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Just pay shipping. Take the quiz at ilmakiaj.com slash quiz. That's I-L-M-A-K-I-A-G-E dot com slash quiz. Welcome to the Serial Killer Podcast. The podcast dedicated to serial killers. Who they were, what they did, and how. Episode 114. I am your Norwegian host, Thomas Weyborg Thun.
We continue our stay with the notorious killer, simply known as the Iceman. Last episode chronicled one of Richard Kuklinski's best documented kills, which he performed with a willing accomplice. The story of the Iceman is difficult. There are many twists and turns, and it's highly challenging to separate truth from myth.
In this episode, I endeavor to take you back a while. We pause the tale of murder and take a closer look at Richard Kuklinski, the family man. But rest assured, we will also continue where we left off last night. Enjoy.
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Now. Richard, I understand that you're an expert at the use of cyanide. How many times did you kill with it? Quite a few. What's the different ways you use cyanide? You could put it in liquid form. You could, a person could say, for instance, a person could be in a bar. You bunk into them, possibly by mistake or say you were intoxicated, spill the drink on them and leave.
Everybody just looks around and thinks you're drunk or that you just had an accident or something. Meanwhile, it's soaking through their clothes into their pores and into their system. And eventually, they'll die. What you just heard was a snippet of one of the many interviews with Richard Kuklinski.
As you can hear, he is dispassionate about murder, and an expert on murder by cyanide, as we covered in the previous episode. With this in mind, I want you to imagine, if you will, dear listener, New Jersey in the late 1970s. George W. Maliban Jr. has just made a very big mistake.
and at the time he probably didn't even realize it. He showed up at Richard Kuklinski's house unannounced. It was a hot summer Sunday afternoon, and the Kuklinskis were having a barbecue in their backyard in Dumont. Dumont was, and is, a very nice upper-middle-class neighborhood in New Jersey.
Kuklinski was a steady provider, and his home was a nice house with a nice garden. The kids had some of their friends over. His wife Barbara was happy, and her mother was also there, presiding over the cornucopia of food at the picnic table. Urging everyone to eat, Barbara kept going in and out of the house to fetch things while Richard tended to the grill, flipping hamburgers and turning the hot dogs.
He played the part of all-American, red-blooded male very well. Richard Kuklinski was relaxed that day, enjoying himself. He liked it when his family was all together, doing something together as a family. Moving back from the rising smoke, he watched the flames lick the sizzling burgers as fat dripped onto the burning coals. Another couple of minutes and the burgers would be done.
He opened up a package of buns to toast on the grill just before he took the meat off. But just as he started to separate the buns, his mother-in-law came over and grabbed him by the sleeve. She looked upset. There was a big man standing on the grass at the side of the house, staring at them. She'd asked the man what he wanted, but he said he had to talk to Richie.
Kuklinski looked up and squinted against the smoke. George Maliband was at the edge of the yard, waving him over. The three-hundred-pound, six-foot-three man wore metal-rimmed glasses and a bushy moustache. From the look of horror on Kuklinski's mother-in-law's face, it was as if the blob had suddenly arrived for lunch. Kuklinski's mood turned black.
He shoved the bag of hamburger buns into his mother-in-law's hands and ordered her to watch the grill while he took care of the intruder. He strode toward Maliband slow but purposeful. Maliband had a hell of a lot of nerve coming to his house, but before he said a word to Maliband, he managed to put a clamp on his rage.
He was furious that Maliband, a wheeler-dealer from central Pennsylvania whose main source of income was pornography, had shown up without an invitation and barged in on a family cookout. He regretted that he'd ever brought Maliband home that one time. He was just trying to be social, but that was a big mistake. He swore to himself he'd never do that again with anybody.
But Koklinski didn't show his anger to Maliband. He could only blame himself, really. Apparently, he hadn't made it clear enough that he did not like having his family exposed to his business associates. He didn't say anything at the time, but in the back of his mind, this unwelcomed visit would be a permanent black mark against Maliband. It was the kind of thing he would never forget.
And the saying about revenge and how to serve it is something Richard had come to practice to perfection. Years later, at two o'clock in the afternoon on the 1st of February, 1980, Richard Kuklinski was at George Maliban's house in Huntington, Pennsylvania. It was Maliban's 42nd birthday, but they weren't sticking around to celebrate. They had business to attend to in New York.
Serious business. George Maliband was in big trouble. He'd borrowed money from the mob boss Roy DeMeo, and he'd fallen way behind in his weekly payments. The mobster did not like deadbeats. They were bad for business, and they made him look bad. He demanded that Maliband come to Brooklyn to see him.
Since Richard Kuklinski was the one who had vouched for Maliband, he was responsible for him, and Richard was going to make sure that Maliband made that appointment. That evening, when they arrived at DeMeo's hangout, the Gemini Lounge in Canarsie, Roy wasted no time with niceties. Eight of DeMeo's men hustled Maliband and Kuklinski through the back hallway.
They sat Maliband down at the kitchen table, and Roy DeMeo put it to him straight. "'You owe me a lot of fucking money,' DeMeo yelled. "'You owe money to Las Vegas, too. And you owe money to Altoona. You owe all over the place. How are you going to fucking pay all this, George, huh?' Maliband was sweating. "'Don't worry, Roy. I'm good for it.' "'Is he?' DeMeo's hot glare turned to Kuklinski. Kuklinski was taken by surprise.'
I don't know, Roy. Well, you fucking better know. You brought this fucking mutt to me and told me he was okay. You knew what was going on with him and you never said nothing to nobody. I hold you responsible, Polak. If I don't get my money in three days, it's gonna be your problem. You understand? Now get the fuck out of here and don't come back unless you got the green.
As they drove back to New Jersey, Maliband was frantic. He had loan sharks coming at him from all directions. He definitely didn't have enough money to pay up, and he was beyond the point of placating DeMeo with a partial payment. He didn't know what to do. He pleaded with Kuklinski to think of something. "'You gotta help me, Rich. You gotta!' Kuklinski glanced at him sideways as he drove. "'Why do I have to help you?'
"'I didn't help you lose the money, did I?' "'Hey, come on, Rich, you gotta help me, I'm desperate. These guys'll fucking kill me.' "'You're damn right they'll kill you.' Maliban slapped the dashboard in frustration. "'Goddammit, don't say it like you're not involved here. You got me in with DeMeo, you're part of this. He said so himself, you gotta help me.' "'I don't gotta do anything, my friend.'
Kuklinski gripped the wheel tighter. He hated when people told him what to do. Maliban's eyes were wild with fear, and his voice got a desperate and menacing tone to it. "'Listen, Rich, you gotta help me. I'm telling you, I know where you live. You know I do.' Kuklinski's vision blurred. "'What? What are you saying here? You're telling me you're gonna hurt my family?'
"'Maliband answered flatly, matter-of-factly, "'If you don't help me out.' "'Kuklinski fell silent, and his black mood filled the cab of the van like a toxic gas. "'After a long stretch of tense quiet, Maliband was startled back to the present "'when the van suddenly pulled to a stop. "'The street outside his window was dark and deserted. "'George Maliband frowned at the unfamiliar setting.'
"'What are we doing here?' he asked. Kuklinski didn't answer. Instead, he pulled a .38 revolver out of his coat pocket and pumped five bullets into the left side of Maliban's chest. The explosions were deafening inside the van. The muzzle flashes left spots in front of Kuklinski's eyes. He stared down at Maliban's body, slumped over the dashboard. His ears were ringing.
He thought back to that cookout at his house, years before, when George Maliband had the gall to walk onto his property without an invitation, and he smiled grimly to himself. The next day, Kuklinski delivered an attaché case containing $50,000 in cash to Roy DeMeo to settle Maliband's debt. He was no longer responsible for the man.
"'And so it is, dear listener. "'That we fast forward two years, "'and thanks to his ruthlessness and reliability for always delivering, "'Richard is now an underboss in his own right. "'We are thus again back with the rather dim-witted Danny. "'After helping Richard Kuklinski kill, "'Danny Deptness did not sleep easily.'
At the tail end of 1982, he suffered a recurring nightmare. In the nightmare, Gary wasn't dead. He had watched Gary eat the hamburger Richard had laced with lethal cyanide, and he watched Gary's eyes roll back as he fell over. The whole affair continued in his dreams, just as it had done in real life. Danny had been the one who had taken the lamp cord,
and strangled Gary until he stopped struggling. He had rolled Smith's lifeless body off the bed, and helped Richard Kuklinski get him into the bed frame, covering him with a box-spring mattress. But now, as he lay restless on another motel bed, he dreamed of a Gary throwing away the spring mattress, of a Gary with milky eyes and protruding tongues,
walking steadily out of the motel, surely on his way to take his well-deserved revenge. The 24th of December, Christmas Eve, in room 55 at the Skyview Motel in Fort Lee, Danny woke again, soaked in sweat. He was stuck there, afraid to move, afraid to leave the room. Richard Kuklinski had paid for the room, but again left him with no money.
Danny kept the TV on to keep him company, but nothing the TV showed held any interest to him. The only show running was children's cartoons and goofy family-friendly Christmas films that simply made him angry. He left it on, though, because the silence of the night made him nervous. He dozed off on the bed with his clothes on and the television going.
He dozed again as the TV droned on in the background, bathing the room in an airy blue-white glare. The nightmares came as ice-cold waves. Gary hadn't died. He was under that bed, but he wasn't dead. He was reaching out, trying to get out from under the mattress and box spring. He was struggling and moaning. Danny was no longer in the Skyview Motel.
He was back in the York Motel, lying on top of the mattress that hit Gary. Beneath him, Gary was on his back, reaching up. Danny wanted to escape, but he could not move. Suddenly, Gary's rotting hands emerged from the mattress on either side of Danny's face. Just as the bloated blue-black flesh of Gary's fingers stroked his cheek, Danny Deppner's eyes shot open.
and he bolted off the bed. He stared at the mattress looking for Gary's hands. He was drenched in sweat. On Christmas Day, not knowing who to turn to, Danny called his ex-wife, Barbara, and asked her to come down for a while. Barbara was not all calm herself. She was terrified. She knew what had happened to Gary, at least that he had been murdered, and she told him she didn't think that was such a good idea.
He begged her, pleaded with her, but she refused. He was getting low on cigarettes, he told her. He had no money, and he needed a drink bad. An alcoholic who'd been trying to reform, Danny had started drinking again. His ex-wife kept saying no. She couldn't come down and be with him. She was too scared, and she held little sympathy for Danny anyhow.
So Danny Deppner spent the day alone in room 55, fighting the urge for a drink and a cigarette, flipping channels on the TV, avoiding the bed. He sat in the one armchair in the dingy motel room, fighting to stay awake. But the monotony of the TV and loneliness soon took its toll. That night he dozed off on the armchair,
And the nightmares came again, torturing him.
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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 Serial Killer today to get 10% off your first month. That's BetterHelp, H-E-L-P dot com slash Serial Killer. Later the next day, Barbara had changed her mind and returned to the motel and found Danny in his room.
She could see that he was a mess. He couldn't stop talking about how he and Kuklinski had killed her cousin Gary, begging her to listen to all the gory details. But she didn't want to hear about it. She had her own problems. But Danny had to tell somebody. He said if he didn't let it out, he'd go crazy. She tried to get him to change the subject, but he wouldn't.
He wanted her to go to Gary's house that night and ask Veronica Smith if her husband had returned home. Barbara thought her ex-husband had finally snapped, but Danny insisted that she do it. The nightmares had started to creep into living daylights. At least in his mind, he had to know if Gary was really dead.
As Veronica tried to reason with him, the phone suddenly rang, and they both froze. Danny picked it up with a trembling hand. It was his boss, Richard Kuklinski. He wanted them to meet him right now at the Fort Lee Diner, a five-minute drive from the motel. They were both too scared to disobey. Kuklinski wasn't there when they arrived, so they waited in the parking lot.
It wasn't long before the white Cadillac with the blue top pulled into the lot. Kuklinski motioned for them to get into his car, but Barbara refused. She was terrified of the large man to whom murder seemed ordinary. Richard Kuklinski didn't like people saying no to him. He jumped out of the car and raged, and snatched Barbara Deppner painfully by the wrist. She yelped and resisted,
But instead of continuing, Kuklinski suddenly let her go and went completely calm. He smiled apologetically and suggested they go into the diner and have something to eat so they could talk. Danny was suspicious. It seemed to him very odd that Richard was being so cordial, seemingly out of nowhere. Inside, over coffee, Kuklinski explained his problem with this whole situation.
He couldn't go on carrying Danny indefinitely, paying for motel rooms and bringing him food every day. Danny had to start pulling his own weight, because he just couldn't afford it. He suggested that Barbara take Danny to a liquor store so he could rob it.
After they left the dinner and Kuklinski departed, Danny told his ex-wife that he knew of a convenience store up in Sussex County that would be easy to rob, the Ding Dong Dairy Store in Hardistown. Barbara's uncle worked there and she refused. She had enough trouble on her hands as it was and would in no way contribute to more family members getting hurt.
Danny pleaded with her, promising that he wouldn't hurt anyone. But she stayed firm. She dropped him off back at the motel and headed home. On New Year's Eve, the 31st of December 1982, Richard Kuklinski moved Danny Deppner to the Turnpike Motel on Route 46 in Ridgefield, where Danny registered under the name Bill Bradley.
One of the maids at the motel later told authorities she remembered a tall man with dark woolly hair and a thick moustache that called himself Mr. Bradley. He had tired eyes and a drawn face. Mr. Bradley would never let a maid clean his room. He just took the clean sheets and towels at the door and said he'd take care of it himself. She also remembered the white Cadillac.
with a blue top that came every day just before checkout time and parked in front of Mr. Bradley's room. Holed up in yet another motel room, still broke and still dependent on Richard Kuklinski, Danny was still able to start sleeping a little better.
But every once in a while, he'd wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, certain that Danny's hands would lock around his neck and strangle him to death. Then he would realize it had just been a bad dream, and go back to sleep. He stayed at a Turnpike Motel for over a month. Then, on Saturday, the 5th of February, 1983—
Forty-four days after Gary Smith's death, Richard Kuklinski moved Danny Deppner once again, this time to an apartment in a residential section of suburban Bergenfield, New Jersey. The studio apartment belonged to a young man named Rich Patterson, who was dating one of Kuklinski's daughters at the time. Patterson was away for the weekend, and Kuklinski had his own set of keys.
Apartment 1 at 51 Fairview Avenue, Bergenfield, was the last place Danny Deppner ever had any nightmares ever again. It was a Sunday, the 14th of May, 1983, and a man was riding his bicycle along Clinton Road in Milford Township, New Jersey.
It was a warm spring day, and the early morning sun was sparkling off the waters of the Clinton Reservoir. The air was fresh, and the woods were alive with new growth. There was seldom much traffic on this road, especially on Sunday mornings, and there wasn't a house for miles. It was beautiful. As the man rode along the reservoir, something caught his attention to his left.
An unusually large black bird was perched high in a tree. The man pulled his bike to the side of the road and stared up at the bird. It was a turkey buzzard, the biggest one he'd ever seen. He figured it must be looming over a carcass, probably a dead deer left behind by hunters. He got off his bike and went into the woods to investigate.
Under the buzzard's tree, he found something wrapped in green plastic garbage bags. One end of the large bundle was ripped, most likely by the scavenger bird. As he stepped closer, his stomach lurched. Part of a human head was peeking through the tear in the bag. The bicyclist ran back to the road and marked the spot where he'd entered the woods with a fallen branch.
He intended to ride down to the nearest house and call the police, but a car happened to come by and he flagged it down. He told the driver to call the police. There was a body in the woods. The police arrived within the hour and summoned Dr. Gita Natarajan, the acting chief medical examiner, or ME, of Passaic County.
She examined the body at the scene, but left it in the garbage bags. After photographs were taken, the body was carefully lifted off the ground and put in a body bag. Samples of the dead leaves underneath the body were taken. They would help Dr. Natarajan determine when the body had been left there. The body was then taken to the state medical examiner's office in Newark.
where she would perform the autopsy. At the ME's office, Dr. Natarajan's first task was to remove the plastic bags, taking note of how many were used and how expertly the victims' limbs had been bound with paper tape. Then came the one job she and many other medical examiners detested the most, dealing with the bugs.
She took samples of all the insects and larvae she found present on the body, mainly carrion beetles and blowflies. The number of insect generations on the body would help determine how long it had been left in the woods. Identifying the types of insect would also be helpful, since different species thrive at different times of the year.
When Dr. Natarajan was certain that she had samples of all the species present, she hosed the rest of the swarm down the drain and ground them in the garbage disposal, glad to be rid of them. Laying the body on a stainless steel work table, she then began the autopsy. The victim was a male.
Six feet, one and a half inches. One hundred and seventy-three pounds. That's about one hundred and eighty-seven centimeters and seventy-nine kilos for us metrics users. The man's face was almost totally skeletonized.
and there was only partial flesh on the limbs, but the torso was very well preserved. Spring had come late that year, so the cold had kept him relatively fresh. Unfortunately, the buzzard had not had that many meals off this carcass. She removed the clothing, a white v-neck t-shirt with extensive brown-red staining, a pair of blue jeans, a black leather belt, blue socks—
and took note of the absence of shoes or a coat. There were no gunshot or stab wounds, but she did find hemorrhaging on the neck just above the Adam's apple, and on the whites of the eyes. A pinkish flush was apparent on the skin around the shoulder and chest on one side.
This kind of discoloration, called pink lividity, can indicate several things, most commonly carbon monoxide poisoning, but also cyanide poisoning. When Dr. Natarajan got to the stomach contents, she found more than two pounds of undigested food, beef, beans, potatoes, carrots, and beer.
It was a large meal, but not unusually so for a man this size. There was no sign of gastric emptying. The food hadn't moved on from the stomach through the digestive tract, which meant that the man was killed soon after he had finished his meal. Perhaps during the meal. She examined the food itself and noticed that the beans had been burned. The meal was probably home-cooked, she believed.
because a restaurant rarely got away with serving burnt food. The man must have been very hungry to eat it. In the pocket of the man's jeans, she found a black wallet that contained no money or identification. She did find five wet slips of paper in the wallet, which turned out to be motel receipts. There were also three photographs that had stuck together.
She soaked them and carefully separated them, laying them on paper towels to dry. They were pictures of children, two boys and a girl. Dr. Natarajan bagged them and sent them up to the Passaic County prosecutor. When he received the photos, the prosecutor laid them on his desk and stared at them. There was something familiar about those kids, but he couldn't place them.
The picture sat there for two days, haunting him, the little faces staring out at him like three sad little orphans. Then it dawned on him. He did know those kids. They'd been in the Passaic County Prosecutor's Office with their mother and her criminal boyfriend-slash-common-law-husband, Percy House. Those were Barbara Deppner's kids.
He picked up the phone and called to tell Dr. Natarajan he had a good hunch who her body was. It was the father of those three kids, Daniel Everett Deppner.
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When I release my next episode, 115th in number, I will present to you part 4 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.
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