communion of spirit brings Fran Travaglia some peace of mind. The rest of the community is not quite so reassured.
Attesting to his wholesale change in personality, Fran Travaglia is quick to speak in her husband’s defense. She urges all who will listen to consider the possibility that the Michael Travaglia from 1979 is not the same Michael Travaglia of 2008. In addition to these outward manifestations of change, Michael has undertaken some rather extensive writing.
Michael’s Internet writings proclaim his newfound Christian faith and offer a contrite outlook. They also offer a tiny glimpse into what may have played a part in his demonic snap in 1979.
In one such writing, Michael claims to have begun a pattern of drug and alcohol abuse during his high school years. He confesses that he began with beer, graduated to whiskey and vodka and moved on to all kinds of drugs, including marijuana and mescaline, and eventually developed an addiction to amphetamines. Surely, this drug- and alcohol-abusing Satanist is a far step from what character witnesses described as a good man, incapable of committing four murders.
Regardless of the identity of the catalyst that precipitated his fall, Michael’s spiral downward was rapid, violent and beyond question. We will debate the whys and the hows of Michael’s demise for the rest of time. What is certain, though, is that in the wee hours of Monday, December 30, 1979, Michael Travaglia, in the company of his partner John Lesko, found himself on Route 22 in Delmont without a car, without money and looking for more thrills.
Scattering rocks with their shuffling feet, Michael and John picked their way west along Route 22. The shoulder of the highway was stony and sloped quickly away from the edge of the highway. Walking was difficult, but having abandoned their only transportation the night before, the pair was forced to trudge along on foot.
Michael and John were headed to a room that they had rented at Thatcher’s Motel. It was a stone’s throw from the stubbly cornfield behind Joe’s Steakhouse where they had dumped Peter Levato’s car. The short half-mile walk on William Penn Highway to the motel seemed endless in the subzero blistering winds. They complained silently to themselves as warm, happy motorists zipped out of and back into the darkness.
Around the bend, the single-story mom and pop motel in the old motor lodge style sat beckoning them. It was small—tiny actually. It had barely a dozen rooms for rent. In fact, if not for the towering red and white roadside sign advertising “ROOMS,” the motel would barely be noticeable from the roadway. Hidden neatly behind several full-grown spruce trees, its rustic, A-frame roof and tidy, white wooden pillars were an unopened invitation to weary guests to shake the road dust off and “stay a spell.”
Finally, having arrived at their destination, Michael slipped the key into the door lock and walked inside. They had returned to their room. They were hungry, broke and unsure of their next move, but for now, they were warm.
Inside the cramped motel room, dozens of empty beer cans rattled around. Every step the men took risked disturbing a bit of trash or discarded can. Colorful flowered bedspreads had been balled up and carelessly flung across the room, where they landed in a heap near the corner. Half-filled beer bottles, cigarette stubs and fast-food wrappers sat piled up on the pale yellow lowboy that cowered beneath the hanging mirror on the west wall of the tiny room.
Rifling through the rubbish, Michael scoured the place for food, beer, grass—anything. Everywhere he looked, he found nothing. His stomach was no longer satisfied with the few scraps of food since his last full meal—compliments of Peter Levato’s fifty-nine dollars—and his head chimed in. Swollen and throbbing, it screamed ceaseless orders with an unrelenting vigor. He needed to shut them up.
With the rent overdue and no money left in their
Attesting to his wholesale change in personality, Fran Travaglia is quick to speak in her husband’s defense. She urges all who will listen to consider the possibility that the Michael Travaglia from 1979 is not the same Michael Travaglia of 2008. In addition to these outward manifestations of change, Michael has undertaken some rather extensive writing.
Michael’s Internet writings proclaim his newfound Christian faith and offer a contrite outlook. They also offer a tiny glimpse into what may have played a part in his demonic snap in 1979.
In one such writing, Michael claims to have begun a pattern of drug and alcohol abuse during his high school years. He confesses that he began with beer, graduated to whiskey and vodka and moved on to all kinds of drugs, including marijuana and mescaline, and eventually developed an addiction to amphetamines. Surely, this drug- and alcohol-abusing Satanist is a far step from what character witnesses described as a good man, incapable of committing four murders.
Regardless of the identity of the catalyst that precipitated his fall, Michael’s spiral downward was rapid, violent and beyond question. We will debate the whys and the hows of Michael’s demise for the rest of time. What is certain, though, is that in the wee hours of Monday, December 30, 1979, Michael Travaglia, in the company of his partner John Lesko, found himself on Route 22 in Delmont without a car, without money and looking for more thrills.
Scattering rocks with their shuffling feet, Michael and John picked their way west along Route 22. The shoulder of the highway was stony and sloped quickly away from the edge of the highway. Walking was difficult, but having abandoned their only transportation the night before, the pair was forced to trudge along on foot.
Michael and John were headed to a room that they had rented at Thatcher’s Motel. It was a stone’s throw from the stubbly cornfield behind Joe’s Steakhouse where they had dumped Peter Levato’s car. The short half-mile walk on William Penn Highway to the motel seemed endless in the subzero blistering winds. They complained silently to themselves as warm, happy motorists zipped out of and back into the darkness.
Around the bend, the single-story mom and pop motel in the old motor lodge style sat beckoning them. It was small—tiny actually. It had barely a dozen rooms for rent. In fact, if not for the towering red and white roadside sign advertising “ROOMS,” the motel would barely be noticeable from the roadway. Hidden neatly behind several full-grown spruce trees, its rustic, A-frame roof and tidy, white wooden pillars were an unopened invitation to weary guests to shake the road dust off and “stay a spell.”
Finally, having arrived at their destination, Michael slipped the key into the door lock and walked inside. They had returned to their room. They were hungry, broke and unsure of their next move, but for now, they were warm.
Inside the cramped motel room, dozens of empty beer cans rattled around. Every step the men took risked disturbing a bit of trash or discarded can. Colorful flowered bedspreads had been balled up and carelessly flung across the room, where they landed in a heap near the corner. Half-filled beer bottles, cigarette stubs and fast-food wrappers sat piled up on the pale yellow lowboy that cowered beneath the hanging mirror on the west wall of the tiny room.
Rifling through the rubbish, Michael scoured the place for food, beer, grass—anything. Everywhere he looked, he found nothing. His stomach was no longer satisfied with the few scraps of food since his last full meal—compliments of Peter Levato’s fifty-nine dollars—and his head chimed in. Swollen and throbbing, it screamed ceaseless orders with an unrelenting vigor. He needed to shut them up.
With the rent overdue and no money left in their
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