Kill for Thrill (10 page)

The eleventh of twelve children, Marlene had recently moved in with her mother, Stella, who was helping to raise young Jimmy. She was just beginning to get back in touch with who she was. Her strong religious conviction had helped guide her through the recent troubled times, and she was once again enjoying singing in the church choir.

What better opportunity to celebrate a new beginning than by ringing in the new year with friends. Celebration brought Marlene into Vandergrift on New Year’s Eve 1979. Celebration would cause her path to cross that of Michael Travaglia and John Lesko.

Michael and John spent the nascent hours of 1980 in revelry. While Marlene was sharing festive thoughts with her friends in Vandergrift, Michael and John had joined the Travaglia family for a New Year’s Eve celebration at their rural Washington Township home not far from Route 66. Oblivious to the carnage that the younger Travaglia and his partner had left behind, the Travaglia family joined together to welcome in 1980 with hopes for a prosperous new year—hopes that would ultimately fall short.

Satisfied by their brief respite, Lesko and Travaglia set out from the family homestead on foot. The hitchhike back to Pittsburgh was slow going. A thick fog had begun to roll in and the walk was sure to be an unpleasant one. By this time, the temperatures had once again begun to drop into the twenties. Heading toward Route 66, they tucked their hands in the pockets of their jackets and trudged forward.

Tuesday, January 1, 1980

Marlene had surprised herself. She had enjoyed her evening in Vandergrift. A small Rockwellian town northeast of Pittsburgh, it seemed as if someone had simply plopped it down at a hairpin turn of the Kiskiminetas River. Sitting on the Westmoreland side of the Westmoreland-Armstrong county line, Vandergrift had once been a busy little town that was home to the steelworkers of George McMurtry’s Apollo Iron and Steel Company, but over the years, the population had been dwindling quickly. Many of the mom and pop stores that once lined quaint Grant Avenue were now either closed or on life support.

Even the once thriving Casino Theatre had begun to suffer. Perched at the corner of Grant and Lincoln Avenues in the middle of downtown, it is at the heart of Vandergrift’s historic district. The stately theatre, with its four Greek Revival columns, bas-relief Terpsichorean façade and Italian marble flooring, still looked out toward the J&L Steel Rolling Mill on the edge of the river, but these days, the bustle of the mill was gone and the throng of moviegoers had dwindled to a trickle. By late 1979, the theatre, like much of the valley, was slated for demolition.

The twenty-six-year-old seamstress from Connellsville had been reluctant to make the hour drive from her home southeast of Pittsburgh into Vandergrift, but her friends had begged her, and she had finally decided that it would be nice to get out for an evening.

After enjoying the evening with her friends and ushering in the New Year, she said her goodbyes and set out on the forty-five-mile journey back home. The new decade was barely an hour and a half old as Marlene pulled out of the driveway and pointed her car toward Connellsville.

Winding her way down Hancock Avenue, she headed toward Oklahoma Borough. Marlene guided her new Dodge Ramcharger through the deserted streets on the outskirts of Vandergrift. The affable glow of the intermittent streetlights quickly faded in her rearview mirror, and long shadowy pines began to appear like sentinels beside the gray ribbon that snaked its way up and down the hilly countryside. It was dark, and as she maneuvered down Onion Hill toward the river, the gathering fog began to thicken.

Adjusting her headlights, she slowed to a stop at Hancock Avenue and Route 66. Struggling to make out the stop sign at the corner, she hesitated. Finally, confident that it was safe, she turned right onto Route 66 and headed south out of town and toward her home.

Up ahead on the right, trudging along the gravely shoulder just beyond the intersection where Route 356 unites with Route 66, there were two men. As they spun around, thumbs thrust skyward, she slowed to a crawl. Scruffy and cold, their appearance and the fog that swirled around them in the headlights gave them an eerie, ghostlike pallor. It was not in her nature to turn down a stranger in need, and it wasn’t something that she was going to start doing now.

Marlene slowed the tan Ramcharger to a crawl and eased it off the asphalt onto the graveled shoulder. Rolling down the window, she shouted, “Come on in out of the fog.” One offer was all that was necessary, and the bone-chilled duo rushed to the waiting warmth of Marlene’s car.

John opened the door and lifted the front seat for Michael as he climbed into the backseat. With Michael situated, John dropped the seat back into place and quickly climbed into the passenger’s side.

“Where are you guys headed?”

“Pittsburgh,” offered John.

“Well, I’m headed to Connellsville. I’ll take you as far as I can,” she replied.

With her passengers safely aboard, Marlene checked through the fog for traffic and then gently pulled back out onto Route 66, once again heading into the night.

Streets with whimsical names like Beaver Run and Poke Run Church Road sprang up through the fog and then slipped back into the night as the three strangers picked their way along the legendary highway of ramblers, dreamers and writers like Jack Kerouac and Woody Guthrie. Snaking through North Washington out past Greensburg Road and Beaver Run Reservoir, the Ramcharger slowly nibbled away at the miles.

Slipping his now thawed hand under his jacket, John toyed with the butt of the .22-caliber revolver. Marlene was concentrating on the foggy highway ahead of her. She was none the wiser. With one swift motion, John drew the gun and pointed it squarely at Marlene.

“Stay calm and you won’t get hurt.”

Dumbfounded, Marlene was too startled to react—she was too startled to do anything.

“Find a safe place and pull off the road. And don’t do anything stupid.”

Nervously, Marlene did what her kidnapper ordered and eased off the highway onto the tree-lined gravel shoulder.

“Get in the back,” John barked.

Marlene climbed into the backseat beside Michael, who instantly slipped into the front and took her place behind the wheel. Seizing the steering wheel, he gunned the engine and sped back onto Route 66, leaving a trail of sputtering gravel in his wake. Marlene heard the sharp chirp of the tires as the car lurched out onto 66. Into the fog they drove. Michael was in charge of driving. That left John to tend to the new prisoner. Marlene watched him intently as he pulled a long length of yellow wire from under his jacket and reached for her, grabbing her by the arms. Clumsily, he wrapped her wrists with the wire until he was satisfied that she was securely bound. The wire cut deeply into her wrists, but Marlene stifled a cry. She would not let herself cry.

John fumbled around on the backseat until his hand bumped into a wool blanket. It had fallen beside the crevice of the seat as the Ramcharger fishtailed back out onto the highway. With a flourish, he unfurled the blanket and Marlene was plunged into darkness.

As the musty wool blanket settled over her, Marlene thought of funeral shrouds. The darkness under the blanket smothered her. In near panic, she forced herself to focus on the slivers of passing light that intermittently snuck beneath the edge of the blanket. She knew that she had to track where they were headed.

The car lurched to the left and then the right. Marlene guessed Route 286, Saltsburg Road—it had to be. They were headed east out toward Indiana and Beaver Run Reservoir. The path of the Ramcharger once again steadied, and Marlene shifted her efforts to picking out the mumbles of her captors. The two men spoke in low voices. She couldn’t make out anything through the thick wool. Fuzzy, garbled syllables and an occasional cackled laugh filtered through, but eventually Marlene gave up trying to hear what they were saying and tried to stay calm. In waves, her fears would creep up on her, nearly overtaking her. She forced them into submission, choosing instead to think of her son.

His pearl-round face smiled at her from beneath a mop of soft, strawberry-blonde hair. Surrounded by piles of newly torn Christmas paper, the smiles and giggles of Christmas morning brought a faint smile to her face. Suddenly, memories of six Christmases past flooded headlong into her brain, crowding out fearful thoughts. With thoughts of future Christmases missed, Marlene Sue Newcomer faded into a world of warm, blue-eyed smiles and toothy grins.

The thunderous roar that erupted as the .22-caliber bullet escaped down the barrel of the gun snapped Marlene back into reality. As the tiny bullet ripped into the fabric of the blanket, a tiny puff of acrid air glanced across her cheek. The bullet whistled past her and lodged harmlessly into the seat just inches from her arm. Her brain raced.

Narrowly missed by the first shot, a second was sure to follow. There would be no second chances. She clutched her chest. Gasping and feigning a heart attack, she played it to the hilt, collapsing opossum-like on the backseat. She prayed that her attackers would fall for her ruse. It had to work.

The tires squealed, and she slid forward against the back of the front seat as the Ramcharger began to swerve back and forth. Sliding left and right, Marlene skidded across the backseat like a hockey puck, and the wool blanket slipped off her and fell onto the floorboards. As quickly as it had begun, the wild gyrations of the car evened out, and they skidded to a stop. Michael whirled in his seat and the interior light came on. She lay motionless, eyes closed, and continued to play dead.

Suddenly she felt an ice-cold hand on her wrist, feeling and groping frantically for a pulse. Her heart was racing. Adrenaline spurted from every pore of her body, but Marlene willed herself to be calm. This would work. This had to work.

Within seconds, the veil of her subterfuge was lifted.

“She’s faking it.” Marlene opened her eyes to see John’s contorted face as he raised the six-inch .22. He slowly drew up the slack in the trigger as his finger curled tighter and tighter around it. Marlene was helpless. Her eyes followed the cylinder as it slowly rotated, pulling another bullet into alignment with the barrel. Slowly, it crept clockwise toward the top, inching into position.

A second thunderous roar rattled the windows in the Ramcharger as hot orange flames reached out and touched her. Searing pain gripped her chest. This was not a miss.

The bullet entered her chest on the left side just above her breast. She felt the warm path of the bullet as it dug into her body. The pain was unlike anything that she had ever experienced. It rushed through her entire body. Every nerve was awake. She had to flee. She could not. All she could do was force her body against the back of the seat and into the corner. Another flash.

She didn’t hear the thunderous roar. She didn’t hear anything. The tug of the jagged .22-caliber bullet as it tore through the skin on the left side of her head bounced her off the seat. It had entered her skull just above the temple. The muscles in her body recoiled and drove her farther down into the corner of the seat. She was motionless; blood started to drain from the two holes in her body and she could feel it begin to pool beneath her on the seat. There was only silence. Silence and the feel of a scratchy wool funeral shroud once more brushing against her cheek.

Consciousness came and went as they bounded along. As the pool of blood collecting on the floorboards continued to grow, innumerable, incomprehensible thoughts flooded into and out of her head. The reality of her impending death slowly became final. As her heart fluttered and the tiny sparks in her brain darted about, she seized her few remaining threads of strength and slowly but deliberately dipped a cold, pale finger into the pool of blood that had surrounded her. As her finger began to trace a message on the door panel, her frail body shivered and finally gave up. Marlene Sue Newcomer, beneath her wool shroud, hurtling through Indiana, Pennsylvania, had become John Lesko and Michael Travaglia’s second victim.

Oblivious to Marlene’s final breaths, the murderous pair raced north on Route 286, once again broke, but now with at least a temporary means of transportation. Michael and John were greeting 1980 with renewed zest. Just ahead, the lights of Indiana, as they mixed with the pale morning sunrise, cast a bluish gray dome of light across the horizon. Michael spotted a convenience store several hundred yards ahead of them in the icy twilight.

Wheeling into the parking lot with Marlene Sue Newcomer’s lifeless body draped across the backseat, Michael and John were ready to rock and roll. The two men hopped out of the car and walked into the nearly deserted market. Randy Helman looked up from the newspaper that he had spread across the counter. As John walked toward Helman, he lifted his coat. Sticking out of his waistband was the handgrip of the .22 revolver.

“See this here! I can pull it out in two seconds. Just be calm and you won’t get hurt.”