The Iceman: The True Story of a Cold-Blooded Killer

by Anthony Bruno

  “How about Daniel Everett Deppner?”

  Kuklinski yanked up sharply on Shaba’s collar to silence the barking. “Never heard of him either.” He had his hand on the edge of the door, ready to close it.

  Detective Volkman’s glance slid toward his partner. “Well, if you don’t know these men, Mr. Kuklinski, then I don’t suppose you know anything about a Mr. Roy DeMeo.”

  Kuklinski squinted at the detective as his grip tightened on the dog’s collar. He wanted to know how the hell they’d gotten that one.

  “Roy DeMeo,” Detective Kane snapped. “He was a soldier in the Gambino crime family. Until he was murdered.”

  Kuklinski flashed a cordial smile. “Why don’t you boys come in? Let’s not talk out here.” He opened the door all the way and showed them in. Shaba was agitated, sniffing at their pants, but the dog had stopped barking.

  Kuklinski led them up the short flight of stairs to the living room. “Have a seat,” he said, indicating the couch, as he got comfortable in his favorite chair in the house, the beige leather easy chair next to the fireplace, his “throne.” The shaggy Newfoundland flopped down on the floor at his feet. He took the dark amber-tinted prescription glasses out of his shirt pocket, put them on, and tilted his head back. He stared at the two detectives and let the silence get uncomfortable. He wanted them to make the first move to see how much they really knew.

  Detective Volkman, the talker, finally spoke up. “Are you sure you don’t know any of those men, Mr. Kuklinski?”

  Kuklinski shook his head.

  “You didn’t know George Malliband?” Kane asked.

  “I don’t believe so.”

  Volkman opened a small notepad. “On March 31, 1980, Mr. Malliband told his brother that he was going to a meeting with you to conclude a business deal. That was the last time he was seen alive.”

  Kuklinski shook his head and shrugged. “Sorry. I have no recollection of such a person.”

  He scratched Shaba’s head. He remembered George Malliband. A big mother, three hundred pounds easy. Barely fit into the barrel.

  Detective Volkman consulted his notes. “On July 1, 1981, Louis Masgay was supposed to be meeting you in Little Ferry to buy blank videotapes. He was carrying a large amount of cash. His body was found two years later in Orangetown, New York.”

  Kuklinski raised his eyebrows and smiled. “I’ve already told you, Detective. I don’t know these guys.”

  He stroked the dog’s black fur. Almost a hundred grand. Frozen solid, stiff as a board. Made the cops look like a bunch of jackasses.

  Volkman flipped to another page in his notepad. “Paul Hoffman. A pharmacist from Cliffside Park. He left his home on April 29, 1982, supposedly to meet with you to conclude a business transaction. Again, he also had a large amount of cash with him.”

  Kuklinski sucked his teeth. “Don’t know him.”

  He glanced down at the dozing Newfoundland. A real pain in the ass, that guy. Hardly worth the twenty grand for all the trouble he caused.

  Detective Kane, the hard ball, piped up. “You gonna tell us you didn’t know Gary Smith and Danny Deppner either?”

  Kuklinski stared at him through his dark glasses, then turned to Volkman. “Why doesn’t my friend Mr. Kane here like me?”

  “Just answer the question please,” Kane insisted.

  “I already told you, Detective. If I said I didn’t know them, I didn’t know them.”

  Shaba lifted his head and growled. Kuklinski scratched the dog’s ears to quiet him down. Smith and Deppner had to go. They couldn’t be trusted anymore.

  Kane glared at him, sitting on the edge of the couch as if he were going to jump up and do something. “Mr. Kuklinski, we have reliable information that you were well acquainted with Gary Smith and Danny Deppner, that they worked for you.” Kane spit out the words, challenging him.

  “And who is this reliable person who says I knew these two fellas?”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge that person’s name.”

  “And why is that, Detective? I thought this was America. I thought you were supposed to know who your accusers are. Or maybe I just watch too many TV shows, Detective. Could that be my problem, Detective?”

  Shaba growled deep in his throat.

  Kuklinski glared at Kane through his dark glasses. He had a pretty good idea who their “reliable” source was. Frigging Percy House and that bitch of his, Barbara Deppner, Danny’s ex-wife. He knew he should’ve taken care of those two a long time ago. Just like Gary and Danny. But if Percy House was talking, he wasn’t saying much—at least not yet—because these two from the state police didn’t know shit. If they did, they wouldn’t be sitting here playing games with him. They’d have an arrest warrant. These fools didn’t know shit.

  “How about Robert Prongay?” Kane pressed. “Did you know Bobby Prongay?”

  “Nope.”

  “Think hard. Maybe you just forgot. He used to drive a Mister Softee ice-cream truck in North Bergen. He kept that truck in a garage right across from a garage you used to rent. Is it coming back to you now, Mr. Kuklinski?”

  Kuklinski stared at him for a moment. Then he spoke softly. “I don’t care that much for ice cream, Detective.”

  “That wasn’t what I asked, Mr. Kuklinski. I asked if you knew Robert Prongay.”

  “No. I didn’t know him either.”

  Kuklinski kneaded the dog’s neck. Mister Softee. Dr. Death.

  Volkman ruffled some pages to break the tension. He was supposed to be the “good cop” after all. He was supposed to make things nice. “How about Roy DeMeo, Mr. Kuklinski? Did you know him?”

  He was silent for a moment. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Have you ever been to a place called the Gemini Lounge, Mr. Kuklinski? On Flatlands Avenue in the Canarsie section of Brooklyn.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you sure, Mr. Kuklinski?”

  “That sounds like some kind of gin mill, Detective. I’m a family man. I don’t go to places like that.”

  Kane fidgeted in his seat. He looked like he was about to say something, but a glance from Volkman kept him quiet.

  “Roy DeMeo was a made member of the Gambino crime family,” Volkman said. “He was into pornography, among other things. Weren’t you also involved in the pornography business at one time, Mr. Kuklinski?”

  Kuklinski felt the blood rushing to his face. “Pornography? No, Detective. I told you, I’m a family man.”

  Shaba whimpered as he dug his fingers into the dog’s neck.

  Unwanted memories drifted back. The office on Lafayette Street in Manhattan around the corner from the film lab. Roy’s crazy crew. The apartment behind the Gemini Lounge where Dracula lived. Sausage and angel hair. The sharks off Long Island. Unconsciously Kuklinski touched the scar high on his forehead.

  Volkman continued. “DeMeo’s body was found in the trunk of his own car in January 1983.”

  “Yeah? So what?”

  “Something was found on top of his body. You wouldn’t have any idea what that item might be?”

  Kuklinski didn’t say a word. He just stared and let the moment stretch. Then he smiled. “Are we playing games here, Detective?”

  Kane barked. “No, Mr. Kuklinski, we are not playing games.”

  “Then what are you doing here? I told you already. I don’t know any of those guys you’re talking about.”

  “We have a reliable source who says you—”

  “Would you like me to tell you what you can do with your ‘reliable source,’ Detective Kane?”

  He pictured Percy House’s big ugly face. Rat bastard.

  Detective Kane was fuming. He looked like he was having a hard time just keeping himself on the couch. Kuklinski grinned at him.

  Volkman flipped some more pages. “Now just to be absolutely sure, Mr. Kuklinski, let’s go over the names one more time. Okay?”

  Kuklinski shrugged. “Whatever’ll make you happy.”


  “George Malliband, Junior. You say you didn’t know him?”

  “I don’t believe I ever met anyone by that name. No.”

  “And did you know Louis Masgay?”

  “Nope.”

  “Paul Hoffman?”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “Robert Prongay.”

  Kuklinski shook his head.

  “Gary Smith.”

  “Don’t know him either.”

  “Danny Deppner.”

  “Never heard of the guy.”

  Kane was squinting at him. He looked very skeptical. “If you don’t know any of these men, Mr. Kuklinski, then why are you grinning like that?”

  Kuklinski’s grin broke out into a toothy smile. “I guess I’m just a happy guy, Detective.”

  “Why do I have a feeling you know more than you’re saying, Mr. Kuklinski?”

  Richard Kuklinski just grinned at him.

  He ran his fingers through Shaba’s thick coat as the two detectives looked at each other, trying to figure out how to walk away from this without looking like a couple of assholes. But these two jokers came in here with nothing, Kuklinski thought. That was their first mistake. They were on a fishing expedition. But they had nothing, and they were nothing. The way Richard Kuklinski figured it, they were a couple of two-bit state cops, struggling with their mortgages and their car payments, scraping to get by, looking forward to nothing more than getting their twenty years in so they could get their shitty little pensions. They were losers. They knew nothing and they had nothing.

  But Richard Kuklinski, on the other hand, had everything.

  The big man adjusted his glasses and grinned with satisfaction. “Now is there anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?”

  THREE

  AUGUST 1986

  The duck pond in Demarest, New Jersey, was Barbara and Richard Kuklinski’s special place. They would come here two, three times a week after breakfast just to sit and feed the ducks and Canada geese. Richard would go across the street to the deli and buy a loaf of bread, and they’d while away the morning, tearing up slices and throwing the pieces into the water. It was very peaceful here, and Richard always said this place calmed him down. But sitting next to him on their usual park bench this morning, Barbara Kuklinski could tell that her husband wasn’t calm—not really—and that made her very nervous.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Barbara could see her husband glancing back at the pay phone at the edge of the parking lot again.

  Richard tossed out the bread in his hand and looked at her. “You want me to get the blanket from the car? To sit on.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  “You sure? I’ll go get it.”

  “No, I’m fine, Rich.”

  “Okay.” He was looking at the pay phone again.

  Smoothing the short blond hair at the back of her head, Barbara tried not to let on that she thought anything was wrong. But there was definitely something the matter today. Not that Richard couldn’t be genuinely sweet. Most of the time he was very attentive to her and courteous to a fault. He really worried about her, and he cared about her, and sometimes no gesture was too extravagant to make her happy.

  When they first met, she had been working as a secretary at a trucking company and he was working on the loading dock. For him, it was practically love at first sight, and he pursued her relentlessly, sending her flowers every single day until she agreed to go out on a date with him. Barbara was thrilled by the attention, but she was afraid to get involved with him. She knew that her Italian-American parents would not approve of him simply because he wasn’t Italian. But Richard could not be dissuaded, and the flowers kept on coming, every day a new bouquet on her desk. Eventually she gave in and agreed to go out with him on a double date, but the first time she brought Richard home, she told her parents he was Italian and made him use an Italian name. Richard played along with the ruse because he said he loved her. It was months before Barbara confessed to her parents that Richard’s real name was Kuklinski.

  Tossing pieces of bread into the water, Barbara smiled to herself, thinking back to those days when Richard was thin and bashful and always so sweet and thoughtful.

  She also remembered when Merrick, their oldest daughter, was born and how sick she had been. The baby had developed a kidney infection, and Richard stayed up all night, night after night, sitting next to the crib with his hand on Merrick’s back to keep her warm, watching her breathe, cleaning up her spit-up, changing her diapers.

  Barbara brushed away a tear from the corner of her eye. She had a lot of precious memories of her life with Richard. They’d had some very good times together. She sighed, and then her smile started to fade. They’d also had some not-so-good times.…

  There were the times when things weren’t going Richard’s way, times when he could be a major bastard. After twenty-five years of marriage Barbara knew instinctively when things weren’t right with Richard. She could smell it on him. In her mind there were actually two Richards—the good Richard and the bad Richard—and she had a terrible feeling that she was sitting here with the bad one.

  Today it wasn’t obvious which Richard he was. Of course, it never was—not until it was too late. Even the children could be fooled sometimes because he was tricky. He hid his moods. He could be furious about something, and you’d never know it. He would sit on his anger for weeks; then suddenly, out of the blue, he would fly into a rage, scream and yell for hours on end. And when the bad Richard went into one of his tirades, the best thing to do was to stay out of his way. But that never worked well for Barbara. The children were generally spared the full treatment, but with her it was different. Whenever he got started, she had to sit and listen and take it. Or else. She knew firsthand what the consequences of walking away from him could be.

  Barbara blinked and touched the bridge of her nose, recalling the third time it was broken. She quickly removed her hand and took a slice of bread out of the bag and started to tear it, fearing that he might figure out what she was thinking.

  Over the years she’d tried to forget or at least rationalize the awful things the bad Richard had done to her, but she couldn’t bring herself to live a lie. It was hard to forget scars you saw in the mirror, hard to forget waking up from a sound sleep in the middle of the night with a pillow held over your face, hard to forget coming out of the shower and finding your husband crouched in the bedroom, holding a gun on you. No, she could never forget, and she could never rationalize. But by the same token she’d never bring any of these things up again. She didn’t dare.

  It was like asking Richard what he did for a living. She knew he was into currency exchange because calls came into the house at all hours from all over the world. She knew he had business associates here and there because he’d leave the house to go meet with them. But she didn’t know any of the particulars, and she didn’t want to. If Richard got up at three o’clock in the morning, put on his shoes, and went out, she pretended to be asleep. If he told her anything about any of the people he was involved with, fine. But she didn’t ask any questions. She never did. She knew better. She knew her husband was no angel, but he did provide for his family, so she didn’t ask questions. You were just asking for trouble from the bad Richard if you did.

  She tossed more bread into the water and sneaked a glance at her husband. He was looking over his shoulder at the pay phone again. He was making sure that no one used it in case someone beeped him and he had to make a call. God only knew what he would do if some poor bastard came along and tried to use his phone.

  Suddenly Richard’s beeper went off, and the startled ducks at Barbara’s feet darted back into the water. Richard unclipped the beeper from his belt and looked at the readout. This toy was his latest fascination. He’d been unhooking the answering machine at home ever since he’d gotten the beeper, and he never went anywhere without it. He even wore it around the house.

  Richard got up from the bench and started for the pay phone. />
  “Who is it?” she asked. She really didn’t care who it was. She just wanted him to stay with her and feed the ducks, the way they used to.

  He looked down at her. “It’s John.” He was wearing his dark glasses.

  “Oh.” She nodded, then turned back to the ducks as he went off to make his phone call.

  Richard never used to make phone calls from here. The duck pond used to be sacred. It was their time together, the place where the good Richard could recharge his batteries. At one time they used to come here every day, it seemed. They’d go out to breakfast, then come here, hold hands, feed the ducks, not talk. It was always calm and serene, and Richard was always at his best when he was here, always so polite, so considerate. When the weather turned chilly, he’d put out a blanket for her to sit on, another one for her lap, and a pillow for her back. He did worry about her. He really did. He worried about her too much. That was the whole problem.

  Richard was obsessed with her. He wanted to know where she was at every moment. He wanted her home with him. For the past few years she’d worked at Dial-America, a telemarketing company. At first it wasn’t much of a job, but she’d worked her way up to supervisor, and she was really enjoying it. It was the first job she’d had since she was single, and she felt good about herself again. But Richard hated her having that job. He told her to quit, tried to browbeat her into giving notice. He snooped around the building and spied on her through the windows. Then one night, when he picked her up from work, he happened to see one of her co-workers walking out of the building with her. The man meant nothing to her, he was just someone she worked with, but when she got into the car, Richard was wearing his dark glasses. If she didn’t quit the job immediately, he stated flatly, something bad would happen to her “friend.” She knew he meant it, so she gave notice the next Friday. That had happened six weeks ago.

  It was hard for her to decide whether this insane jealousy came from the good Richard or the bad Richard. It was probably a little of both, she suspected. He did love her—she had no doubt about that—but it was a warped kind of love.

  Richard wanted perfection in everything, and he demanded that his family be the perfect American family. Nothing made him happier than a family outing, everybody getting dressed up and going out to a nice restaurant for a meal together. He was in his glory at times like that. But the kids were older now—Merrick was twenty-one, Christen was twenty, and Dwayne was a senior in high school—and they had their own lives. They wanted to be with their friends, not with their parents—at least not all the time. But Richard couldn’t understand that, and it genuinely hurt him when one of the girls refused to watch television with him because she had something else to do. He couldn’t understand the children wanting to grow up and go off on their own. Barbara dreaded the day one of them decided to leave the nest. It wouldn’t be an easy parting.