Patrick Donald Kane, white male, age 43, brown eyes, hair graying at the temples. Bank robbery. Dale Glennon Wilson, white male, age 24, hazel eyes, pock-jnarked face. On his right fore-‘arm, tattooed, “Love and Hate.” Kidnaping. Murder in prison. They were strangers to each other. Four hours earlier, near Warrenton, they had overpowered the deputy United States marshal and special-duty St. Louis police officer who were transferring them from Leavenworth Penitentiary to St. Louis. Kane was to attend an appeal hearing, Wilson to stand trial for killing a fellow inmate. They couldn’t wait. They handcuffed the guards, drove to Pacific, Mo., and put them in a shack in the woods. From officer Robert Gentry, of the St. Louis police department, Kane took $240 and a revolver. “I’ll see that you get this back,” he said, “but I need it now.” From Vernon Whitlock, deputy United States marshal, Kane took a gold badge and a ring. Then he and young Wilson got in the car and headed for St. Louis.
In Bridgeton, Wilson spotted a red and black 1968 Malibu parked in a driveway. Not bad. It was getting dark and they were hungry. Patrick Donald Kane and Dale Glennon Wilson decided to pay Mr. and Mrs. Bernard K. Politte a visit. They stood around in the living room, four people and a revolver. There wasn’t much more talk about. At 3 a.m., Wilson took Ronnie Politte into the boy’s bedroom. He tied Ronnie’s hands and feet. Kane took Bernard and Mrs. Politte into the master bedroom, tied their hands with hosiery, and lashed them to the bed with drapery cords. “Is that too tight?” he asked. It wasn’t. “I want you two to stay here for a couple of hours,” Kane said. Then he left. From the bedroom, the Polittes heard the radio go on loud. They heard the sound of the shower. Kane and Wilson were cleaning up. It was time to move out. They found about $800 in cash. They took some clothes: a blue suit, five sports shirts, two black windbreakers. They took Bernie Politte’s billfold and his credit cards. And then there was only the sound of the radio.
It was 9:30 a.m. on Friday, Nov. 15. At a table in the North Grand Club, 1024 North Grand East, Springfield, 111., two men sat looking at the morning’s edition of the Illinois State Journal. One of the men was getting at 11:30 a.m., in a 1957 Pontiac gray at the temples. The other he had just swapped for, and they were looking for used car ads. At 10 a.m. the older man got up and went to the pay telephone. Name’s Ben Johnson, he said. Want to buy a car for my son. So anything for around $100? A few blocks across town, at Jack’s auto sales, 704 North Ninth Street, Jack Means sat in his office and told the man on the telephone sure, he had some junkers. The caller said he and his son were at the North Grand Club having breakfast. Could they get picked up in about an hour? It was a deal. Patrick Donald Kane put down the phone and walked back to the table. The waitress came over and they chatted. The boy had an accident with his car, Kane explained, and we’re going to pick up another one. “Don’t be too hard on him,” the waitress chided. “All kids have accidents.” Dale Glennon Wilson didn’t say anything. Jack Means finally showed up looked young enough to be his son. Eight blocks away, near Springfield Junior College, a red and black 1968 Malibu with Missouri license plates was parked. It was empty. The waitress in the North Grand Club lost her two customers, They didn’t leave her a tip. Jack showed the two men around the lot. There seemed to be no hurry. Finally the older man decided maybe he liked that car. Kane and Wilson drove across the street to a gas station. They fastened the 1968 license plates, SM 7363, to the car, and pulled drapes. A man peered in the Patrick Donald Kane.
The newlyweds had been in their room 20 minutes when there was a knock at the door. They ignored it. Ten minutes later there was a metallic tapping on the picture window. The bridegroom went to the window and pushed back the out into ninth street. Up the road was route 66. It was 1:30 p.m. and four hours to Chicago.
At 6 p.m. on Friday, Nov. 15, Kane and Wilson checked into the Villa Motel, 5952 North Lincoln, Chicago. They gave their names as Ben and James Johnson, father and son, Springfield, Mo. The clerk gave them room 9. Now, for about 48 hours, Kane and Wilson dropped from sight. Perhaps they slept. They had been busy.
After dark on Sunday evening, Nov. 17, a powder blue Volkswagen drove past the Villa Motel. In the car were a 23-year-old Air Force veteran from Michigan and his blond bride. They had been married in Michigan the day before and had come to Chicago for their honeymoon. A sign advertising color television caught the bride’s eye. They decided to stop. The clerk gave them room 11.
He had a key in his hand. “Hey ” the man shouted. “You left your key in the door ” The bridegroom went to the door and opened it. Two men stood there. One was middle aged, graying at the temples. In one hand he held a shiny gold badge. In the other he held a snub-nosed revolver. Kane and Wilson pushed themselves into the room and shut the door behind them. This time, they didn’t introduce themselves. It was 9 p.m. “We’re not police officers,” Wilson said. “We’re here to rob you.” “Where’s the girl,” Kane said. This was no pleasant conversation. The two men bound the hands and feet of the honeymooners with adhesive tape. They ransacked the couple’s personal effects, pocketed $100 in cash and took the bridegroom’s identification papers. Then they unwound the tape from around the ankles of the bride. They ordered her to undress completely and to lie down on the bed. While Wilson pointed the gun to the bridegroom’s head, Kane got on top of the bride and began to touching and kissing all of her body. He forced her to spread her legs and he put a finger into her sex. “You’re still a virgin, very good”. Wilson laughed and ordered the bridegroom to watch. When Kane lowered his pants, the bride turned her head on a side. When he penetrated her, she screamed. After a few pushes, Kane stood up, letting her with the blood running down her thighs. Wilson left and came back in a few moments with an armful of sheets and pillow cases. Then he too raped the girl. Kane and Wilson worked quickly. They ripped the sheets and pillow cases into shreds and tightly bound the newlyweds. Earlier, they had moved the old Pontiac from the motel parking lot and left it parked a block and a half away. They didn’t need it anymore. Now they had a powder blue 1967 Volkswagen, with wedding gifts and a sun roof. But there was no sun and the honeymoon was over.