The Ice Man: Confessions of a Mafia Contract Killer

by Philip Carlo

  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.

  Now Kuklinski showed Dominick how to put on the silencer. He handled the gun with knowing familiarity. They were off near a bank of telephones. Richard used the open trunk of his car to block anyone from seeing what he was doing. Polifrone gave him the eleven hundred dollars, which had been provided by the state of New Jersey. This is what was recorded:

  “Listen, Rich. Remember you were telling me about how you use cyanide?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well I got this fucking rich Jewish kid I been supplying with coke. He wants me to get him two kilos now, which I can do, but the kid’s a real fucking pain in my balls, you know? So what I’m asking is, you think it’s possible we can dope up the coke with cyanide?”

  “Definitely.”

  “What I was figuring, we can make a quick score. Do the kid and go halfsies on the bread he brings for the two keys.”

  “Does he always come alone?”

  “Yeah, he always comes alone.”

  “And he brings cash?”

  “The kid’s rich from his old man. He’s rolling in it. Money’s not the problem. He’s the problem. I can’t stand the little fuck anymore.”

  “All right. Just tell me when. Dom, you understand that the price of these pieces goes up after this one, right? It’s eleven for this one, but it’ll be fifteen apiece, even in quantity.”

  “Without the nose?” (A “nose” is a silencer.)

  “No, with the nose. The same as you got here, except it’ll be fifteen hundred, not eleven.”

  “What caliber?”

  “I didn’t even ask. Probably .22.”

  “Hey, what the fuck do I care? It’s the Irish broad’s money, not mine. I don’t give a fuck. Personally I could give two shits about their cause over there. I’m gonna give you your price today. Whatever it is tomorrow is her problem.”

  “Whatever, I’m just telling you, Dom. And as for that other guy, that sounds very interesting, fuck it, I’ll hit a Jew in a minute. Who the fuck cares?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not only that, you say we can make a nice buck off this.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you, Rich. You know what we can do? I don’t know if you wanna do this, but I can bring the kid here someday. I’ll meet him here for coffee, and you can come and take a look at him if you want.”

  “No problem. Tell him you’ll meet him over by the phones, and I’ll park over there so I can see what he looks like.”

  “Good, good. Only thing is, Rich, I don’t want him whacked. His old man’s got money up the ass. He’ll hire private investigators and all kinds of shit. That’s why it’s gotta look like an OD. You know what I’m saying?”

  “No problem. I can do it, but you gotta get me the cyanide. I’ll make it up and hit him in the face with it. I can make the—you know, then just one hit, and that’s it. He goes to sleep.”

  “Or we put it in the coke. I don’t give a shit really, just as long as he’s gone and it looks like an overdose.”

  “My friend, there’s more than one way to do it. You don’t want him shot, we can do it another way. There’s millions of ways.”

  “An OD, that’s what I want.”

  “Well, we can give him some pure shit and make him really OD.”

  “Whatever. I gotta run now, but we’ll talk about this some more later. All right, Big Guy?”

  “You got it. See you later.”

  Richard and Polifrone walked in different directions. Richard got back into his car and drove out of the rest stop. Carroll was overjoyed. They now clearly had Kuklinski for conspiracy to commit murder. The list of charges, as he was hoping, was lengthening, and because of how Kuklinski obviously trusted Polifrone, Bob Carroll was thinking they could take this even further, build and fortify the case against Kuklinski they already had. Carroll was thinking of using Paul Smith, sitting next to him now, as the rich Jewish kid looking to buy cocaine. Carroll could’ve had Richard arrested on the spot, but he wanted more. He wanted to be sure that when they arrested Richard, they had an airtight case against him, that he would die in jail, either of old age or by execution—preferably the latter.

  As the Ice Man task force planned and plotted its next move, Richard left for Zurich again, and again they had no idea he’d gone anywhere. Had Richard known what was going on, how Solimene had set him up, who Polifrone truly was, he would have stayed in Zurich. He still believed Polifrone would buy a huge load of armaments and help set up this rich Jewish kid. He was not yet suspicious. Polifrone was a means to an end—more money, and cyanide. After that he was dead.

  Remi and Richard met in a glass-encased café in the center of town, and still again Richard heard how another man in this “gang” was trying to shake down the Asian bank official.

  Remi said, “Now, you know, he’s really scared. He’s talking about quitting and going back to Japan, and then we are lost. We must stop that. You have to do your magic thing again. I know you know the right people.”

  “I
am the right people,” Richard said, his voice low and deadly serious, a slight smile on his high-cheekboned, Slavic face.

  Remi blanched. “You…I don’t believe it.”

  “Isn’t any big deal,” Richard said.

  Remi’s eyes widened. He blinked rapidly. He didn’t know how to handle this…revelation. “My goodness,” he said.

  “Okay, listen. Tell the bank official to relax; tell him we’ll take care of everything. What I’m concerned with is more of this gang popping up. You have to find out how many people know about him—and who they are. The right thing to do would be to get rid of all of them at one time.”

  “Yes, yes, of course…you…you can do such a thing?” Remi asked, incredulous.

  Richard smiled. He was amused. “Of course I can, no problem, my friend. Do you think you can get me a handgun?” Richard asked, and took a bite out of a sugar-powdered almond croissant.

  “Yes,” Remi said.

  “Okay, you get me the gun, show me where this gang is, and I’ll do the rest,” Richard said.

  “Really?” Remi asked, looking at Richard now in a completely different way, with shocked awe. He knew now Richard had killed the first two members of the gang. “You’re, I think, a very rare man, you know.”

  “There aren’t too many people like me around,” Richard said.

  “My goodness, no,” Remi said.

  “Tell the bank guy to get all the members of the gang in one place. That we will take care of this.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sure as shit.”

  “I see,” Remi said. “Okay.”

  Because Richard was in Zurich, the phone taps on his phone were temporarily useless; Polifrone beeped Richard several times, left messages that went unanswered. Perplexed, the Ice Man task force scratched its collective head.

  Remi secured a Walther P .38 for Richard with a full clip and a box of bullets. This was a gun Richard knew well. Now, armed, Richard had Remi rent a van, and from it they watched the Asian bank official meet with two men in a café in town.

  The bank official told the two men that he would work with them again, provide them with new checks, but that it would take a week or so. He repeatedly assured them that he would continue doing business with them. After the meeting, Remi and Richard trailed the two men to the same house visited by the man Richard had killed with the cyanide spray. This was a quiet residential street, not good for what Richard had in mind—shooting them in the head. But he’d make it work. Richard now told Remi to leave; he would do this alone. Gladly, Remi got out of the van and hurried away, not looking back as he went. Richard pulled the van right up in front of the house, thinking about the best way to do this.

  If he fired the gun the cops would be summoned. He had with him a hunting knife, and he decided to use it. He stepped from the van and boldly walked right up to their door, knocked. One of the men opened it, and with lightning speed Richard stuck the automatic in his face, told him to be quiet, and pushed his way in, quickly, like a tango dancer. He made both men lie on the floor. He cut the lamp cords and used the wire to bind their hands tightly behind their backs. He then stuck socks into their mouths, and killed one, then the other, by pushing the knife, in an upward angle, into the backs of their heads. Concerned that the double murder might in some way reflect on the bank officer, Richard decided to get rid of the bodies. To do this, he took the blankets off two beds in the apartment, rolled each of the bodies in a blanket, picked up one and placed it in the back of the van, made sure he wasn’t being observed, returned, hoisted the second one over his massive shoulder, put him in the van, and slowly pulled away. People who sped drew attention. When he was transporting bodies, Richard never hurried.

  As Richard made his way out of town, he passed a hardware shop with ladders and colorful wheelbarrows out front; he turned around, went back, and bought a long-handled copper-headed spade, then continued on. He managed to get on a highway, drove on it for half an hour, pulled off, and went looking for a suitable place to get rid of the bodies, just as he had done when he was a boy back in Jersey City: déjà vu all over again. He hadn’t counted on any of this and didn’t like it, but it had to be done, so he was doing it. However, he would demand a larger share of the money now, and get it. It didn’t take Richard long to find a secluded area in the woods, dig a hole, quickly dump the two men in it, and cover it with dirt, leaves, and branches. He got back in the van and returned to Zurich, called Remi, and told him all was “taken care of.” He also told him to come get the van and return it. That done, Richard took a shower, met Remi, and returned the van—after making sure there was no blood inside it—and they went for dinner in a five-star French restaurant.

  Remi was impressed. He couldn’t believe any one man could be so…efficient at making people—problems—disappear. He looked at Richard now with a newfound respect. Richard told him he wanted “a larger slice of the pie.”

  “Of course, of course, you deserve it!” Remi said. “Absolutely!”

  Two days later Richard returned to New Jersey, went back down to Georgia, deposited the latest check, and returned to Dumont. The task force was pleased to hear him talking on the phone again. Polifrone called him, beeped him, and Richard finally got back to Polifrone on October 8. He called him from a diner. Richard was by now expecting Polifrone to have the cyanide, and he asked him about it right off the bat. Again, however, Polifrone stalled him. Richard asked him about the IRA woman; Polifrone said she was pleased, that he was waiting to hear from her.

  “How about this Jewish kid?” Richard asked.

  “He moves around a lot, travels a lot. I should be hearing from him soon. You’ll be around?”

  “I’ll be around. He who hesitates is lost, my friend,” Richard said.

  “You are right about that.”

  “Gotta move while the iron is hot,” Richard said.

  “I hear you,” Polifrone said. “I’ll let you know when the time is right.”

  They hung up. Richard was beginning to think Polifrone was, in a word, bullshit. If he had what he said he had, could get, it would be on the table by now. Polifrone was, Richard decided, just another bigmouthed wannabe braggart. He’d met this kind of man all his life. Nothing new. People who said they had all these contacts, knew all these people, turned out to be as empty as a used paper bag.

  Polifrone was thinking Richard was cold and distant, that maybe he had been stringing Kuklinski along for too long. He was right. He knew if he didn’t deliver something soon, Kuklinski would just move on—stop returning his calls altogether.

  Which, apparently, is exactly what happened.

  Polifrone called, left messages, beeped Richard, without any response. One time “Tim” (Spasudo) called him back, but that didn’t accomplish anything one way or the other; the task force knew Spasudo was just a tool, a shill, for Richard. The situation was becoming untenable. Bob Carroll talked about bringing in Kuklinski on what they had so far, but in the end it was decided they needed more if they really wanted to put Kuklinski away for good. One of the guys taped a mug shot of Richard onto a new bottle of Jack Daniel’s, which they sparingly drank from during late-night brainstorming sessions. It became a ritual. When they truly nailed Kuklinski, Carroll promised, there would be bottles of good champagne.

  Finally, toward the end of October, Richard did call Agent Polifrone back. He said he’d been busy, that he had misplaced Polifrone’s number. He didn’t seem interested anymore. He was, Polifrone knew, ready to spit the hook. Polifrone told Richard the rich Jewish kid was back—asking for product, anxious for it—and the IRA broad wanted to place an order…a big one, he said.

  Reluctantly, Richard agreed to meet Polifrone again, and a time was set for October 26, again at the Vince Lombardi rest stop, this time inside the Roy Rogers there. There was, as before, enough time for the task force to set up proper surveillance and backup for Polifrone. Jersey plainclothes detectives stationed themselves in and around the Roy Rogers. Rough-
and-ready Ron Donahue was sitting inside the Roy Rogers, nursing his second coffee. It was still lunchtime and crowded. The weather had grown much colder. The sky was low and gray and mean, as if a storm were about to strike. Polifrone was on edge. He well knew he’d lost the momentum he’d had with Richard. Too much time had gone by, and he hadn’t delivered anything but promises. Not good. For all he knew, Richard was in fact onto him and was planning to kill him. Polifrone made sure he had quick and easy access to his heat. He was coiled like a rattlesnake about to strike, ready for action, whatever it was.

  Polifrone took solace in the presence of Ron Donahue. If Kuklinski had to be subdued, put down, killed, Ron Donahue was the man to do it, Polifrone knew. His toughness was legendary in police circles. There was tension, palpable and real, in the chilled fall air.

  Richard showed up on time, at 2:00 P.M. sharp, driving a red Olds, Barbara’s car. He had on sunglasses, which Polifrone didn’t like because you couldn’t see his eyes.

  “Hey, Dom, what’s new?” Richard greeted the agent, seemingly aloof, not at all friendly. Polifrone said he was hungry.

  “Would you like something, Rich?” he offered, gesturing toward the restaurant.

  “Nothing for me…just coffee,” Richard said. Polifrone bought two coffees, fries, and a burger for himself. They took seats. As the agent ate he asked Richard about more hit kits, how many could he get, and when he could get them.

  “You can,” Richard said, “get all you want, but they are down in Delaware. I’m not bringing them across the state line.” So there it was—Richard was backing off, clearly not being as congenial as before.

  “Sure, I’ll get them, no problem. Just tell me where, okay? Can I get ten?”

  “You can get all you want, my friend,” Richard said, the signal word—“friend”—that Polifrone’s days were numbered. All along Polifrone had been talking about a big buy, lots of money; now just ten hit kits. He’s full of shit, Richard thought. Bullshit.