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Welcome to the Serial Killer Podcast. The podcast dedicated to serial killers. Episode 112. Who they were, what they did. I am your Norwegian host, Thomas Weyborg Thun.
I think we've spent enough time away from the continental USA for now, dear listener. So tonight, I am bringing you across the pond and back to the United States of America. Here we will take our time exploring one of the true serial killer superstars of the world. His reign of terror, and I do mean terror, lasted for a very long time.
He never really reveled in causing the death and destruction he did, or so he claims at least, but that didn't stop him killing as many as two hundred fellow human beings. He was only ever convicted of five murders, and as we know, serial killers lie.
They lie about lies, and often believe their own lies as they struggle to separate what's real and what is only in their head. That said, I think it probable that Richard Kuklinski murdered far more than five men. This serial killer is one that I have been reluctant to feature on my show.
One of the reasons is that he doesn't fit the profile of the pathological, sadistic serial killers I usually explore. Kuklinski usually killed, according to himself, only for one thing. He was a hired killer, and except in cases where he killed in a fit of rage, he killed for money. There have been no less than three HBO documentaries detailing his life and crimes.
So, my job will be to try and go even deeper, if possible. To put it simply, my goal is to figure out who the Iceman really was. Enjoy. If you can afford a cup of coffee from your local cafe, consider donating that same amount on patreon.com slash the serial killer podcast to support this show.
I understand very well that few people like e-begging. So as a patron, you do get unique benefits for your money, in addition to supporting the show. If you join the TSK $10 Plus Club, you get access to 100% exclusive bonus episodes where I go into detail in other dark areas of human behavior.
For example, there are now a brand new expose regarding Norwegian witch trials and executions, two episodes on torture, an expose on the death penalty, a feature regarding Norway's most famous Satanist, and a very special version of the song Monster Mash. So, head on over to patreon.com slash the serial killer podcast
to get access now. Imagine if you will, dear listener, Jersey City in 1949. The city is, at least to my Norwegian eyes, almost an extension of New York City, as it is only separated from Manhattan by the Hudson River. From downtown Jersey City, you have a very good view of the Statue of Liberty.
That being said, the city has always been much poorer than its big brother New York City. This probably has something to do with it historically having been a favored place of residence of lower-income immigrant families. Later, it became a favored locale for working-class families, as they saw Jersey City as a good alternative to expensive New York.
while still having a reasonable commute to NYC if they needed to. In 1949, Jersey City was reeling after its three decades-long rule under Mayor Frank Haig. I think it's odd that there aren't any HBO miniseries about Haig in the same way there is for Nucky Thompson, as Haig was a far more interesting figure.
From 1917 to 1947, Jersey City was governed by Haig, a record long period. Only 30 other mayors can show a longer tenure than Haig. That might seem like a lot, but that is when I include all major American cities in all of American modern history. Originally elected as a candidate supporting reform in governance,
The Jersey City History website says his name is synonymous with the early 20th century urban American blend of political favoritism and social welfare known as bossism.
Haig ran the city with an iron fist, while, at the same time, molding governors, United States senators, and judges to his whims. Boss Haig was known to be loud and vulgar, but dressed in a stylish manner, earning him the rather unique nickname of King Hanky Panky.
In his later years in office, Haig would often dismiss his enemies as reds or commies. Haig himself lived like a millionaire, despite having an annual salary that never exceeded $8,500. He was able to maintain a 14-room duplex apartment in Jersey City, a suite at the Plaza Hotel in Manhattan, and a palatial summer home in the seaside community of Deal.
and traveled to Europe yearly in the royal suites of the best ocean liners. After Haig retired, and he was never indicted or convicted of any wrongdoing, Jersey City had a huge power vacuum. A series of mayors, including John V. Kenney, Thomas J. Whelan, and Thomas F. X. Smith, attempted to take control of Haig's organization.
Usually under the mantle of political reform, none of them came close to filling Haig's shoes or were able to duplicate the level of power held by Haig. But the city and the county remained notorious for political corruption for decades. And by 1949, the Italian mafia most probably held most of the reins when it came to organized crime.
And the Mafia is very much central to the tale of Richard Kuklinski. But we will come back to that a bit later. As it stands, we are crouching behind some trash cans, looking at a skinny but strong youth wearing baggy clothes. He kind of looks like a young hobo, the way the far too big clothes kind of flaps around his limbs.
The youth is holding a wooden rod in his hand. We can't see his face, but know from before that it's handsome, but seemingly always with a morose expression to it. The area we're in is Jersey City's Projects, or Social Housing Area. The young man is Richard Kuklinski, and he lives in a small apartment in the brick building we're next to. Richard felt his frayed shirt front.
"'ashamed of the way he had to go around. "'The other kids in the project teased him all the time, "'but the most stinging remarks always came from Johnny. "'Richie the Rag-Boy, Hobo Richie, the Skinny Polack. "'His mother never listened to Richard. "'She always bought his clothes big, "'so he wouldn't outgrow them so fast,' she said.'
But he was a skinny kid, and he never grew into them. Might as well be a hobo, he thought to himself. He spent all his time wandering the streets as it was, staying to himself. He didn't hang out in gangs the way other kids did. He didn't get along with those kids. He preferred his own company, walking around, seeing what there was to see, watching the sailors getting drunk and picking up whores over in Hoboken.
watching the tired factory workers dragging themselves in and out of the Maxwell House factory just to make a buck, watching people arguing with shopkeepers up in Journal Square, going crazy to save a few pennies on a pound of potatoes. He thought it was all garbage. As Richard stood in the shadow, he could hear the distant rumble and whistle of the railroad. Richard's father worked for the railroad.
He thought his father was a brakeman, but he wasn't sure. The last time he'd seen his old man was when his little sister was born three years ago. His father had run off when Richard was just a little kid, but he'd show up out of the blue every now and then like a sailor home from the sea. It was no treat when he came around.
He had a bad temper, and he liked to beat his oldest son just for the hell of it. He'd come storming into the kids' room, stinking drunk, yelling and screaming about something, already pulling the belt out of his pants. It wasn't so bad when his mother was home. She'd try to stop it, yelling and screaming herself, and the beating usually wouldn't last too long.
Richard had figured out that his old man was like anyone else. All he really wanted was a little attention. That's why Richie knew that whenever his mother was at work, the old man would take off that belt and do his worst. And there was nothing Richard could do or say about that. All Richard could do while his father whipped him bloody, either on his raw buttocks or his back,
was to try and think about something else. His mother beat him too, although far less severe than what his drunken father did. Although his mother did use a broom handle instead of a belt, so it did most certainly hurt when she laid down beatings. But his mother knew very well how to abuse her children.
She did it with words and attitude, comments that stung and cut and left them feeling awful, feeling that her disappointment with life was all their fault, that the children should do something to fix it. But whatever they did just made her feel more miserable, and she made sure the children knew that. But taking abuse from his parents was one thing.
taking it from another kid or something else. He couldn't do anything about his parents, but if someone else was giving him grief, he was supposed to do something about it, the way the cowboys in the movies did. And now, standing under the smoky night sky with his back to the warm bricks, a closet pole in his hand, he was ready to do something about it. He was ready to go to war.
Johnny didn't just taunt Richard, or Richie as he was usually called. The bully liked to beat him up too. He lived downstairs from Richie, and he had his own gang, six other kids who lived in the 16th Street Projects. Johnny always beat up Richie when his gang was there. It made him look like a big man. It made him the leader.
In the beginning, Richie had tried to fight back. But whenever he raised a hand to Johnny, the other kids would gang up on him and get their licks in, punching and kicking. After a split lip and a dull pain in his side that took a month to go away, Richie learned that it was better just to take it and get it over with, the same way he took his father's beatings. But it was hard to take it from Johnny.
The boy's incredible arrogance just cut to him, and the humiliation of hearing the gang laughing at him gnawed at his gut.
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Real Noom user compensated to provide their story. In four weeks, the typical Noom user can expect to lose one to two pounds per week. Individual results may vary. This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. As a family man with three kids, I know firsthand how extremely difficult it is to make time for self-care. But it's good to have some things that are non-negotiable. For some, that could be a night out with the boys, chugging beers and having a laugh.
For others, it might be an eating night. For me, one non-negotiable activity is researching psychopathic serial killers and making this podcast. Even when we know what makes us happy, it's often near impossible to make time for it. But when you feel like you have no time for yourself, non-negotiables like therapy are more important than ever.
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Visit betterhelp.com slash serialkiller today to get 10% off your first month. That's betterhelp, H-E-L-P dot com slash serialkiller. He tapped the end of the pole on the asphalt pavement, nervously waiting. He wasn't going to take any more. Footsteps came into the dark courtyard, and Richie's heart stopped. Someone was coming this way.
Richie gripped the closet pole and started to raise it over his head. His arms were shaking. His legs were like lead. The footsteps came closer. Richie wished he could stop shaking. He wanted to run. But he didn't want to run. Not anymore. He wanted to teach Johnny a lesson. Show him that he couldn't pick on Richard Kuklinski anymore.
"'Richie just wanted to get Johnny off his back so he could live in peace. "'Richie just wanted to be left alone. "'The footsteps were within reach when he saw a face squinting out of the gloom. "'A man's voice came from the gloom. "'Richie!' "'Richie dropped the pole to his side and hid it behind his leg when he saw who it was. "'It was Mr. Butterfield from down the hall.'
The man had a quart bottle of cheap beer in his hand, and Richie could tell this wasn't his first quart of beer tonight. Mr. Butterfield was a drunk, and he beat his kids too. The man said, "'Your mother know you're out this late?' Richie shrugged. She don't care. She had fallen asleep listening to the radio, same as every other night. "'You better get in. It's late.'
Butterfield said as he took a swig from his quart and moved on. Richard had no intention of listening to the hypocrite Mr. Butterfield. He wasn't going to let a drunk and a man who beat up his own children tell him what to do. So he stayed put and picked up his wooden rod after Mr. Butterfield was out of sight. Richard stared hard into the dark shadows across the courtyard. He was staring at the corner of his building, the corner where Johnny would be coming from.
Lately, Johnny had been coming out here every night to call up to his gang members and taunt them into coming down, so they could smoke and joke and yell up to the girls they knew and say dirty things about them. Sometimes Johnny would call up to him. Hey, Polack, you sleeping up there, or are you just making believe so your mother won't know you're jerking off? Every night this went on.
But it was going to stop. Suddenly he saw something in the shadows. He squinted to see better. A glowing orange pinpoint was rounding the corner of the building, coming this way. It was a burning cigarette. Richie clung to the wall, the pole tight in his fist, close to his leg. His eyes were wide and he wasn't breathing. His pulse was racing. He didn't have the urge to run this time.
He wanted to get this over with. He wanted to show Johnny. He wanted to hurt him. Teach him a lesson once and for all. The face behind the orange glow emerged from the dark. The small, dark eyes. The wise-ass smirk. It was him. Cigarette smoke trailed off behind Johnny as he stepped closer. Surprised to see Richie out there, but also pleased to see him.
pleased to have his favorite target right there, out in the dark courtyard, alone. Johnny stopped a few feet away from Richie, took a long drag off his cigarette, and just stared at him for a moment. "'What the hell you doing out here, Polak? You looking for trouble or what?' He coughed up a laugh. Richie didn't answer. He couldn't. "'Hey, I'm talking to you, Polak. I asked you what you think you're doing out there.'
The vicious bark of his voice made Richie blink. It always did. Answer me, Polack, or I'll kick your fucking teeth in. Johnny stepped closer and automatically Richie raised the pole. Johnny backed off, but then laughed at him. The fuck you gonna do with that? Richie was mute. Both hands wrapped around the heavy pole.
"'What are you, playing stick-bowl out here, Polack?' Johnny reached for the pole to take it away from him, but Ritchie pulled it back out of his reach. Johnny's face turned mean. "'Give me that.' He lunged for the pole. Ritchie swung on impulse. It caught Johnny on the cheek, not hard, but it did hit him. It shocked Ritchie more than it did Johnny.'
Johnny glowered at him, his hand on his cheek. You son of a bitch, he whispered. You little son of a bitch. He repeated as he went for the pole again. But this time, Richie swung hard. Johnny raised his hand to block it and took the full impact on his forearm. The boy yelped and cursed, holding his smarting arm and curling into himself.
Richard stepped forward and hit him again, this time over the head. Hey, stop, came Johnny's voice, this time far less taunting and laced with fear. Richard hit him again, harder. Johnny yelled louder. Johnny was pleading with him to stop.
Richard answered by hitting him again, raising the heavy pole over his head and swinging it down onto his tormentor's back with greater and greater force. Richard wanted him to shut up. The rest of Johnny's gang would hear him, and they'd come down to help him. And we couldn't have that, could we? So Richard kept hitting him. Shut up, he grunted through clenched teeth. But Johnny didn't shut up.
He was screaming like a little girl now, and Richard bashed him again and again and again, swinging as hard as he could with each blow. Johnny finally quieted down, and Richard felt something he'd never felt in his entire life. Power. He gained strength with each new blow as he saw Johnny fall down on his knees, getting weaker and more helpless.
The rush of total control flew through his veins like a drug. It felt good. It felt great. He kept swinging, pounding Johnny sideways now, hammering his head the way baseball players hit home runs. He couldn't stop. He didn't want to stop. He had to hurt Johnny. He had to show him.
He was Richard Kuklinski, and no one messed with Richard Kuklinski. No one. When he finally stopped, Johnny was flat on the ground, and it was hard to get a good whack at him in that position. Richie stood over him, breathing hard, waiting for him to get up so he could hit him again. He was out of breath, but he felt very, very good.
He was exhilarated, in control, powerful. He climbed the stairs back up to his apartment and hung the pole back in the closet, then got into bed. He lay awake for a while, reliving the excitement of his triumph, then fell into a deep sleep. The next morning, Richie's mother yelled from the bedroom door, telling him to get out of bed, or he was going to be late for school.
He'd been sound asleep and he didn't want to move, but the sound of men's voices coming from outside drew him to the window. Police cars were parked in the asphalt courtyard. At least a dozen men were clustered around the spots by the incinerator wall where he'd left Johnny the night before. There were a lot of people from the projects down there too, the usual busybodies trying to find out what was going on.
Some of the kids from Johnny's gang were talking to the cops. One kid sticking out his bottom lip and frowning, shaking his head no. Richard, you're gonna be late, his mother yelled from the kitchen. What's going on outside? He yelled back. You know that fresh boy, Johnny, from downstairs? Somebody killed him last night. Now hurry up and get dressed, or you can forget about breakfast. This was the first murder committed by Richard Kuklinski.
He was 14 years old at the time. Now, it's important to note that Richard did feel guilt about what had happened. After the murder, he was terrified and threw up, both out of guilt, but mostly out of fear. He had nightmares about the police breaking down the door and dragging him off to the electric chair. But when he woke, no one was there. No one ever came to the apartment to check anything.
He skipped school for several days without telling his mother. When the nuns at the school notified his mother of this and asked why she hadn't told them if Richard was sick, she got furious. She beat him with the same wooden rod he had used to kill Johnny. He was forced to get back out, attend church on Sundays and school on weekdays.
All the while he was terrified, certain that someone would suddenly point a judgmental finger at him, saying, There! There's the murderer of Johnny! But it didn't happen. Nothing happened. Gradually Richard started to calm down. Maybe no one knew. Maybe he was safe. Then one day he caught himself smiling, and he realized that he hadn't thought about Johnny for a whole day.
He started going out on the street more, and eventually he stopped worrying about police cars. He still thought about Johnny, but he wasn't worried about him anymore. He still felt bad about it, but in another way he also felt very good about it. The bully was gone, and no one was bothering him. He'd solved his problem. When you hurt people, they leave you alone. As the months passed,
He'd see detectives down in the lobby of his building every once in a while, talking to the neighbors about Johnny, checking to see if there was any new information they could pick up. Richard would walk right by them and head for the stairs, suppressing his grin until he rounded the corner and no one could see him. He knew who killed Johnny, but no one else did. It was his little secret. His secret.
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And so it is, that we come to the end of the second episode of the year 2020. I hope you enjoyed listening to me telling it to you. When I release my next episode, 113th in number, I will present to you part two in the Iceman series. So as they say in the land of radio, stay tuned.
This podcast would not be possible if it had not been for my dear patrons who pledge their hard-earned money every month. There are especially a few of those patrons I would like to thank in person. These patrons are my 18 most loyal to the Serial Killer podcast. Many of them have contributed for at least the last 46 episodes, and their names are Maud,
Amber, Anne, Cassandra, Evan, James, Jennifer, Jill, Kathy, Lisa, Lisbeth, Mark, Mickey, Philip, Russell, Sam, Skortnia, and Troy. You really helped produce this show and you have my deepest gratitude. Thank you.
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Finally, I wish to thank you, dear listener, for listening. If you like this podcast, you can support it by donating on patreon.com slash the serial killer podcast, by leaving a review on Apple Podcasts, facebook.com slash the SK podcast, or by posting on the subreddit, the SK podcast. Thank you. Good night, and good luck.