The Ice Man

by Philip Carlo

  If he fired the gun the cops would be summoned. He had with him a hunting knife, and he decided to use it. He stepped from the van and boldly walked right up to their door, knocked. One of the men opened it, and with lightning speed Richard stuck the automatic in his face, told him to be quiet, and pushed his way in, quickly, like a tango dancer. He made both men lie on the floor. He cut the lamp cords and used the wire to bind their hands tightly behind their backs. He then stuck socks into their mouths, and killed one, then the other, by pushing the knife, in an upward angle, into the backs of their heads. Concerned that the double murder might in some way reflect on the bank officer, Richard decided to get rid of the bodies. To do this, he took the blankets off two beds in the apartment, rolled each of the bodies in a blanket, picked up one and placed it in the back of the van, made sure he wasn’t being observed, returned, hoisted the second one over his massive shoulder, put him in the van, and slowly pulled away. People who sped drew attention. When he was transporting bodies, Richard never hurried.

  As Richard made his way out of town, he passed a hardware shop with ladders and colorful wheelbarrows out front; he turned around, went back, and bought a long-handled copper-headed spade, then continued on. He managed to get on a highway, drove on it for half an hour, pulled off, and went looking for a suitable place to get rid of the bodies, just as he had done when he was a boy back in Jersey City: déjà vu all over again. He hadn’t counted on any of this and didn’t like it, but it had to be done, so he was doing it. However, he would demand a larger share of the money now, and get it. It didn’t take Richard long to find a secluded area in the woods, dig a hole, quickly dump the two men in it, and cover it with dirt, leaves, and branches. He got back in the van and returned to Zurich, called Remi, and told him all was “taken care of.” He also told him to come get the van and return it. That done, Richard took a shower, met Remi, and returned the van—after making sure there was no blood inside it—and they went for dinner in a five-star French restaurant.

  Remi was impressed. He couldn’t believe any one man could be so…efficient at making people—problems—disappear. He looked at Richard now with a newfound respect. Richard told him he wanted “a larger slice of the pie.”

  “Of course, of course, you deserve it!” Remi said. “Absolutely!”

  Two days later Richard returned to New Jersey, went back down to Georgia, deposited the latest check, and returned to Dumont. The task force was pleased to hear him talking on the phone again. Polifrone called him, beeped him, and Richard finally got back to Polifrone on October 8. He called him from a diner. Richard was by now expecting Polifrone to have the cyanide, and he asked him about it right off the bat. Again, however, Polifrone stalled him. Richard asked him about the IRA woman; Polifrone said she was pleased, that he was waiting to hear from her.

  “How about this Jewish kid?” Richard asked.

  “He moves around a lot, travels a lot. I should be hearing from him soon. You’ll be around?”

  “I’ll be around. He who hesitates is lost, my friend,” Richard said.

  “You are right about that.”

  “Gotta move while the iron is hot,” Richard said.

  “I hear you,” Polifrone said. “I’ll let you know when the time is right.”

  They hung up. Richard was beginning to think Polifrone was, in a word, bullshit. If he had what he said he had, could get, it would be on the table by now. Polifrone was, Richard decided, just another bigmouthed wannabe braggart. He’d met this kind of man all his life. Nothing new. People who said they had all these contacts, knew all these people, turned out to be as empty as a used paper bag.

  Polifrone was thinking Richard was cold and distant, that maybe he had been stringing Kuklinski along for too long. He was right. He knew if he didn’t deliver something soon, Kuklinski would just move on—stop returning his calls altogether.

  Which, apparently, is exactly what happened.

  Polifrone called, left messages, beeped Richard, without any response. One time “Tim” (Spasudo) called him back, but that didn’t accomplish anything one way or the other; the task force knew Spasudo was just a tool, a shill, for Richard. The situation was becoming untenable. Bob Carroll talked about bringing in Kuklinski on what they had so far, but in the end it was decided they needed more if they really wanted to put Kuklinski away for good. One of the guys taped a mug shot of Richard onto a new bottle of Jack Daniel’s, which they sparingly drank from during late-night brainstorming sessions. It became a ritual. When they truly nailed Kuklinski, Carroll promised, there would be bottles of good champagne.

  Finally, toward the end of October, Richard did call Agent Polifrone back. He said he’d been busy, that he had misplaced Polifrone’s number. He didn’t seem interested anymore. He was, Polifrone knew, ready to spit the hook. Polifrone told Richard the rich Jewish kid was back—asking for product, anxious for it—and the IRA broad wanted to place an order…a big one, he said.

  Reluctantly, Richard agreed to meet Polifrone again, and a time was set for October 26, again at the Vince Lombardi rest stop, this time inside the Roy Rogers there. There was, as before, enough time for the task force to set up proper surveillance and backup for Polifrone. Jersey plainclothes detectives stationed themselves in and around the Roy Rogers. Rough-and-ready Ron Donahue was sitting inside the Roy Rogers, nursing his second coffee. It was still lunchtime and crowded. The weather had grown much colder. The sky was low and gray and mean, as if a storm were about to strike. Polifrone was on edge. He well knew he’d lost the momentum he’d had with Richard. Too much time had gone by, and he hadn’t delivered anything but promises. Not good. For all he knew, Richard was in fact onto him and was planning to kill him. Polifrone made sure he had quick and easy access to his heat. He was coiled like a rattlesnake about to strike, ready for action, whatever it was.

  Polifrone took solace in the presence of Ron Donahue. If Kuklinski had to be subdued, put down, killed, Ron Donahue was the man to do it, Polifrone knew. His toughness was legendary in police circles. There was tension, palpable and real, in the chilled fall air.

  Richard showed up on time, at 2:00 P.M. sharp, driving a red Olds, Barbara’s car. He had on sunglasses, which Polifrone didn’t like because you couldn’t see his eyes.

  “Hey, Dom, what’s new?” Richard greeted the agent, seemingly aloof, not at all friendly. Polifrone said he was hungry.

  “Would you like something, Rich?” he offered, gesturing toward the restaurant.

  “Nothing for me…just coffee,” Richard said. Polifrone bought two coffees, fries, and a burger for himself. They took seats. As the agent ate he asked Richard about more hit kits, how many could he get, and when he could get them.

  “You can,” Richard said, “get all you want, but they are down in Delaware. I’m not bringing them across the state line.” So there it was—Richard was backing off, clearly not being as congenial as before.

  “Sure, I’ll get them, no problem. Just tell me where, okay? Can I get ten?”

  “You can get all you want, my friend,” Richard said, the signal word—“friend”—that Polifrone’s days were numbered. All along Polifrone had been talking about a big buy, lots of money; now just ten hit kits. He’s full of shit, Richard thought. Bullshit.

  Polifrone again pitched Richard the line about the rich Jewish kid, saying how he wanted two, maybe even three kilos of coke; and again he peppered Richard with questions about how the cyanide works, and again, Richard took the bait and went on to describe how once someone is sprayed in the face it’s all over:

  “I’ve used it,” he said. “I sprayed guys and they were dead within minutes.”

  “Really?” Polifrone said, wide-eyed. “Wow.”

  “Really.”

  “Okay, so when we take off the kid, you’ll do him with this, but the body, we gotta get rid of the body,” Polifrone further baited Richard.

  “Why get rid of it?” Richard said, gobbling up the bait, his every word being immortalized
. “Just leave him there. It’ll look like he’s sleeping…that he died a natural death. All neat and tidy.”

  “Okay, sounds perfect. Let’s do it,” Polifrone said, and explained that he’d get the rich Jewish kid to a meeting at the rest stop, and Richard should come and see him and check him out. Richard said he’d be available, to let him know when.

  Richard, still oblivious of the fact that Polifrone might be a cop, planned to kill “the Jewish kid” and Polifrone at the same time and take all the money. He had grown to really dislike Polifrone and looked forward to killing him—if there really was a Jewish kid with bucks looking to score. He had his doubts. They made plans to talk again soon, and Richard left.

  On October 30 Polifrone spoke to Richard and told him he’d be with the coke buyer at the Lombardi stop at ten o’clock the following morning. Richard said he’d be there.

  October 31 was also a particularly cold, gray day, more like mid-February. A frigid wind whipped across the Lombardi rest stop. At 10:00 A.M., Polifrone and Detective Paul Smith, posing as the Jewish rich kid, were sitting at an outdoor table in the grassy area. It was so cold their breath fogged. Teams of detectives surrounded the rest stop. Polifrone feigned giving Detective Smith a bag of coke. The detective feigned looking into it. They didn’t know if Richard was there, watching from afar or not.

  This was, in fact, all kinds of ridiculous. Seeing this superficial ruse wouldn’t sway Richard one way or the other. Still, Bob Carroll and Polifrone felt it was worth a try. According to all the surveillance teams, however, Richard was nowhere near them. Finally, after being out in the cold a half an hour, Polifrone and Smith went in different directions, not knowing if Richard had seen them or not.

  Richard wasn’t even in Jersey that day. He had a murder contract to fill in South Carolina. Another gambler had borrowed money from the wrong people and refused to pay, threatening to call the police. Richard was dispatched and killed the man as he came home with groceries, shot him dead with a .22 equipped with a silencer as he stepped out of his car. He returned to Dumont and took Barbara shopping. Barbara was already talking about the Christmas holidays, the type of tree she wanted this year, gifts she’d buy, who would get what, even her plans for the window decorations. Silently, Richard listened; he had, she knew, never become excited by the holidays, but he was even more removed from what she was saying now. Richard had changed. What, she wondered, could it be? She asked him.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “You feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine, just thinking,” he said.

  “What about?” she pressed.

  “Business,” he said with finality, ending the conversation.

  That evening the family had a nice dinner, veal Milanese and mashed potatoes, one of Richard’s favorites, but Richard was silent and withdrawn, just chewed his food and stared at something only he saw. After dinner Merrick asked if he’d like to go feed the ducks.

  “No, not now,” he said, and went and watched a game show, thinking about doing away with Pat Kane, thinking about money—making enough money to get out of the life, to go straight. Money was the key. It always had been. He was leaving the following day for Zurich, and he planned to press Remi to get checks more frequently. He looked forward to being away. He didn’t want to be around people, even his own family, now. He wanted to be alone.

  The following day, Richard got into his Camaro, drove to the airport unobserved, and boarded a plane for Zurich. One of the first things Richard asked Remi when he saw him was if he knew anyone that could get cyanide.

  Again the task force stopped hearing Richard on the phone. Days went by. They held a meeting on the evening of November 13. By now Dominick hadn’t heard from Richard for two weeks.

  Polifrone wanted to wait, to not chase Richard. He said that Kuklinski was cunning, that he was staying away to get the mark off balance. Deputy Chief Buccino had concerns: What if Kuklinski killed again? What if he secured cyanide somewhere else? What if it became public knowledge that they could have arrested him but didn’t and he killed someone? “We cannot leave this guy on the street much longer!” he said.

  He had a valid point. Ron Donahue, however, agreed with Polifrone: they had to be patient, he said, the first rule of a good hunter. “This guy is big game, and that’s how we have to work him, play him,” he said.

  Like this it went back and forth, as task force members took discreet shots from the Jack Daniel’s bottle with Richard’s picture on it.

  They discussed sending Pat Kane and Volkman to Kuklinski’s house again “to rattle his cage.” That had seemed to work before.

  In the end, Bob Carroll decided to side with Polifrone and give it some more time. The last thing he wanted to do was move prematurely. The case had to be “airtight,” carefully orchestrated. They would have one shot, and it had to be a bull’s-eye.

  “Let’s send Kane to go see him again, see what happens,” he said. “It worked last time.”

  Two days before Thanksgiving, November 22, 1986, Richard was still in Europe, waiting for the largest check he’d gotten to date. Barbara went shopping for all the fixings of a Thanksgiving feast. Her car was filled with bags of groceries when she pulled into the drive of her Dumont home. Barbara’s mother used to serve lasagna before the turkey, but everyone would fill up on the pasta and not eat the turkey, so Barbara stopped making lasagna.

  Daughter Chris was now seeing a guy named Matt. He was the only man she had loved, and being intimate with him was “special,” not any kind of rebellion, as in years past. Daughter Merrick was going to marry Mark, her new boyfriend. Barbara liked him and was pleased Merrick had found “a nice boy,” as she thought of him. When Barbara pulled up in front of the house that day, Matt came out to help bring the packages inside. He was a strapping, good-looking man, always polite. Barbara liked him too. Richard did also. As Matt and Chris and Barbara were bringing all the bags of food into the house, seemingly out of nowhere, Detectives Pat Kane and Ernest Volkman appeared, walked up the driveway.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Kuklinski,” Kane said, “I’m Detective Kane and this is Detective Volkman.” Both of them showed their shiny gold badges.

  “We are looking for your husband,” Volkman said. They knew Richard wasn’t there. His car was gone. They were doing this for one reason: to rattle Richard, to cause him to react, to upset him, his family life. The task force knew Richard loved Barbara, was exceedingly protective of her and his family. That was obvious by the phone calls he had with her that they had eavesdropped on.

  Startled, Barbara regarded them with surprise, which quickly turned to disdain. “Is something the matter?” she asked, not pleased by this sudden, unexpected presence. Who the hell did they think they were?

  “We need to talk with him,” Kane said.

  “What about?” she asked.

  “He home?” Volkman asked, curt and unfriendly…rude, she thought.

  Barbara was still very much her own woman, still had a razor-sharp tongue, a somewhat supercilious attitude.

  “You know where he is?” Kane asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “Can you get in touch with him?” Kane said.

  “I just said I don’t know where he is—what’s this about?” she demanded, not asked.

  “You have a number where you can reach him?” Volkman put in.

  “I don’t. I don’t know where he is, don’t you hear?” she asked.

  Now Matt came out of the house. Chris, a worried look about her face, stood at the doorway holding the family dog, Shaba, by the collar. Shaba, a large Irish wolfhound, was barking at the two detectives.

  “What’s wrong, Mom?” Chris called.

  The two detectives moved toward Matt. “Are you Richard Kuklinski?” Volkman asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “What’s your name? What are you doing here?” Volkman asked.

  Really annoyed now, Barbara put herself between Matt and the two detectives. “None of your busine
ss!” she said. “Where do you two get off? What’s this about?” she again demanded.

  Kane said, “We need to talk to your husband about a couple of murders.”

  “What?” she said. “Murders?”

  “Murders we think he committed,” Kane added.

  Barbara couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. She felt as if she’d been slapped with a red-hot hand. “You have a warrant to be here on my property?” she asked. “No.”

  “Then get the hell off it,” she said.

  They stood there.

  “Chris,” Barbara said, “let the dog loose!”

  Chris froze. She didn’t know what to do, holding the huge dog, who was now trying hard to break away.

  “I said,” Barbara repeated, venom in her voice now, “let the dog loose!”

  If Chris had let Shaba go, Kane would have shot him dead. He was ready to reach for his gun. That, he knew, would surely get Richard’s goat. But Chris had the good sense to hold on to Shaba’s massive collar. The detectives had done what they’d set out to do—upset the apple cart. Kane took out a business card and handed it to Barbara. He said, “Mrs. Kuklinski, when your husband comes home, please have him call me.”

  The detectives turned and walked back to their car, got in it, and slowly left, knowing they’d be hearing from Richard Kuklinski soon.

  “Tough lady,” Volkman said.

  “Gotta be tough to be married to Rich,” Kane said.

  Barbara was fit to be tied. These detectives had, she thought, purposely ruined the family’s Thanksgiving.

  When Richard, still in the Hotel Zurich, heard how Kane and Volkman had harassed his wife, his precious Barbara, telling her he was suspected of killing people, murder, he was enraged. He punched holes in walls. He broke furniture. He got on the first flight back to the States. Now more than ever he wanted to kill Kane, had to kill him. He had no right talking to Barbara like that, telling her these disgusting things.