, their thoughts of a quick score at the Stop-N-Go faded quickly. Spotting the police car parked in front of the store, Michael quickly came up with a solution to the dilemma. “I want to have some fun with this cop,” he announced to his partners, and he gunned the Lancia, willing the speedometer higher. He sped past the store and then roared up First Street, heading toward Apollo-Ridge High School.

By the time the Lancia topped the hill heading out of town toward Spring Church, it was obvious that the cop had not pursued them. Michael felt the burn of angry bile in the back of his throat.

“Let it go Mike,” Ricky said.

“F--- no. We’re gonna get this guy to chase us and then go back and knock off that store.” Michael skidded the car off the highway, hung a sharp U-turn and quickly pulled back out onto First Street headed back into town. They were going to rob that store. He wouldn’t back down this time. The tiny sports car lurched forward like a gunshot.

As the darkened homes began to zip by faster and faster, the blood seemed to drain from Ricky’s face. Over the hill, down into town and through the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue the Lancia flew at close to eighty miles an hour. When the lights of the Stop-N-Go appeared, Michael began blowing the horn. This time, that cop would chase them—he wouldn’t have it any other way. Michael smiled.

The car flew past the plaza and toward the bridge, and then, as they passed through the intersection, brilliant blue and red flashes ruptured the night air. Glancing in the mirror, Michael could see the piercing headlights of the police cruiser as it pulled out of the plaza onto First Street in full pursuit mode. Pushing the throttle harder, he sped back onto the bridge heading into Westmoreland County.

Ricky Rutherford looked nauseated and scared. He glanced first at Michael and then at John. As the tiny car rocketed across the bridge, John Lesko turned in his seat, leaned toward Ricky and said, “Lay down in the back. This is gonna turn into a shooting gallery.”

On January 3, 1980, Leonard Miller had donned badge #78 for only the third time as a full-time patrol officer; however, those three short days belie the level of community pride and commitment to public service that filled his spirit. For as long as friends and relatives could recall, Leonard Miller had been determined to be a cop. From the age of four onward, it was all that he ever wanted to do. It was a calling that had consumed him and had driven him to become an active volunteer in all aspects of his community.

Whether serving as an emergency medical technician, volunteer firefighter for the Kiski Township Fire Department or as a member of the local emergency dispatch services’ emergency response team, Leonard Miller’s heart and soul were always his service to the community.

Through it all, Evelyn and Frank Miller had always supported their son’s desire to serve, but they had mixed feelings about his dream of becoming a police officer. Even though both wholeheartedly backed Leonard’s ambitions and dreams, they worried, as parents do, about Leonard’s safety. Police work is dangerous—even in the sleepy coal-patch towns along the rivers of western Pennsylvania. Long hours, low pay and danger were all factors that Evelyn and Frank had accepted as they proudly encouraged their son to pursue his dream. Leonard knew the dangers as well, and yet he was undaunted. Even though Leonard’s dream was to become a police officer, the economy and the troubled times of the late 1970s had conspired against him.

In 1979, Apollo, Pennsylvania, was a typical rural, western Pennsylvania town. Apart from the dual distinctions of being the only U.S. town to share the name of a lunar spacecraft and being one of only a handful of towns whose names are palindromes, there was little to distinguish it from the dozens of other dying boroughs and villages sprawled along the meandering Kiskiminetas River.

Born of coal and steel, western Pennsylvania’s economy suffered tremendous hardships during the mid- to late 1970s. Caused partly by the collapse of big steel and partly by the generally sluggish economic times that had begun to grip the nation, this economic decline took its toll on Apollo. In this valley, employment in one of the literally dozens of steel mills that littered the rivers of the steel city was de rigueur for nearly everyone. Quickly, these steel towns began to collapse under the weight of growing unemployment and the declining dollar.

With the economic decay that swept across the rust belt came a reduced tax base. With a reduced tax base, cities and towns inevitably began cutting costs and tightening belts. Making the fiscal ends meet is a difficult job in good economic times—declining economic conditions made that task even more difficult.

As with any business, the cost of labor is one of a city’s greatest expenditures and one of the first places town fathers began to look when trying to trim budgets and make ends meet. Town councils, mayors and tax collectors faced this exact predicament during the 1970s in rural western Pennsylvania.

Throughout the Alle-Kiski Valley, city services continued to be a high priority; however, town councils dealt with them in a way that many big cities today would have looked at with serious incredulity. The solution they devised was part-time police.

The phenomenon of part-time police officers is still a common practice in many parts of rural Pennsylvania. It has become such an ingrained practice that its mention hardly raises an eyebrow. Mention such a concept in a large city such as Miami and you would undoubtedly be met with looks of pure disbelief.

Nevertheless, during that era, even among communities that relied on part-time staffing, police service was still a twenty-four-hour-a-day commitment. In order to reduce the costs of full-time benefits such as sick time, vacation time, health insurance and overtime, city leaders would routinely hire only one or two full-time officers and then filled out the remaining staffing needs by hiring as many part-time officers as were necessary.

While these officers were fully sworn police officers, and no less qualified, they were not employed in just one political subdivision. Instead, they split their time among two, three or even four other towns. As a result, the town received the benefit of twenty-four-hour coverage at a bargain-basement cost.

From an officer’s point of view, this arrangement created both financial and emotional stress. Many coped by either moonlighting in another line of work or, as most did, by working for many different departments. Even though it did not offer health benefits, insurance or long-term job security, this arrangement did occasionally offer the equivalent of a full-time salary.

It is this odd world into which Leonard Miller was indoctrinated in 1977. In fact, at the time Leonard Miller became a full-time officer, there were only thirty-two full-time officers in all of Armstrong County. To put that into perspective, you should note that Armstrong County encompassed a total of 664 square miles and, according to the 1980 census, was home to over seventy-seven thousand residents.