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?