Philip Carlo - The Ice Man

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.

So far, most of what they had, other than the first tape, was circumstantial. Bob Carroll was hoping that would change today. Meanwhile, Richard was late.

After lunch that day Richard was busy on the phones, talking with John Spasudo and Remi. More problems had come up because of the Zurich bank official’s former associates, and Remi was concerned. All these “business calls,” Richard made from phone booths all over Dumont. The calls made Richard late for his meeting with Polifrone. He beeped Polifrone a half hour after he was supposed to be there, and Dominick called him right back; Richard apologized, said he was on the way, and hurried from his home, carrying a bag containing the hit kit. Richard was planning to use the .22 and silencer; clearly an assassin’s weapon, to bait Polifrone further into a bigger sale of such guns. Instead of delivering the weapons, however, he was going to deliver death.

As Richard drove to the Vince Lombardi stop, he thought about feeding Spasudo to the rats. Oh, how he’d enjoy that! He was still intent upon killing Pat Kane, but he needed cyanide to pull that off properly, to make it appear like a heart attack; that was the key, and he still hoped Polifrone could get him the cyanide. If it appeared like a hit, the police would, he was sure, be on him like white on rice.

Richard arrived at the Lombardi service area at nearly 3:00 P.M., unaware of the law-enforcement encampment he was entering. This was very much unlike him. He normally came early to such meetings, hid in a van, and made sure all was clear, using binoculars and his well-honed sixth sense. The fact that he planned to murder Polifrone, he now says, made him drop his guard: he was walking straight to the gallow steps of his own volition. It was a chilly gray day. A cold wind blew across the flat french-fry-smelling expanse around the rest stop. The sounds of cars and trucks whizzing by was constant, punctuated by fleeting truck and car horns. The many planes landing and taking off from nearby Newark Airport passed low overhead, adding to the cacophony of fast-moving sounds. Polifrone was ready. He knew what he had to say and how to say it. After greetings, Richard again apologized about being late. He said he had the hit kit with him, opened the trunk, and showed it to Polifrone. “This is,” he said, “a .22 long barrel, military capacity with a screw-off front. You screw the suppressor on.” He handed it to Polifrone and told him he could let him have it for eleven hundred dollars, but the price would have to be fifteen hundred for a large load; this was, he said, only to get the deal moving. “A sample price.”

Bob Carroll was pleased: they could now arrest Richard and charge him with the sale of this gun and silencer. The silencer was a major felony. But Carroll wanted more, had to have more. His intention was to make sure Richard got serious time, spent the rest of his life behind bars or, better yet, got a death sentence. Tensed, he waited to hear Polifrone draw Richard further into his carefully laid trap. As this was happening Pat Kane was waiting back at the attorney general’s bunker, nervously pacing like an expectant father. He couldn’t be seen here. If Richard made him, all was instantly lost, everyone knew.