by Philip Carlo
Polifrone again pitched Richard the line about the rich Jewish kid, saying how he wanted two, maybe even three kilos of coke; and again he peppered Richard with questions about how the cyanide works, and again, Richard took the bait and went on to describe how once someone is sprayed in the face it’s all over:
“I’ve used it,” he said. “I sprayed guys and they were dead within minutes.”
“Really?” Polifrone said, wide-eyed. “Wow.”
“Really.”
“Okay, so when we take off the kid, you’ll do him with this, but the body, we gotta get rid of the body,” Polifrone further baited Richard.
“Why get rid of it?” Richard said, gobbling up the bait, his every word being immortalized. “Just leave him there. It’ll look like he’s sleeping…that he died a natural death. All neat and tidy.”
“Okay, sounds perfect. Let’s do it,” Polifrone said, and explained that he’d get the rich Jewish kid to a meeting at the rest stop, and Richard should come and see him and check him out. Richard said he’d be available, to let him know when.
Richard, still oblivious of the fact that Polifrone might be a cop, planned to kill “the Jewish kid” and Polifrone at the same time and take all the money. He had grown to really dislike Polifrone and looked forward to killing him—if there really was a Jewish kid with bucks looking to score. He had his doubts. They made plans to talk again soon, and Richard left.
On October 30 Polifrone spoke to Richard and told him he’d be with the coke buyer at the Lombardi stop at ten o’clock the following morning. Richard said he’d be there.
October 31 was also a particularly cold, gray day, more like mid-February. A frigid wind whipped across the Lombardi rest stop. At 10:00 A.M., Polifrone and Detective Paul Smith, posing as the Jewish rich kid, were sitting at an outdoor table in the grassy area. It was so cold their breath fogged. Teams of detectives surrounded the rest stop. Polifrone feigned giving Detective Smith a bag of coke. The detective feigned looking into it. They didn’t know if Richard was there, watching from afar or not.
This was, in fact, all kinds of ridiculous. Seeing this superficial ruse wouldn’t sway Richard one way or the other. Still, Bob Carroll and Polifrone felt it was worth a try. According to all the surveillance teams, however, Richard was nowhere near them. Finally, after being out in the cold a half an hour, Polifrone and Smith went in different directions, not knowing if Richard had seen them or not.
Richard wasn’t even in Jersey that day. He had a murder contract to fill in South Carolina. Another gambler had borrowed money from the wrong people and refused to pay, threatening to call the police. Richard was dispatched and killed the man as he came home with groceries, shot him dead with a .22 equipped with a silencer as he stepped out of his car. He returned to Dumont and took Barbara shopping. Barbara was already talking about the Christmas holidays, the type of tree she wanted this year, gifts she’d buy, who would get what, even her plans for the window decorations. Silently, Richard listened; he had, she knew, never become excited by the holidays, but he was even more removed from what she was saying now. Richard had changed. What, she wondered, could it be? She asked him.
“Nothing,” he said.
“You feeling okay?”
“I’m fine, just thinking,” he said.
“What about?” she pressed.
“Business,” he said with finality, ending the conversation.
That evening the family had a nice dinner, veal Milanese and mashed potatoes, one of Richard’s favorites, but Richard was silent and withdrawn, just chewed his food and stared at something only he saw. After dinner Merrick asked if he’d like to go feed the ducks.
“No, not now,” he said, and went and watched a game show, thinking about doing away with Pat Kane, thinking about money—making enough money to get out of the life, to go straight. Money was the key. It always had been. He was leaving the following day for Zurich, and he planned to press Remi to get checks more frequently. He looked forward to being away. He didn’t want to be around people, even his own family, now. He wanted to be alone.
The following day, Richard got into his Camaro, drove to the airport unobserved, and boarded a plane for Zurich. One of the first things Richard asked Remi when he saw him was if he knew anyone that could get cyanide.
Again the task force stopped hearing Richard on the phone. Days went by. They held a meeting on the evening of November 13. By now Dominick hadn’t heard from Richard for two weeks.
Polifrone wanted to wait, to not chase Richard. He said that Kuklinski was cunning, that he was staying away to get the mark off balance. Deputy Chief Buccino had concerns: What if Kuklinski killed again? What if he secured cyanide somewhere else? What if it became public knowledge that they could have arrested him but didn’t and he killed someone? “We cannot leave this guy on the street much longer!” he said.
He had a valid point. Ron Donahue, however, agreed with Polifrone: they had to be patient, he said, the first rule of a good hunter. “This guy is big game, and that’s how we have to work him, play him,” he said.
Like this it went back and forth, as task force members took discreet shots from the Jack Daniel’s bottle with Richard’s picture on it.
They discussed sending Pat Kane and Volkman to Kuklinski’s house again “to rattle his cage.” That had seemed to work before.
In the end, Bob Carroll decided to side with Polifrone and give it some more time. The last thing he wanted to do was move prematurely. The case had to be “airtight,” carefully orchestrated. They would have one shot, and it had to be a bull’s-eye.
“Let’s send Kane to go see him again, see what happens,” he said. “It worked last time.”
Two days before Thanksgiving, November 22, 1986, Richard was still in Europe, waiting for the largest check he’d gotten to date. Barbara went shopping for all the fixings of a Thanksgiving feast. Her car was filled with bags of groceries when she pulled into the drive of her Dumont home. Barbara’s mother used to serve lasagna before the turkey, but everyone would fill up on the pasta and not eat the turkey, so Barbara stopped making lasagna.
Daughter Chris was now seeing a guy named Matt. He was the only man she had loved, and being intimate with him was “special,” not any kind of rebellion, as in years past. Daughter Merrick was going to marry Mark, her new boyfriend. Barbara liked him and was pleased Merrick had found “a nice boy,” as she thought of him. When Barbara pulled up in front of the house that day, Matt came out to help bring the packages inside. He was a strapping, good-looking man, always polite. Barbara liked him too. Richard did also. As Matt and Chris and Barbara were bringing all the bags of food into the house, seemingly out of nowhere, Detectives Pat Kane and Ernest Volkman appeared, walked up the driveway.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Kuklinski,” Kane said, “I’m Detective Kane and this is Detective Volkman.” Both of them showed their shiny gold badges.
“We are looking for your husband,” Volkman said. They knew Richard wasn’t there. His car was gone. They were doing this for one reason: to rattle Richard, to cause him to react, to upset him, his family life. The task force knew Richard loved Barbara, was exceedingly protective of her and his family. That was obvious by the phone calls he had with her that they had eavesdropped on.
Startled, Barbara regarded them with surprise, which quickly turned to disdain. “Is something the matter?” she asked, not pleased by this sudden, unexpected presence. Who the hell did they think they were?
“We need to talk with him,” Kane said.
“What about?” she asked.
“He home?” Volkman asked, curt and unfriendly…rude, she thought.
Barbara was still very much her own woman, still had a razor-sharp tongue, a somewhat supercilious attitude.
“You know where he is?” Kane asked.
“No,” she said.
“Can you get in touch with him?” Kane said.
“I just said I don’t know where he is—what’s this about?” she deman
ded, not asked.
“You have a number where you can reach him?” Volkman put in.
“I don’t. I don’t know where he is, don’t you hear?” she asked.
Now Matt came out of the house. Chris, a worried look about her face, stood at the doorway holding the family dog, Shaba, by the collar. Shaba, a large Irish wolfhound, was barking at the two detectives.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Chris called.
The two detectives moved toward Matt. “Are you Richard Kuklinski?” Volkman asked.
“No,” he said.
“What’s your name? What are you doing here?” Volkman asked.
Really annoyed now, Barbara put herself between Matt and the two detectives. “None of your business!” she said. “Where do you two get off? What’s this about?” she again demanded.
Kane said, “We need to talk to your husband about a couple of murders.”
“What?” she said. “Murders?”
“Murders we think he committed,” Kane added.
Barbara couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. She felt as if she’d been slapped with a red-hot hand. “You have a warrant to be here on my property?” she asked. “No.”
“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.
We got him by the balls, he thought, and soon he handed the Nagra tape recorder to Detective Paul Smith.
PART V
HOMICIDE SUPERSTAR
52
The Quiet Before the Storm
Christmas was in the air. Barbara Kuklinski had her shopping list prepared, was buying and wrapping gifts. Most homes on the Kuklinski block had Christmas decorations up already. Barbara was feeling a little under the weather, but the prospect of Christmas cheered and motivated her.
Richard was talking to Remi several times a day. He was most often using stolen phone cards to make these calls. He believed, correctly, that his phones were tapped—thanks to Kane—and was careful about what he said. Remi kept saying that another check was “forthcoming.” Richard said he’d leave when Remi had it, that he didn’t want to sit around in Zurich waiting for it just right now. Richard made several trips to Jersey City and Hoboken, his old stomping grounds, trying to find someone who had access to cyanide; he wasn’t having much luck. He now thought seriously about just making Kane disappear, but that, he decided, would be worse than killing him because the cops wouldn’t rest until they knew what had happened to him. He thought too about giving Kane a flat, killing him with a blow to the head, then putting his head under the wheel and kicking the jack out of place, crushing his head and making it impossible to discern that a blow to the head had done him in. But he knew that to do such a thing he would need more privacy than the bar parking lot would afford.