by Philip Carlo
Suicide by cop, that was the way to go.
First and foremost though he needed cyanide to properly take care of Pat Kane.
Second, he needed a truckload of money to properly retire.
Third, he’d stop gambling; he’d control that urge. He had to. He felt trapped and cornered, and the only answer was money. A lot of it. Money was the passport to a better life.
On September 11, at 8:00 A.M., Pat Kane went to the location where Richard’s phone calls were being tapped. Kane, Bob Carroll, Paul Smith, and Ron Donahue would be manning the lines twenty-four hours a day. They were legally able to record all the calls, even the ones by Richard’s family, his two daughters talking to their boyfriends, Dwayne talking to friends, Barbara ordering groceries—always the best of everything for her. However, they were legally allowed to transcribe only the conversations of Richard’s that were specifically relevant to…crimes.
Pat Kane was upbeat now. He was sure it was just a matter of time before they landed Richard in the boat. Kane still viewed Richard as the elusive, predatory muskie and was sure now that this new bait would do the trick. Pat returned to his old self now. He was much more attentive to his loving wife, had more time for his children. The old twinkle in his eyes was back. It was as if, Terry thought, the storm cloud hanging over her husband’s head was abruptly gone.
Terry had, of course, no idea that the brooding storm cloud was actually following her husband around, stalking him—was planning to swiftly and efficiently kill the only man she had ever kissed.
In his quest to earn money, Richard again left for Zurich. The task force was still intent upon not letting Richard know that they were onto him, and they were certain he’d spot a tail in a minute, so they just left him alone; so they didn’t even know he was out of the country.
Consequently, all they got from the phone taps was the family going about living their lives. Dominick left messages for Richard that went unreturned.
In Zurich, Richard was relaxed. He knew no one was watching him, and while waiting for more checks, more receipts from the Nigerian government official, he sat in parks and cafés, looking like a man enjoying the tranquillity of the park, though he was plotting and planning Pat Kane’s, Dominick Polifrone’s, and John Spasudo’s murders. He actually drew strength from just the thought of these killings. All his life, since he’d beaten Charley Lane to death, Richard had solved his problems with murder. Murder was an anchor that kept him stable; murder would make everything right. Sitting in a Zurich café near the Central Station, Richard planned murder. All he needed was a little cyanide and he’d be free of Pat Kane, the man who was trying to take everything away from him.
As days passed, the phone taps proved fruitless, unless knowing that Barbara ordered a lot of filet mignon from the Dumont butcher meant something. Not knowing that Richard was actually out of the country, the task force became concerned. Not only were they not hearing anything that would be useful in court, but Richard wasn’t even calling Polifrone back. What the hell was that about? They began to think Richard knew Polifrone was an agent, that Solimene had been playing both sides of the fence. Surely that was the problem.
Then on September 25, everything suddenly changed. Richard got back from Zurich, deposited still another check in the Georgia account, contacted Spasudo, and told him how he was planning to rip off Dominick and that he wanted to use him to impersonate an arms dealer. Though Spasudo was as ugly as sin, both a degenerate gambler and a sexual degenerate, he was not stupid. In fact, he had a mind as sharp as a tack. He readily agreed to go along with Richard’s scheme; he would have enough knowledge about firearms because Richard would make him read up on all types of armaments. Spasudo had no idea that Richard was planning to kill him too, planning to feed him alive to rats. At six foot five he would be, Richard was thinking, a huge feast for the rats. Richard called Polifrone from a pay phone in a shopping center in south Jersey.
Now Dominick, in the ATF’s Newark offices, was wired and ready for action. He returned Richard’s call. The first thing Richard asked was if Dominick was at a pay phone.
“Yeah, we can talk freely,” Dominick said, baiting the trap, smiling as he did so, and Richard walked right into it: he told Dominick he had his arms contact there and said he’d put Spasudo on the phone, telling Dominick his name was Tim. Spasudo took the phone and, with flourish and authority, told Dominick he could get him all the heavy armaments he wanted, rattling off different weapons as if he were selling fresh fruits at a busy market. Richard was proud of Spasudo. He was doing a good job. He sounded like the real McCoy. Polifrone then asked to speak to Richard, now ready to spring the trap.
“Hey, Rich, I told Tim what I needed. Now tell me the truth. Is this guy gonna deliver? I don’t wanna hear a lotta promises, then get a lotta excuses down the line. You know what I’m saying?”
“You don’t have to worry, Dom. If he says he can get you something, he’ll get it. If he can’t, he’ll be straight with you.”
“All right. I don’t wanna end up looking bad on this. My IRA girl, she looks like a schoolteacher, but she can be a real ballbuster. You disappoint her once, that’s it, no second chances. She’ll find somebody else. And I’m telling you, she’s one customer I do not want to lose. You understand me?”
“I hear you, Dom.”
“Now I understand that Tim’s got all his heavy stuff in the Mediterranean, so it’s gonna take some time to get us some samples. But let’s keep my girl happy, okay? Get me some silencers so I can show her something. Just something I can show. I’ll pay you—don’t worry about that; but just get me something.”
“Did Tim tell you he had silencers available?”
“Yeah.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t worry about it. We’ll get you something as soon as we can.”
“Okay, but don’t make me wait. I’m telling you, we can both make a lotta money off this broad. Let’s not screw it up. Okay?”
“I hear you. Don’t worry.”
“Okay, Rich, let’s stay in touch.”
“Say, Dom, you didn’t get any word on that stuff I was looking for? You know what I’m talking about?” Richard said, putting a noose around his own neck.
“Yeah, I know. I talked to my people, but they’re all nervous about this Lipton soup thing.”
“Why? That was a couple of weeks ago.”
“They heard that there’s a lot of federal people going around asking questions about all that shit. Now I know they got a chemist who gets that stuff for them, but like I said, they’re all nervous. I got stuff like that from these people before for other customers of mine, so I’m pretty sure they can get it. They just wanna wait till this Lipton soup thing cools down before they’ll give it to me. In the meantime, I’ll get you the other stuff, the—you’re on a pay phone, right?” Dominick said, drawing Richard further in.
“Yeah, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, of course. The cyanide, you gotta be careful because, you know, I don’t know how you fucking want to use it. But that’s your business, Rich. I’m not asking.”
“Well, it won’t be a problem of exposure. I don’t intend to resell it to anybody. I’m intending to use it myself.”
“Yeah? Well, don’t you take it,” Dominick said, laughing.
“No, no, I don’t intend to. I just have a few problems I want to dispose of. I have some rats I want to get rid of,” Richard said, chuckling.
“Yeah? Why not use a fucking piece of iron to get rid of these fucking people? Why fuck around with cyanide?” Dominick said, opening the door wider still.
“Why be messy, Dom? You do it nice and clean with cyanide.”
“Lemme ask you something then. You do the same thing I do once in a while. But I always use steel. You know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I understand what you’re saying.”
“So what I’m asking is, would you be willing to do a—you know—a contract with me?
”
“Dominick, if the price is right, I’ll talk to anybody,” Richard said, drawing the noose a bit tighter.
“Yeah?”
“Sure.”
“And you mean to tell me your way is nice and clean, and nothing fuckin’ shows up?”
“Well, it may show, my friend, but it’s quiet, it’s not messy; it’s not as noisy.”
“Yeah, but how the fuck do you put it together, you know what I’m saying?”
“Well, there’s always a way. There’s a will, there’s a way, my friend.”
Dominick laughed. “All right, listen, we’ll have to talk about this sometime. It sounds interesting.”
“There’re even spray mists around,” Richard volunteered.
“Yeah?”
“Sure. You put that stuff in a mist, you spray it in somebody’s face, and they go to sleep,” he said.
“Fast? How long does it take?”
Kuklinski snapped his fingers. “About that fast,” he said, bragging.
“No shit. I thought—you mean, you don’t have to put it in the guy’s drink, something like that?”
“Not necessary. That will work too, but it’s very detectable that way.”
“Yeah?”
“You make it up as a mist. As soon as they inhale it, they’ve already had enough. Just one squirt. That’s all it takes.”
“Well, shit, if it’s that easy, Rich, there are definitely a couple of things we could get involved with, without any fucking problems. You know, as I said, contracts.”
“Can do it either way. If a guy wants it done with lead, then it could be lead. If the guy wants to prove a point and he wants steel, it could be done with steel. I’m not averse to guns, I’m not averse to knives, I’m not averse to, you know, whatever,” Richard said.
“As long as he’s dead, that’s the bottom line, Rich.”
“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? If that’s what they want.”
“Your way sounds like a fucking James Bond movie, but if it works, then—”
“Dominick, I’ve done it all ways, whatever you’ve known or heard. There aren’t too many things I haven’t tried. I’ll try whatever sounds workable. Some guys want it done messy and they want it as proof of the pudding. They want it shown. So I’ll do it that way.”
“But your way, what you were telling me, with the cyanide—there’s no problem with that?”
“I don’t have a problem. I’m not saying it’s not detectable. I’m just saying it’s quiet and fast.”
“In other words, you’ve done this before? You know there’s no problem?”
“Well, nobody’s going to give you proof of anything like that, my friend.”
“I’m not saying proof. I’m just asking if it’s really been done.”
“It’s been done.”
“This sounds interesting. We gotta fucking go for coffee, break bread over this thing; it sounds good.”
“Well, Dom, you know what they say. There’s more than one way to skin something.”
“I hear ya, I hear ya.”
“It all depends on how determined you are to get it done.”
They both laughed.
“As long as it gets done. Right, Rich?”
“As long as the guy who’s paying you gets it done the way he wants. It’s the finished product that they’re interested in. And I haven’t had any complaints, because as you can see, I’m still around. If I had any complaints, I’m sure I wouldn’t be here.”
“I hear you, brother. I hear you. But getting back to the other stuff with Tim, what should we do? You wanna beep me or should I call you?”
“Why don’t you call me this weekend? But just in case I’m not at that other number, lemme give you my new beeper number.”
“You’ve got a beeper now, Rich?”
“Yeah. This number is for me and Tim, we both use it. Okay?”
“I understand.”
“Okay, the number is 1-800-402…,” Richard said, and gave him the number and soon hung up the phone and smiled, not having any idea that he had just hung himself.
Considering all the years Richard had spent on the street, how tight-lipped he’d always been, it was amazing that he talked so openly to Polifrone. He was figuring to rip off Polifrone and kill him. What difference did it make what he said? In his mind he was just further setting up Polifrone and these IRA people to rip them off. The first order of business, thought Richard, was to get Dominick the hit kit—a .22 with a silencer. No problem.
In reality, Richard had just handed the task force a golden opportunity to hang him high and watch him slowly swing.
51
Hit Kit
Dominick Polifrone couldn’t believe that Richard had actually admitted to killing people. Not only that, but using a cyanide mist to do people in. He immediately called Bob Carroll and ran down what he had, and was now hurrying over to the attorney general’s fortresslike offices in Fairfield. Every word of the conversation had been taped, and Polifrone had a copy of the tape in his pocket. The agent had, he knew, hit pay dirt. As he made his way along Route 23 in his big-ass black Lincoln, his beeper sounded. It was Kuklinski. Polifrone was reluctant to call him right back. But Kuklinski was on the hook now, and Dominick didn’t want to give him any slack, a chance to get away, break the line. No, he’d call Kuklinski right back. He spotted a pay phone in front of a restaurant, pulled over, and phoned Richard.
Again, Richard asked if he was at a pay phone.
“Yeah, I’m cool,” the wily agent said, and Richard went on to explain that he had the hit kit.
Richard had had it all along; he had a half dozen of them, kept them in a suitcase at Barbara’s mother’s house. He told Polifrone he could let him have it for eleven hundred, but that was a special “sample price.” Richard again suggested they meet at the Vince Lombardi stop. Dominick agreed. What the hell, it was out in the open, would be an easy place to set up surveillance and a backup team. But he stalled the meeting; they needed time, he knew, to properly set everything up. Richard said he’d bring the hit kit. The meeting was set for the following week. Dominick got back into his black Lincoln and drove on to the attorney general’s building in Fairfield. When he got there Bob Carroll, Pat Kane, Ron Donahue, and Pat Smith were all anxiously waiting to hear the tape. They sat around the same conference room, the eight-by-ten of Richard still on the wall, and, astounded, listened to Kuklinski incriminate, indeed, hang himself. When it was over they all shook hands, gave Dominick high fives.
“Dominick,” Bob Carroll said, “you are the best! Smooth like melted butter. We have him—we have him by the nuts,” he said, a big smile lighting up his full face. Pat Kane hugged Dominick.
“Great job, Dom. Great job,” he said, feeling an elation he’d never known before.
Smiling and proud, Dominick knew he’d done a hell of a job. It had been a long, bumpy road, but the end, he was sure, was in sight. They now talked about setting up a comprehensive surveillance of the meeting at the Lombardi service station.
Even Richard’s daughters, Chris and Merrick, noticed the change that had come over their father. He barely talked. He walked around the house as if he were in a daze. Neither of them had ever seen him like this. Yes, he’d always been moody, had highs and lows, but he’d never been this quiet and introspective for days on end like this. Chris dismissed it as another of her father’s quirks; he was filled with them. But Merrick was concerned. She felt a true change had come over her father—not a good one—and she was worried. Merrick tried to talk with him, get him to go feed the ducks with her, but he wasn’t interested. That alone was reason for concern. Merrick had grown into a very attractive woman with dark hair and large almond-shaped eyes the color of warmed honey. She’d gotten a good job at the Allstate Insurance Company, been promoted and given a raise; she had a new boyfriend, Mark, and was in love with him, and marriage had been discussed though not yet formalized; she was happy, except for the fact that her dad was acting�
��“weird,” as she recently put it.
Merrick, like everyone else in the house, heard the strange clicks on the phone, but didn’t think much about them. Barbara, on the other hand, suspected they were being tapped, but didn’t give much thought to that. If, she believed, her husband was doing anything illegal, it had to do with knockoff copies of name brands. She still had no idea to whom she was married. Richard had told her about Kane and Volkman’s visit, but hadn’t said anything about their questioning him regarding five murders they suspected him of committing.
The next meeting between Richard and Agent Polifrone happened on October 2, the following week at the Vince Lombardi rest stop. It was eight miles as the crow flies from the George Washington Bridge, had a half dozen fast-food restaurants, restrooms, a gas station; on the left was a grassy area with some tables and benches where people could gobble down fast food. This was a transient place. Those who stopped here did so for a little while and quickly moved on. Richard had suggested this place because it was open and easy to get to, easy to spot a trap. The Ice Man task force had ample time to set up a proper surveillance and backup. Ron Donahue, Paul Smith, and Bob Carroll were all there, as were several other teams, both men and women, sitting in different unmarked cars, heavily armed. Kuklinski was dangerous in the extreme, they knew—cunning and unpredictable.
Agent Polifrone arrived on time, 2:00 P.M. He was armed, wearing a tiny Kel transmitter and a small Nagra tape recorder secreted at the nape of his neck. He sported a baggy black leather jacket to conceal the tape recorder. It was essential that whatever was said was accurately recorded. With the help of an AID radio receiver all the teams would have—and be able to record—what was said. This was a momentous meeting, they all knew; if Polifrone did his job well, got Richard to talk openly, they would use his own words to nail him.
