Philip Carlo - The Ice Man

Richard did, in fact, have plans for this Dominick Provanzano, and those plans were to set up an arms sale, take what money he had, kill him, and get rid of his body. He was going to have John Spasudo help him play Dominick, take the order for all the “heavy steel” he said he wanted, but instead of delivering guns he was going to shoot Dominick in the head; and he was going to kill Spasudo at the same time. It was still eating away at Richard that Spasudo had brought people to his home, and he hadn’t forgotten the young girl in Spasudo’s bed. He would not just kill Spasudo, but he’d feed him to the rats. Yes, that was better. Spasudo would die the death of a thousand bites, as Richard had come to think of it, amused by his creativity. After he’d gotten the poison from Dominick, he’d get rid of both of them at the same time and keep all the money. All neat, all tidy.

Barbara was right. A very real change had come over Richard. People coming to his home upset him to the point of perpetual distraction. He blamed himself. He was getting sloppy, losing his edge. Married life, family life, he was thinking, had taken a toll on him, had softened him, made him less diligent… aware. He actually began to think of retiring. Getting away from the life. He’d been reckless in many ways, but had always been lucky. His luck, he was thinking, was apparently running out. He resolved to start saving money, to start putting all the money he was earning in a safe place. He’d stop gambling, stop taking unnecessary chances. He knew that if he didn’t become more cautious, he was destined for a bad end. Once this thorn in his side, this Pat Kane, was dead and buried, he’d be able to get on with his plans—save a lot of money and get the hell away from crime; from killing people for both profit and for personal gratification.

What Richard dreaded more than anything, what haunted him now, was the thought of his being uncovered and the shame and embarrassment his family would surely have to suffer and endure. They had nothing to do with any of his many crimes, all the pain and suffering he wrought; they were truly innocent. Yet, he knew, they’d suffer greatly, perhaps irreversibly, if he was ever found out, discovered, exposed. Just the thought of that gave him a splitting headache, made him reel.

If it ever came down to the police trying to arrest him, he vowed he’d go out in a blaze of glory. He’d never let them take him alive. He’d shoot as many of them as he could. They’d have to kill him. With him dead, he figured, they could never conclusively prove anything. What he’d done would be buried with his body, and the incentive for them to prove something would be mitigated, he was sure, with his demise.

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?”