crept into his boots. They inched up his legs, knocking his knees together like bowling pins until his quivering hands dangling by his sides shivered in chaotic gyration. The two vacant eyes fixed on him through puffy, blood-smeared cheeks. He could not move; he could not even breathe.
Trooper Charles Lutz was the investigator with Troop A who received the call from Ed Wolak on that late December afternoon. As luck or misfortune would have it, he was the duty investigator assigned for that weekend, and fate had put him in the right place at the right time. The desolate, post-Christmas barracks was silent. Empty except for a few critical employees, the barracks gave Chuck Lutz time to be alone with his thoughts.
Most of the troopers assigned to patrol were already out blanketing their assigned areas, and the sporadic crime that occasionally stirred in the valley was obviously on Christmas hiatus, so Chuck relaxed at his desk. As he did, he thumbed through stale cases and drank stale coffee.
At 12:30 p.m., the clattering ring of the phone snapped Chuck back into 1979. He lifted the receiver from its cradle and the voice of his boss, Sergeant Tom Tridico, began to rattle off names and locations. Scribbling in his own brand of shorthand onto his desk blotter, he grunted and “Yupped” his way through the next three minutes of the morning. A reassuring, “I’m on it,” ended the official call, and Charles Lutz lowered the black Bakelite receiver onto its resting place.
He scooped up his jacket from the back of the chair and quickly poked two arms through the sleeves. Then he gathered his notebook from his desk, tucked it into his inside jacket pocket and slid open his desk drawer. Slipping the stainless steel Ruger .357 revolver into its holster, he slammed the drawer shut, adjusted his jacket over his holster and grabbed the keys to his police interceptor. He quickly slipped out of the squad room and headed down the stairs and out the back door of the barracks. Chuck Lutz did not know that waiting for him below the Loyalhanna Dam was a murder investigation that would last for thirty years.
He headed out Route 66 from the barracks, mentally preparing for a routine death investigation. With the afternoon sun at his back, he quickly sped along the hilly highway, turned onto 380 and then slipped down into the winding valleys leading out to Loyalhanna Reservoir. Each mile drew him closer and closer to Peter Levato. He turned sharply onto Loyalhanna Dam Road and headed down toward the bridge.
M EET M ICHAEL T RAVAGLIA
Michael Travaglia was a nice kid. By many accounts, this unassuming, nondescript youth was virtually indistinguishable from every other student at Kiski Area Senior High. Snuggled into the rolling pastures forty miles east of Pittsburgh, Kiski was a brand-new school when Michael began there in 1973.
A thin youth, Michael was tall for his age and quite shy. The younger of two children, Michael was born on August 31, 1958, to Bernard and Judith Travaglia. Bernard, his father, was a strict disciplinarian with a low tolerance for poor behavior. His disciplinary tactics went beyond normal definitions of authoritarian rule—even, perhaps, bordering on abusive.
Michael’s mother’s affection toward her youngest son bordered on cold and distant. She was an extremely religious woman and not one who was ready to show her two boys tremendous warmth and affection. Later in life, her failing health would take her before her time, leaving Bernard alone to face the drawn-out appeals waged by his son. In the end, both of Michael’s parents would distance themselves from their youngest son, neither visiting nor corresponding while their son sat on death row.
For whatever faults Michael’s father may have had, he was not lazy. He was, in fact, a very hard worker. A plasterer in business with his brother, Bernard Travaglia worked hard to provide his wife and two children with a well-kept home among the greening hills of
Trooper Charles Lutz was the investigator with Troop A who received the call from Ed Wolak on that late December afternoon. As luck or misfortune would have it, he was the duty investigator assigned for that weekend, and fate had put him in the right place at the right time. The desolate, post-Christmas barracks was silent. Empty except for a few critical employees, the barracks gave Chuck Lutz time to be alone with his thoughts.
Most of the troopers assigned to patrol were already out blanketing their assigned areas, and the sporadic crime that occasionally stirred in the valley was obviously on Christmas hiatus, so Chuck relaxed at his desk. As he did, he thumbed through stale cases and drank stale coffee.
At 12:30 p.m., the clattering ring of the phone snapped Chuck back into 1979. He lifted the receiver from its cradle and the voice of his boss, Sergeant Tom Tridico, began to rattle off names and locations. Scribbling in his own brand of shorthand onto his desk blotter, he grunted and “Yupped” his way through the next three minutes of the morning. A reassuring, “I’m on it,” ended the official call, and Charles Lutz lowered the black Bakelite receiver onto its resting place.
He scooped up his jacket from the back of the chair and quickly poked two arms through the sleeves. Then he gathered his notebook from his desk, tucked it into his inside jacket pocket and slid open his desk drawer. Slipping the stainless steel Ruger .357 revolver into its holster, he slammed the drawer shut, adjusted his jacket over his holster and grabbed the keys to his police interceptor. He quickly slipped out of the squad room and headed down the stairs and out the back door of the barracks. Chuck Lutz did not know that waiting for him below the Loyalhanna Dam was a murder investigation that would last for thirty years.
He headed out Route 66 from the barracks, mentally preparing for a routine death investigation. With the afternoon sun at his back, he quickly sped along the hilly highway, turned onto 380 and then slipped down into the winding valleys leading out to Loyalhanna Reservoir. Each mile drew him closer and closer to Peter Levato. He turned sharply onto Loyalhanna Dam Road and headed down toward the bridge.
M EET M ICHAEL T RAVAGLIA
Michael Travaglia was a nice kid. By many accounts, this unassuming, nondescript youth was virtually indistinguishable from every other student at Kiski Area Senior High. Snuggled into the rolling pastures forty miles east of Pittsburgh, Kiski was a brand-new school when Michael began there in 1973.
A thin youth, Michael was tall for his age and quite shy. The younger of two children, Michael was born on August 31, 1958, to Bernard and Judith Travaglia. Bernard, his father, was a strict disciplinarian with a low tolerance for poor behavior. His disciplinary tactics went beyond normal definitions of authoritarian rule—even, perhaps, bordering on abusive.
Michael’s mother’s affection toward her youngest son bordered on cold and distant. She was an extremely religious woman and not one who was ready to show her two boys tremendous warmth and affection. Later in life, her failing health would take her before her time, leaving Bernard alone to face the drawn-out appeals waged by his son. In the end, both of Michael’s parents would distance themselves from their youngest son, neither visiting nor corresponding while their son sat on death row.
For whatever faults Michael’s father may have had, he was not lazy. He was, in fact, a very hard worker. A plasterer in business with his brother, Bernard Travaglia worked hard to provide his wife and two children with a well-kept home among the greening hills of
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