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Discussion Starter #1
Has anyone seen this documentary?

For those who haven't its an interview with Richard Kuklinski, a former mafia hitman. He talks about different killing he had done and even says what happened to Jimmy Hoffa.
 

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I have seen it, many times. I study serial killers and mafia members for school projects and personal enjoyment!

AWSOME MOVIE......

They call him the Iceman, because he shows no emotion throughout the entire interview, he even laughs at several moments when he talks about the 100+ people he whacked!

Take a look at "For the Sins of My Father" by Roy DeMeo's son, another Gambino hitman (the icemans capo) He killed upwards of 220 people!

Anyone wanting more info on Serial Killers or the Gambino family, just ask. I know quite a Bit!

Dave
 

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Discussion Starter #3
DMcBrideBoston said:
They call him the Iceman, because he shows no emotion throughout the entire interview, he even laughs at several moments when he talks about the 100+ people he whacked!

Dave
Thats what the legend was about, but thats not why police called him that. They called him that because he put bodys in freezers to keep them fresh, it made it harder to establish the time of death. He made the mistake one time of leaving a body in a place where it was found too early. When they opened it up they found ice.
 

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Pooperscooper said:


Thats what the legend was about, but thats not why police called him that. They called him that because he put bodys in freezers to keep them fresh, it made it harder to establish the time of death. He made the mistake one time of leaving a body in a place where it was found too early. When they opened it up they found ice.
That's right, because after the body completely freezes in this case, time of death is virtually impossible to detect. He used this method to keep the police off of his tail. When the bodies were dumped after being frozen and they warmed up, the coroner would be mislead on the approxiamite time of death. The coroner uses a scale of, I believe 2 degrees per hour after death the body tempature drops.

Although he wasn't dubbed the Iceman by police because of his demeanor, he was called the Iceman for this reason during several interviews.

Dave
 

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Discussion Starter #5
He is stone cold though. He said that when he was little he would tie dogs to cars and watch them get dragged down the street and how he would take cats and put them into an oven and watch them stuggle to get out. The guy was cold. "Me and a buddy made a bet about how long it would take a man to die after he was shot in the throat. I said 5min he said less. So I shot the next guy to walk buy. I lost the bet." Thats just sick. The worst has to be when he shot a guy in the forehead with a crossbow. "I wanted to know if it would work, so I asked some guy for directions and when he kneeled down to the car window I shot him" then the reporter said "Did it work" and he goes "It shot the arrow 4in into his head. I think it worked just fine."
 

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That's not that bad.....What about cyanide, that's how he killed the majority of his victims.

Walk by the vic and spill a drink filled with cyanide on his/her skin.....dead, end of story, and it's untraceable unless your tox screen is specifically looking for it, which most do not.

Thats the **** that would scare me, ya never see it coming!

Dave
 

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Well when I was 18 I actually had the great job of Corrections Officer with the Bergen County Sheriff's Dept and let me tell you im 6'5" 300 and this guy scared the **** out of me when I was there, we had a protocol with certain inmates where they were escorted by the S.E.R.T. (Special Emergency Response Team) everywhere they went and he was one of those "special" cases. It was also one hell of a media circus and security nightmare when that guy was in Bergen for his trial and when he had to come back up for appeals and such in court. But ill tell ya what that is definatly one job I really do miss I wish I would have never left lol


Steve
 

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Discussion Starter #10
SanDiegoLXBird said:
So what happened to Jimmy Hoffa?
He doesn't say that its exactly what happened, but he said what he "heard" happened to him. With the smile on his face, you could tell he knew.
 

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I have also seen this documentary about 18 months ago on HBO when it came out. His demeanor throughout the interview clarifies the requirements to kill:you have to have no feeling WHATSOEVER. Extremely captivating interview. Definitely worthwhile.
 

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You can get them on Netflix or Amazon or Blockbuster Online. Ebays got 2 of them now as well.

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B0000687CY/ref=pd_bxgy_text_1/102-5065715-1609701?v=glance&s=dvd&st=*

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B0000C23T4/ref=pd_bxgy_img_2/102-5065715-1609701?v=glance&s=dvd

The Iceman Tapes: Conversations with a Killer

The Iceman - Confessions of a Mafia Hitman

The Iceman: The True Story of a Cold-Blooded Killer (Book)

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0440213312/ref=pd_ecc_rvi_3/102-5065715-1609701

Dave
 

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When I was finally admitted into the bowels of Trenton State Prison in New Jersey’s capital to interview multiple murderer Richard Kuklinski, a.k.a. “the Iceman,” it wasn’t at all what I had expected. My assumption was that it would be like the movies. We’d be separated by a shatter-proof glass barrier. We’d communicate through telephone handsets. There would be guards all around watching our every move. But I couldn’t have been more wrong. Clarice Starling had more protection when she visited Dr. Hannibal “the Cannibal” Lector in The Silence of the Lambs. At least she had bars. And frankly, as a killer, Lector was downright crude compared to the stealth and skullduggery of the Iceman. Lector liked to bite; Kuklinski preferred a cyanide solution administered from a nasal spray bottle. A surprise spritz to the face usually produced a shocked inhalation from the victim, who as a result would die in under a minute. And unless the body was found right away and a savvy medical examiner knew what to look for, the poison would go undetected because cyanide naturally dissipates in the body after two hours. But cyanide was only one of the things I was thinking about on the morning of January 16, 1992, when I arrived for my date with the Iceman.
Richard Kuklinski, police mugshot

The reason for my visit was pretty straightforward. I was writing a book about the Iceman’s crimes and the efforts to catch him, and I wanted to hear his side of the story. I had already talked to the investigators who had pursued him, the undercover agent who wore a wire on him, the chief of New Jersey’s Organized Crime and Racketeering Bureau who led the investigation and later prosecuted the state’s case against him, and the judge who sentenced him. I had even talked to the Iceman’s wife. But Richard Kuklinski had refused my repeated requests to interview him until I was nearly finished with my first draft. I think he changed his mind because his wife put in a good word for me, which carries a lot of weight with the Iceman. You see, Richard Kuklinski, who claims to have killed over 100 people, maintained a normal-as-pie suburban family life in the town of Dumont in Bergen County. To all the world he was just the big guy in the split level down the street, the guy with the wife and three kids in Catholic school. As he told me when we met, “I’m not the Iceman. I’m the nice man.”

But in reality Kuklinski was a lethal scam artist and a freelance hitman for the Mafia. He had experimented with various methods of killing before settling on his favorite, cyanide. “Why be messy?… You do it nice and neat with cyanide,” he said to Dominick Polifrone, the highly decorated Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms agent who went undercover as “Dominick Provenzano,” a Mafia associate from New York City. Polifrone, who is now retired from ATF, wore a concealed tape recorder during his meetings with Kuklinski.

But Kuklinski wasn’t adverse to doing it “messy” if that’s what the customer wanted… or if he decided that was what the victim deserved. Shooting, stabbing, strangling, beating, bombing, and poisoning were all in his repertoire. Disposal of dead bodies was another one of his specialties. He kept one of his victims frozen for over two years to see if he could disguise the time of death. When I met with him, he indicated that he had kept the body in the freezer vault of a Mr. Softee ice cream truck, though the police doubt the veracity of that part of his story. But no matter where the body was stored, when it was found in a park in Rockland County, New York, in September 1983, the corpse seemed relatively fresh. But there was just one problem. Kuklinski had been too diligent in wrapping the body in layer after layer of plastic. When the medical examiner conducted the autopsy, he found that the heart was partially frozen. The body hadn’t thawed completely. This was the murder that earned Richard Kuklinski his nickname, the Iceman.

Unlike more well-known murderers such as Ted Bundy and “Son of Sam” killer David Berkowitz, Richard Kuklinski is not a serial killer. He derived no psycho-sexual thrill from killing, and as far as the police know, he never murdered a woman. Serial killers usually target a specific type of victim—Bundy preferred young brunettes who parted their hair down the middle; Berkowitz hunted young lovers parked in cars. Kuklinski is more complex than that. His victims fell under several categories: men he could lure into bogus business deals that resulted in large cash payments for non-existent goods; criminal associates who threatened his security; contract hits for the mob; and people who just ticked him off.

George Malliband, for example, fell under two victim categories: he had crossed the mob and he had done the one thing that was guaranteed to enrage Kuklinski. Malliband had made the mistake of showing up at Kuklinski’s home uninvited. Kuklinski’s house in Dumont was sacred territory. He didn’t want his family to have anything to do with his business associates. The day Malliband showed up Kuklinski was hosting a family barbecue, and his mother-in-law was the first to notice the 300-pound man walking across the lawn to the rear of the house. Stepping onto Kuklinski’s property was Malliband’s first infraction, but threatening Kuklinski on a later occasion by saying “I know where you live” was strike two. Strike three was falling behind in his loan payments to Roy DeMeo.

DeMeo was a capo in the Gambino crime family. A butcher by trade, DeMeo had a nearly psychopathic temper and a bloodthirsty reputation. The members of his Brooklyn crew were young and vicious, and had a taste for the ghoulish. They did their dirty work in an apartment rented by DeMeo’s cousin, a man nicknamed “Dracula.” DeMeo and his crew would make people “disappear” here. Their routine could vary, but it always involved stabbing the victim’s heart repeatedly to stop the gushing blood, hanging the body over the tub to drain it, carving it up into small manageable pieces, wrapping them tight, then distributing them around the city—a Dumpster here, a garbage can there. DeMeo was the Iceman’s mentor in murder.

Though Kuklinski had committed murders before he met DeMeo—Kuklinski had taken his first life when he was fourteen years old—the mobster refined the Iceman’s method and showed him how to dispose of bodies more effectively. The student became so proficient the teacher commissioned him to do “work” for the Gambino family. George Malliband had borrowed money from DeMeo, but he wasn’t making his payments. DeMeo had learned that Malliband also owed money to several other loan sharks. He was in way over his head. Since Kuklinski had introduced Malliband to DeMeo, the mobster made it clear to Kuklinski that he was responsible for the deadbeat. Mindful of DeMeo’s insane temper and still simmering over Malliband’s threat to disrupt his family life, Kuklinski took it upon himself to rectify the situation. One night while driving Malliband back to New Jersey from Brooklyn, Kuklinski pulled his van over to the side of the road and shot Malliband five times. Kuklinski then drove to a secluded spot in Jersey City and stuffed the body into a fifty-five gallon steel drum. Malliband didn’t quite fit, so Kuklinski severed the tendons in the corpse’s leg to bend it back and force it in. Kuklinski pounded the lid on and pushed the barrel over a cliff into the back lot of a chemical factory. The lid popped off in the fall, and the owner of the factory discovered the body the next morning. That evening Kuklinski returned to Brooklyn and paid off Malliband’s debt out of his own pocket.
Kuklinski half-smiles, as he remembers a particular murder

I knew all about this murder and many more when I entered Trenton State Prison to meet Kuklinski face to face. I had seen horrifying photos of crime scenes and autopsies. I had read the transcripts of his trial. If one could have earned a doctorate in the Iceman, I would be the first to hold such a degree. I thought I knew him backwards and forwards. But I didn’t know everything.
 

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The weather was frigid and blustery the day I went to meet him. A light snow had fallen before dawn, and as I pulled my car into the unpaved parking lot of Trenton State Prison, blowing snow obscured my view of the prison walls. The limited visibility erased the surrounding neighborhood and gave the prison the look of an isolated Siberian compound. I zipped up my coat, pulled on my gloves, and grabbed my briefcase, then left the car and made my way to the prison’s public entrance.

I pushed through the front doors and crossed a large overheated waiting room with rows of molded plastic seats bolted to the concrete floor. The only person there was a middle-aged black woman, quietly sobbing to herself. Two guards were posted at the front desk. I told them who I was and why I was there. After searching my briefcase and patting me down, they sent me upstairs to an office where a secretary presented me with a release form to sign. Basically it stated that I was in the prison by my own choice, and because I was not conducting any sort of official prison business there, if an inmate or inmates took me hostage, no extraordinary means would be taken to save me. The terms of the waiver unsettled me, but at this point I still thought there would be a glass wall between the Iceman and me. I also believed it was essential that I meet him, so I signed it.

A taciturn guard escorted me into the prison proper. In any penitentiary no door opens until the one behind it is locked, and so I was led through a series of corridors where I had to stop and wait for doors to be locked and unlocked. At one point we were left in a short corridor with a glass wall on one side. When the door locked behind me, it was suddenly silent. A grim-faced guard appeared on the other side of the glass and just stared at me for what seemed like a full five minutes. Being somewhat claustrophobic, I didn’t like the experience. I feared that I might panic if I were left there much longer. The silence closed in on me, like a thick padding. Then a deafening metal clang shattered the smothering quiet. It was the sound of the bolt opening on the door ahead. I let out a long breath.
The man to meet, Richard Kuklinski

Once I had made it through this labyrinth of corridors, my poker-faced escort loosened up a bit and explained that Kuklinski and I would be meeting in the “lawyers’ room.” It sounded as if this would be some kind of special privilege. Then I saw the room. There was no glass partition, and no handsets for talking to the inmate. It was just a room with painted cinder block walls and industrial carpeting, a white Formica table, and a few folding chairs. Well, at least there’d be a guard present, I thought.

Not exactly. A guard would be posted outside the room, I was told. The door, which had a single slender window about four inches wide and twenty inches long, locked from the outside. I would be locked in with the Iceman. Alone. The wording of the waiver I’d just signed suddenly took on added meaning.

I stood in the corridor outside the lawyers’ room with my escort, waiting for Kuklinski to be brought down from his cell. New worries were racing through my head. I was sizing up my odds as if he and I were a couple of prizefighters. Kuklinski, I knew, was a large man—six feet four, 270 pounds. I’m pretty big myself, but not that big. He was 56 at the time. I was 39. His wife had told me that he had a bum knee. I figured if it ever got physical, I could stay out of his way until the guards arrived. Unless he had a little spray bottle of cyanide up his sleeve.

But why would he kill a writer? I reasoned with myself.

Because he loves the notoriety, I argued back. HBO had already aired an hour-long documentary about him. Part of him wanted to be known as the baddest mother on the cell block. Another kill inside the prison walls would certainly burnish his reputation. So why not kill the writer?

Then I told myself to stop being ridiculous. If Kuklinski loved being a celebrity killer that much, he wouldn’t want to hurt me. After all, I was writing a book about him, spreading his reputation even further.

But on the other hand, I told myself, I had to be out of my mind to do this. I was going to be locked up in a room with a man who experimented with death. What made me so special that I couldn’t be another one of his guinea pigs?

I was startled out of my misgivings when he suddenly appeared at the end of the corridor, a guard on either side of him. I just stared at him, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. I had been expecting Satan and King Kong rolled into one, but somehow in the flesh he didn’t look so fearsome. He was wearing a black and white glen plaid shirt and jeans, and he’d apparently lost a little weight in prison. He didn’t seem as imposing as the photographs I’d seen of him. As he stepped closer, I tried to read his face, but he was wearing large window-pane sunglasses with amber-colored lenses. When he was within arm’s reach, he nodded and said hello. I returned the greeting. He wasn’t the monster I’d imagined, and I was somehow a little disappointed. But then he extended his hand and instinctively I shook it. It was in this moment that it hit me like a jolt of electricity. I was holding a hand that had killed over 100 people.
The Iceman greeted me with a handshake and a joke

We were shown into the room and told that a guard would be just outside the door. He took a seat at the table with his back to the door. I sat down opposite him, facing the door. The guards left, closing the door behind them. Before I could say anything, he broke the ice (no pun intended) by telling me a joke. I don’t remember what it was, but I do remember that it was pretty funny and I laughed. But this didn’t seem right. A joke told by a multiple murderer shouldn’t be funny, should it?

The remarkable thing about Richard Kuklinski is that his speaking manner is the direct opposite of his physical demeanor. He’s soft-spoken and congenial when he speaks. He doesn’t speak carelessly and often pauses to assemble his thoughts before expressing them. As we talked, I started paying more attention to how he was speaking than what he was saying. I’d heard from his wife that he had a ferocious temper, but on first meeting he seemed like a pretty nice guy. I’m sure many of his victims felt the same way.

We made small talk as I unpacked my briefcase for the interview, taking out a pad, a pen, tape recorder, extra blank tapes, and a file full of notes, letters, and newspaper clippings that he’d sent me. During the time that I had been doing my research and then writing the first draft, he would periodically send me letters. On one occasion he mailed me some newspapers articles with names underlined and Post-its attached with other names, places, and sometimes gun calibers jotted down. His letters were usually written in the same cryptic style, in which he’d allude to murders, giving the place, maybe a name, and perhaps the way the person was killed. It was as if he were tossing me random jigsaw pieces, challenging me to put the puzzle together. But he would almost always give me the reason for the murder. One victim was “causing problems.” Another one was “dragging his heels paying.” Most “owed some money.” One was simply a “weasel.” Kuklinski would seldom admit to his own involvement, but the implication was clear enough. My assumption was that these were murders he had committed after August 6, 1982 when New Jersey reinstated the death penalty. If convicted, Kuklinski could face execution. Though he’d shown little regard for human life in committing the crimes that put him in prison, the Iceman still sought to protect his own hide.

But I was reluctant to take his word for all of these crimes. In one letter he described at great length the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa, implying that he was part of the team that had abducted and murdered the labor leader. When I first read this, I thought I had struck journalistic gold, but after checking his version of events against the known facts in the case, it was clear that Kuklinski had fabricated the whole thing. I suspect that he tried to peddle this story on me because it would raise his criminal stock astronomically if I put it in the book. I had a feeling he’d eventually tell me he was the second gunman on the grassy knoll at Dealy Plaza in November 1963.

At our meeting I asked him if he would mind if I recorded our interview and he said that would be fine, so I switched on the machine and opened the folder containing his letters, intending to ask him about some of his mysterious messages. But as soon as I started recording him, he became noticeably less communicative. It was as if he feared that he might say something that would incriminate him. (In my experience cops react the same way to tape recorders. They don’t like being taped, probably because they know how damaging a taped admission can be in court.) I couldn’t see Kuklinski’s eyes behind the dark glasses, but I sensed that he was keeping an eye on the rotating reels of the recorder.

I also sensed that he was watching my eyes to see how often I looked over at the window in the door. I forced myself not to look as often as I wanted to, but I became hyper-aware of the door because the guard wasn’t always at the window when I looked. Was he simply out of view? I wondered. Or had he gone off for coffee? I had no way of knowing, but I didn’t dare show my concern. The Iceman was watching for signs of fear and weakness. But was he doing this out of habit, or did he have something specific in mind? I tried not to dwell on that.
 

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Eventually he took off the glasses, but he wasn’t warming up to the interview. His answers to my questions were clipped and evasive. I showed him things he had written to me, but he explained little. Then without even knowing it, I triggered a response in him that chilled me to the bone. New Jersey State Supervising Investigator Paul Smith had warned me about the “shark look.” Smith, who was a key member of the task force that investigated, arrested, and successfully prosecuted the Iceman, refused to elaborate. “You’ll know it when you see it” was all he would say. Smith was right. I did know it when I saw it.
The 'shark' look, Kuklinski (CORBIS)

I had shown Kuklinski a note he had sent me along with a newspaper clipping regarding the recent sentencing of reputed Genovese crime family capo Louis “Streaky” Gatto. I read the items he had written on the note out loud: “Blazing Bucks Ranch… Serrone Pastries… Rt. 46 W…. Howard Johnson… 10 pops… Hawaiian Moon….” Suddenly his face contorted and froze, and his eyes rolled back. For a split second I could see only white in his eyes. Sharks roll their eyes back this way in the instant before they attack. The Iceman didn’t raise his hands or motion toward me in any way, but he didn’t have to. If the Devil has a face, for a split second I saw it. I immediately dropped that line of questioning and moved on to something else. (The “shark look” reappeared later in the interview when I asked Kuklinski about one of his children.)

We wandered from topic to topic as I tried to get him to open up, but I was becoming increasingly frustrated because so far he hadn’t told me anything of substance. He had only confirmed the obvious and deflected every attempt I made to press him for details and explanations. After two and a half hours, his non-responsive answers gave way to increasingly longer gaps of silence, and finally I decided to throw in the towel. I switched off the tape recorder and started to pack my bag.

The change was gradual at first, but I sensed a shift in his attitude as soon as the tape recorder was gone. I picked up a pen and started taking notes, and that seemed to spur him to talk even more. In hindsight I believe it was a matter of control. The more he talked, the more furiously I scribbled. He felt he was controlling my actions, and if anything, the man is a control freak. In his criminal career he manipulated his targets until they gave him exactly what he wanted before killing them. Anyone who tried to interfere with his way of life was also marked for death. A perceived insult could earn a death sentence from the Iceman because in his mind the victim had been trying to alter his carefully maintained self-image. It was all about control.

The interview lasted another two and half hours, which more than made up for the unproductive first portion. Though Kuklinski didn’t reveal any new murders to me that day, he did give me a clearer insight into his personality. Inside, it seemed, he was still a deprived child in the projects who desperately wanted to be somebody. To his way of thinking, money made you a somebody, and he’d found that the easiest way to make money was by killing. From our meeting I obtained a far richer understanding of his motivations.

In 2001 HBO premiered a second documentary on Kuklinski, “The Iceman: Confessions of a Mafia Hitman,” as part of their America Undercover series. Their first documentary, “The Iceman Tapes,” is still shown from time to time. My book, The Iceman: The True Story of a Cold-Blooded Killer, was published in 1993.
Richard Kuklinski after arrest

It has been ten years since I sat down with the Iceman, but not a week goes by that he doesn’t come up in conversation at least once. The row of copies of The Iceman on my office bookshelf and a file drawer crammed with research materials keep his memory close at hand, but even if I didn’t have these external reminders, I don’t think I could ever forget him. He wouldn’t let me. Every December, without fail, the first Christmas card I receive is from him. “Happy Holidays—Richie.”
 
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