Philip Carlo - The Ice Man

“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.

This year Thanksgiving in the Kuklinski home was quiet and somber. Richard barely talked, barely ate. He had grown noticeably pale. He was there at the head of the table but seemed to be somewhere else. No one could cheer him up, not even Merrick. A pall hung over the table. After the meal, he went up to his office, sat at his desk, and stared at Kane’s card. He had left Zurich in such a hurry, he hadn’t even gotten the check. This one was supposed to be for seven hundred thousand dollars.

He sat there fantasizing about killing Kane, cutting him up, shooting him, torturing him, hanging him, feeding him to rats. But those things were all luxuries he knew didn’t have. The only way to murder Kane and get away with it clean was with cyanide—a quick spray in his face as he was changing his tire. Hey, buddy, pssst —all over. Case closed. It would look like a natural death; he could get away with it.

Once Kane was gone, he reasoned, the case would fold on itself. No matter what Barbara Deppner and Percy House had said, it wasn’t enough to arrest him, Richard believed (correctly), or he would already have been arrested.

Richard called Kane and told him to stop coming around his home, that he had no right to do that, that if he wanted to talk with him he should let him know and he’d come over to the barracks with his attorney. Richard made it a point to be pleasant, not wanting to alarm Kane in any way. Kane said he understood and would do as Richard asked. He too was polite.

“Thank you,” Richard said, and hung up.

Kane…

Kane had to go! But he had to get cyanide to pull that off…. His mind went back to Polifrone. As much as Richard believed Polifrone was a bunch of hot air, full of shit, maybe he really could get his hands on cyanide. If you knew the right person, it wasn’t actually that hard. Richard picked up the phone and beeped Polifrone.

Pleased, Polifrone called him back within the hour, and still another meeting was arranged at the Vince Lombardi Service Area. Richard also contacted Solimene and asked him if he knew where he could get some poison, “preferably cyanide,” he said.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Solimene said.

December 6, a Saturday, was another cold gray day. The meeting was scheduled for 10:00 A.M. Because it was a Saturday morning, the rest stop was more crowded than usual. Polifrone was waiting for Richard at the bank of telephones, a prearranged spot. On time, Richard pulled up in his gleaming white Cadillac and stepped from the car wearing a blue silk shirt, a suit and tie, and a wool overcoat with a high collar. He looked sharp. Polifrone greeted him warmly. Bob Carroll and other task force members were watching from strategic locations around the rest stop. Carroll had carefully prepped Polifrone on what to say to get Richard to incriminate himself further. The first thing Polifrone did, as though he were Richard’s friend, was tell him that Kane and Volkman had stopped him coming out of the store and asked him a whole bunch of questions about Richard Kuklinski.

“What did you say?” Richard asked.

“Nothing. I told him I don’t know a fuckin’ thing about any fuckin’ body. A guy named Pat…”

“Kane.” Richard spit out the word. “He’s been up my ass since 1980. He don’t know shit. He’s got a couple of rats, but no one will believe their bullshit. If he had anything he’d have booked me already,” he said, and then he went on to describe how he’d gotten rid of Smith and Deppner, and how Percy House was a “pointer” (a rat).

Polifrone was both surprised and delighted, and wondered why Kuklinski was being so forthcoming. Either Kuklinski had a really big mouth (not likely), or he was planning to kill him. He believed it was the latter. Polifrone explained that he had gotten the cyanide and had called him a half dozen times to tell him.

“Great,” Richard said. “I could really use it now.”

“Yeah, well,” Polifrone said, “I brought it back to the guys I got it from. I didn’t wanna fuckin’ be driving around with that shit. But I can get it for ya.”

Richard was obviously pleased; he actually smiled. It was a chilling smile to see.

Now Polifrone again brought up the rich Jewish kid looking for coke. Richard said he was still interested; he’d bring his van, and they’d get the kid in the van, take his money, and kill him. Simple. He talked about murder, Polifrone noted, as if he were discussing the weather.

Ice Man was the perfect nickname for him, Polifrone was thinking.

If, Richard said, they wanted to make the body “disappear,” they could throw the corpse down some abandoned mine shafts he knew about. “They are so deep,” he said, “you don’t even hear them bounce.”

Ice-fuckin’-Man indeed, Polifrone thought. “Good, sounds good. What about his car? Should we leave it or get rid of it?” the agent asked.

“Either or. We could sell it for parts. I know a place—bam, bam, they cut it up and sell it for parts the same day.”

Polifrone asked questions about being able to fool the coroner if, in fact, they poisoned the rich kid and left him in his car, and incredibly, Richard said the ME would be fooled and went on to tell Polifrone how he had once frozen a victim, which had confused the ME. Polifrone knew he was talking about Louis Masgay. Bingo. Polifrone prayed the tape was recording all this; it was far more than they had ever hoped for.

Richard went on to describe, again, the best ways to administer the cyanide, said that putting it in food was much better, easier, and safer to administer. He talked too about retiring, getting out of “this dirty business.” He even said he had set some money aside, “out of the country,” he volunteered.

Why Richard was telling Polifrone all this was strange indeed… perplexing. Even if he was planning to kill him eventually, it didn’t make sense. He barely knew Polifrone, who now wanted to shake Richard’s hand and thank him for being so helpful. After an hour of Richard digging his own grave, the meeting ended. The two men agreed to meet again soon. Polifrone promised Richard the cyanide and said that he’d call him when he had the rich Jewish kid set up and the kid had the money. They shook hands. Richard got back into his shiny white Caddie and took off. Polifrone soon checked the tape. It had been working.