Ebenezer, a small community in Greene County, Missouri, is located about ten miles north of Springfield a mile or two east of Highway 13. Originally settled about 1831, it is one of the oldest communities in Greene County and at one time was perhaps the second-most prominent town in the county after Springfield. In the 1850s, Ebenezer had two stores, several other shops, and "a considerable village population," according to Holcombe's History of Greene County.
The Ebenezer area was largely settled by Methodists, and the M. E. Church of Ebenezer was one of the first in the county, if not the entire state. From Ebenezer's very earliest days, the camp grounds of the Methodist Church there was a great gathering place, not only for religious functions but sometimes for other purposes as well. Religious camp meetings were regularly held in August, and in August of 1901, a 70th anniversary celebration of the Ebenezer Methodist Church was held on the camp grounds with a big crowd in attendance. "The people about Ebenezer would not know how to get along without their August camp meeting," observed a Springfield newspaper at the time. "It is an event to look forward to like Christmas."
The newspaper allowed that it was debatable whether the Ebenezer church was the "very cradle of Methodism in Missouri" as some sources claimed, but it was certain that the church's grounds had been used as a religious gathering place for at least 65 years. District conference records of the Methodist Church dated back to 1834, and the very earliest records mentioned Ebenezer. "Annual conferences used to be held there and famous bishops have proclaimed the zealous and lofty faith of John Wesley on the old Ebenezer camp ground."
The Methodist circuit that included Ebenezer extended north to Bolivar in the early days and south to include northeastern Stone County. Circuit riders preached at least once a day and sometimes twice. Often they would preach in private houses or in a grove of trees, as church buildings were few and far between. Preachers were poorly compensated. If a circuit rider made $150 a year, he was considered well maintained. Of course, the preachers were often the recipients of gifts from their flock ranging from knit socks to dried apples to help in their support.
Saturday, June 23, 2018
Saturday, June 16, 2018
Midnight Tragedy in Lucas Place
Near midnight on Sunday evening, December 18, 1881, John Powers, night watchman in the exclusive Lucas Place residential district of St. Louis, heard the sound of a gunshot come from near the corner of Seventeenth and Lucas Place (i.e. Locust Street). Rushing to the scene, he found Fred Thomkins (aka Tonkin) lying mortally wounded in a grassy plot just outside the enclosed churchyard of the Second Presbyterian Church with a bullet wound to his gut. Thomkins, according to the St. Louis Post Dispatch, was known about the neighborhood as a voyeur and “amateur blackmailer” who was in the habit of spying on people who resorted to the churchyard for “immoral purposes” and then extorting those he found in “compromising situations.” Powers had warned Thomkins his perverse curiosity was going to get him in trouble, and now it had seemingly got him killed.
Taken to a hospital, Thomkins died a couple of days later but not before describing a young man and young woman he said were responsible for shooting him. Suspicion quickly centered on Kitty Mulcahy, and she was arrested on December 20 at a bordello on Eighth Street run by Lou Allen, who implicated Kitty as the shooter. Early Wednesday morning the 21st, eighteen-year-old Billy Scharlow was rousted out of bed at his mother’s home on Biddle Street and taken into custody as Kitty’s suspected accomplice.
Interviewed later on Wednesday, Lou Allen told a Post-Dispatch reporter that Kitty had previously been married but was only eighteen and was “a nice sweet-tempered little girl.” Billy Scharlow, her lover, frequently called on her at Lou’s place, and the two had been out together Sunday night. Lou said the girl’s real name was McCabe, although she went by several different names, including Mulcahy and Lamont.
After talking to Lou, the reporter went to the jail to see Kitty. The newspaperman thought she was “not a bad looking girl,” but her short, tangled hair gave her an appearance that was “not exactly what a fastidious man would demand of his lady love.” And Kitty’s expletive-laden answers to the reporter’s questions suggested she was not at all the sweet-tempered girl Lou had made her out to be.
Angry that Lou had turned her in after she’d confided in her, Kitty called the madam a damned bitch and refused at first to talk about what happened Sunday night. “What the _____ and _____ do you want to know for, you ____ _____ _____?” she swore.
She finally calmed down enough to tell her story, which the reporter related, “stripped of its curses and vulgarity.” Kitty admitted that she was near the church on Sunday night and heard the shot that killed Thomkins. However, she claimed that she was not the person who fired the shot and that Billy was nowhere near the scene. Instead, she tried to implicate a girl from the Irish neighborhood named Mollie Maloney, who was her rival for Billy’s affections.
A coroner’s inquest began Wednesday afternoon, but Kitty did not testify until Thursday, when she “came in smiling, dressed in a showy red dress, with a red hood and black cloak. She smiled pleasantly at Billy Scharlow, winked at the reporters, flung herself into a chair, and crossed her legs.” Kitty kept her eyes fastened on Billy, but he seemed to ignore her.
When Kitty took the stand, there was a stir of interest among the jury, and all listened intently as the coroner questioned her. She introduced herself as Kitty Lamont but added that she had “half a dozen” other names, one of which was Mulcahy. Kitty repeated essentially the same story she’d told the reporter the day before, admitting that she heard the shot that killed Thomkins but that she didn’t fire it and that Billy was nowhere near.
The police believed some of Kitty’s story, but they thought she was covering for Billy, whom they now believed was the one who had actually shot Thompkins. In a move that lent credence to the police theory that Kitty was trying to protect Billy, she broke down the next day and admitted that she had fired the fatal shot. She claimed, though, that the man she was with was not Billy Scharlow but rather a stranger she’d met on the street.
Both Kitty and Billy were released after initial questioning, but Billy was soon returned to custody on a prior assault charge. Then, on December 28, Kitty was charged with murder for the Tonkin killing. Upon her arrest, she said that, since Billy was going to the penitentiary, she didn’t care if she did, too. “If he was to go to hell, I would want to go,” she declared.
Interviewed in her jail cell, Kitty recanted her confession, saying the detectives had coaxed it out of her by plying her with whiskey and cigars. “I was drunk when I gave that confession,” she said.
In mid-January 1882, Billy was sentenced to two years in the penitentiary on the assault charge, and Kitty’s trial followed in April. Almost from the time she was arrested, many people felt the case against Kitty was weak, and it fell apart when her attorney presented the defense on April 12. He argued that her confession had been coerced and cajoled out of her, that the case boiled down to her word against Lou Allen’s, and that Lou’s testimony was just hearsay at any rate. Kitty was found not guilty later the same day, and no one else was ever charged for the Thompkins murder.
This entry is condensed from a chapter in my latest book, Show-Me Atrocities: Infamous Incidents in Missouri History, which, by the way, I'll be having a book signing for at Always Buying Books in Joplin on Saturday, June 30.
Taken to a hospital, Thomkins died a couple of days later but not before describing a young man and young woman he said were responsible for shooting him. Suspicion quickly centered on Kitty Mulcahy, and she was arrested on December 20 at a bordello on Eighth Street run by Lou Allen, who implicated Kitty as the shooter. Early Wednesday morning the 21st, eighteen-year-old Billy Scharlow was rousted out of bed at his mother’s home on Biddle Street and taken into custody as Kitty’s suspected accomplice.
Interviewed later on Wednesday, Lou Allen told a Post-Dispatch reporter that Kitty had previously been married but was only eighteen and was “a nice sweet-tempered little girl.” Billy Scharlow, her lover, frequently called on her at Lou’s place, and the two had been out together Sunday night. Lou said the girl’s real name was McCabe, although she went by several different names, including Mulcahy and Lamont.
After talking to Lou, the reporter went to the jail to see Kitty. The newspaperman thought she was “not a bad looking girl,” but her short, tangled hair gave her an appearance that was “not exactly what a fastidious man would demand of his lady love.” And Kitty’s expletive-laden answers to the reporter’s questions suggested she was not at all the sweet-tempered girl Lou had made her out to be.
Angry that Lou had turned her in after she’d confided in her, Kitty called the madam a damned bitch and refused at first to talk about what happened Sunday night. “What the _____ and _____ do you want to know for, you ____ _____ _____?” she swore.
She finally calmed down enough to tell her story, which the reporter related, “stripped of its curses and vulgarity.” Kitty admitted that she was near the church on Sunday night and heard the shot that killed Thomkins. However, she claimed that she was not the person who fired the shot and that Billy was nowhere near the scene. Instead, she tried to implicate a girl from the Irish neighborhood named Mollie Maloney, who was her rival for Billy’s affections.
A coroner’s inquest began Wednesday afternoon, but Kitty did not testify until Thursday, when she “came in smiling, dressed in a showy red dress, with a red hood and black cloak. She smiled pleasantly at Billy Scharlow, winked at the reporters, flung herself into a chair, and crossed her legs.” Kitty kept her eyes fastened on Billy, but he seemed to ignore her.
When Kitty took the stand, there was a stir of interest among the jury, and all listened intently as the coroner questioned her. She introduced herself as Kitty Lamont but added that she had “half a dozen” other names, one of which was Mulcahy. Kitty repeated essentially the same story she’d told the reporter the day before, admitting that she heard the shot that killed Thomkins but that she didn’t fire it and that Billy was nowhere near.
The police believed some of Kitty’s story, but they thought she was covering for Billy, whom they now believed was the one who had actually shot Thompkins. In a move that lent credence to the police theory that Kitty was trying to protect Billy, she broke down the next day and admitted that she had fired the fatal shot. She claimed, though, that the man she was with was not Billy Scharlow but rather a stranger she’d met on the street.
Both Kitty and Billy were released after initial questioning, but Billy was soon returned to custody on a prior assault charge. Then, on December 28, Kitty was charged with murder for the Tonkin killing. Upon her arrest, she said that, since Billy was going to the penitentiary, she didn’t care if she did, too. “If he was to go to hell, I would want to go,” she declared.
Interviewed in her jail cell, Kitty recanted her confession, saying the detectives had coaxed it out of her by plying her with whiskey and cigars. “I was drunk when I gave that confession,” she said.
In mid-January 1882, Billy was sentenced to two years in the penitentiary on the assault charge, and Kitty’s trial followed in April. Almost from the time she was arrested, many people felt the case against Kitty was weak, and it fell apart when her attorney presented the defense on April 12. He argued that her confession had been coerced and cajoled out of her, that the case boiled down to her word against Lou Allen’s, and that Lou’s testimony was just hearsay at any rate. Kitty was found not guilty later the same day, and no one else was ever charged for the Thompkins murder.
This entry is condensed from a chapter in my latest book, Show-Me Atrocities: Infamous Incidents in Missouri History, which, by the way, I'll be having a book signing for at Always Buying Books in Joplin on Saturday, June 30.
Saturday, June 9, 2018
Triple Lynching at Osceola
In the spring of 1880, St. Clair County, Missouri, had been plagued by an outbreak of crime stretching back several years, and, in many instances, the perpetrators had not been brought to justice because of continuances and other legal maneuvering. On the night of May 12, a mob of vigilantes decided to take matters into their own hands.
About half past midnight, about fifty armed and masked men broke into the St. Clair County Jail at Osceola, dragged Chesley Pierce, John Parks, and William R. Smith out of their cells intent on dispensing their own brand of justice. Eighteen-year-old Pierce had killed William Bohon in January at a schoolhouse east of Osceola, and Parks was arrested as an accessory to the crime. In April, thirty-year-old Smith killed Dave Triplett near Johnson City over an old grudge, and he joined Pierce and Parks in the clink.
By mid-May, Pierce and Parks had already been indicted for murder and were scheduled for trial at the May term of the St. Clair County Circuit Court, while Smith was awaiting the action of a grand jury. Despite the fact that the county prosecutor was under indictment for malfeasance in office, the wheels of justice were still turning in St. Clair County.
But apparently not rapidly enough to suit some.
After dragging the three men from their cells, in the wee hours of May 13, the Moderators, as they called themselves, put ropes around the captives’ necks and marched them a couple of blocks to Fourth and Chestnut, where Smith made a break for freedom. The vigilantes yelled for him to halt, but he ignored the order and was riddled with bullets.
Taking the Humansville Road to the eastern outskirts of town, the vigilantes marched Pierce and Parks to a grove of locust trees in an area known as Happy Hollow, dragging Smith’s body along with them. The live prisoners were strung up to a limb of one of the trees, while Smith’s body was tied to the trunk of a different tree.
After the multiple lynching, the mob rode off in a southerly direction, and the victims were left suspended until after daylight on the morning of the 13th. Found at the scene was a note left by the lynchers saying they were “tiard of the tardiness of the law” in the administration of justice, and they promised that future murderers and horse thieves of St. Clair County would be dealt with in similar manner.
The bodies were cut down and removed to the courthouse, where a coroner’s inquest was held. The jury reached the usual verdict that the three men had come to their deaths at the hands of parties unknown. Thus, another outbreak of mobocracy in Missouri went unpunished.
Condensed from a chapter in my latest book, Show-Me Atrocities: Infamous Incidents in Missouri History.
About half past midnight, about fifty armed and masked men broke into the St. Clair County Jail at Osceola, dragged Chesley Pierce, John Parks, and William R. Smith out of their cells intent on dispensing their own brand of justice. Eighteen-year-old Pierce had killed William Bohon in January at a schoolhouse east of Osceola, and Parks was arrested as an accessory to the crime. In April, thirty-year-old Smith killed Dave Triplett near Johnson City over an old grudge, and he joined Pierce and Parks in the clink.
By mid-May, Pierce and Parks had already been indicted for murder and were scheduled for trial at the May term of the St. Clair County Circuit Court, while Smith was awaiting the action of a grand jury. Despite the fact that the county prosecutor was under indictment for malfeasance in office, the wheels of justice were still turning in St. Clair County.
But apparently not rapidly enough to suit some.
After dragging the three men from their cells, in the wee hours of May 13, the Moderators, as they called themselves, put ropes around the captives’ necks and marched them a couple of blocks to Fourth and Chestnut, where Smith made a break for freedom. The vigilantes yelled for him to halt, but he ignored the order and was riddled with bullets.
Taking the Humansville Road to the eastern outskirts of town, the vigilantes marched Pierce and Parks to a grove of locust trees in an area known as Happy Hollow, dragging Smith’s body along with them. The live prisoners were strung up to a limb of one of the trees, while Smith’s body was tied to the trunk of a different tree.
After the multiple lynching, the mob rode off in a southerly direction, and the victims were left suspended until after daylight on the morning of the 13th. Found at the scene was a note left by the lynchers saying they were “tiard of the tardiness of the law” in the administration of justice, and they promised that future murderers and horse thieves of St. Clair County would be dealt with in similar manner.
The bodies were cut down and removed to the courthouse, where a coroner’s inquest was held. The jury reached the usual verdict that the three men had come to their deaths at the hands of parties unknown. Thus, another outbreak of mobocracy in Missouri went unpunished.
Condensed from a chapter in my latest book, Show-Me Atrocities: Infamous Incidents in Missouri History.
Sunday, June 3, 2018
A Remarkable Case of Infatuation
After Charles Kring killed Dora Broemser, his business partner’s wife, in St. Louis on January 4, 1875, for refusing to leave her husband and marry him, most people thought Kring’s claim that he and Dora had been lovers was either an outrageous lie or the romantic delusion of a raving lunatic. But over the next several years, as the case bogged down in continuances and appeals, public opinion gradually shifted to the point that many people felt Kring had been a victim of Dora’s “cruel seduction.”
In the fall of 1869, Charles Kring married Margaret Recker in Illinois, but Kring was not happy in the marriage. A daughter named Emma was born to the couple in 1870, and the next year the family moved to St. Louis, where Kring, who’d apprenticed as an apothecary in his native Germany, went into the drugstore business.
In the spring of 1872, Kring’s father withdrew his financial support for the project, and Charles had to sell the store. Shortly afterward, little Emma died, throwing Kring into despondency. He and Margaret moved away briefly, and upon their return to the city, Jacob Broemser offered Kring a job as a clerk in Broemser’s drugstore in a St. Louis suburb. When Kring assumed the position in September, Broemser introduced him to his wife, Dora, and Kring was immediately drawn to the beautiful twenty-five-year-old woman.
One night in late October, Broemser’s store caught fire, and Kring and other neighbors suspected that Jake had set the fire on purpose to collect the insurance. Kring took a temporary job at a drugstore in St. Louis, but after a few days Broemser, who’d received his insurance money, tried to persuade Kling into going back into business with him. Kling refused at first but relented after Broemser sent his wife to personally plead the case.
Dora helped out in her husband’s store, and during the winter of 1872-1873, she and Kring were often left alone together when Broemser made trips into St. Louis. Gradually, they fell in love or “became infatuated with each other,” as Margaret later described their relationship.
According to Kring’s story, Broemser confided that he had indeed burned his store to collect the insurance, but Kring kept the secret, even after Broemser burned the second store in April of 1873, because he did not want to disgrace Dora. Kring, who had reconciled with his father, even agreed to help finance a new partnership. By this time, Broemser had begun to suspect his wife and Kring had feelings for each other, but he seemed not to mind greatly. Either he naively trusted them not to betray their marriage vows, or, as Margaret believed, he “was trading upon his wife’s virtue.”
In the summer of 1873, the Krings and the Broemsers moved to Mud Creek, Illinois, where Kring and Broemser again went into the drug business together. Jake again spent a lot of time away from the store. Kring and Dora grew more and more attached, and they finally declared their love for each other and became intimate.
Like Broemser, Margaret also suspected her spouse of being unfaithful, but she would not let herself believe it at first, for she, too, was charmed by Dora Broemser.
Only when Jake Broemser, apparently exasperated at last by his wife’s attentions to Kring, confronted Margaret with a love letter her husband had written to Dora did Margaret finally leave Kring and return to her parents’ home.
Not long after the separation, Kring and the Broemsers moved to Nashville, Illinois. Jake was away on business most of the time, and Kring and Dora, according to Kring’s story, lived almost as husband and wife. A female resident of Nashville later confirmed that everybody in the small town knew an infatuation existed between Charles Kring and Dora Broemser.
In late 1873, the Broemsers moved back to St. Louis, and Kring soon followed. Dora was several months pregnant, and Kring was convinced he was the baby’s father. He confronted Dora, demanding to know whether she would leave her husband and marry him. She wouldn’t give him a definite answer and, instead, led him to believe she was contemplating aborting the child.
Greatly distressed by this news, Kring began to believe that Dora had, after all, only been playing with his affections to get him to go along with her husband’s criminal schemes and to provide capital for Jake’s business ventures. He declared his intention to kill Dora if she refused to leave her husband. If Kring could not have the woman he loved, no one else would have her either.
Much of the foregoing is Kring’s side of the story. What we know from contemporaneous reports is that, after receiving a brief New Year’s greeting from Dora, Kring penned a letter to her on January 2, 1875, again intimating his intent to kill her if she did not leave Jake. On the morning of the 3rd, he wrote another note to her threatening that they would soon lie in one grave, “for we have laid criminally in one bed,” if she did not agree to marry him.
On the evening of January 4, Kring carried out his threat, shooting Dora down at the corner of Fifteenth and Mullanphy streets, after he called her out of her nearby home and she refused to leave her husband for him. He then tried to kill himself, but the pistol misfired. Kring dropped the weapon and ran and then gave himself up at a nearby police station.
The mortally wounded Dora died a few days later. After a series of continuances, Kring went on trial in late December and was found guilty of first-degree murder. An appeal to the Missouri Supreme Court and several more continuances resulted in a new trial in May 1878. It ended in a mistrial when a juryman took sick, and a third trial also ended in a mistrial when the jury could not agree.
At his fourth trial in November of 1879, Kring accepted a deal offered by the prosecution and pleaded guilty to second-degree murder. He was surprised when the judge sentenced him to 25 years in prison and wanted to back out of the deal. The judge refused the motion, and Kring again appealed. Again the supreme court ordered a new trial.
Kring’s fifth trial got underway in May 1881, and he was once again found guilty of first-degree murder and scheduled to hang. Another series of appeals all the way to the US Supreme Court delayed the hanging, and while the case was being decided, Kring told his story to a St. Louis newspaper in early 1882. Reaction to Kring’s autobiography was mixed. Some people partially blamed Kring’s crime on Dora and asked for clemency while others urged that the sentence be carried out promptly.
In April 1883, the US Supreme Court sustained the motion for a new trial. Kring, who was sick, was released on bond and removed to a hospital. He died there on May 17 before having to face a sixth trial. Upon hearing of Kring’s death, most people on the streets of St. Louis expressed the sentiment that he had sufficiently expiated his crime. From a legal standpoint, the case was regarded by many as “the most remarkable in the annals of criminal history in this country.”
This is condensed from my newest book, Show-Me Atrocities: Infamous Incidents in Missouri History.
In the fall of 1869, Charles Kring married Margaret Recker in Illinois, but Kring was not happy in the marriage. A daughter named Emma was born to the couple in 1870, and the next year the family moved to St. Louis, where Kring, who’d apprenticed as an apothecary in his native Germany, went into the drugstore business.
In the spring of 1872, Kring’s father withdrew his financial support for the project, and Charles had to sell the store. Shortly afterward, little Emma died, throwing Kring into despondency. He and Margaret moved away briefly, and upon their return to the city, Jacob Broemser offered Kring a job as a clerk in Broemser’s drugstore in a St. Louis suburb. When Kring assumed the position in September, Broemser introduced him to his wife, Dora, and Kring was immediately drawn to the beautiful twenty-five-year-old woman.
One night in late October, Broemser’s store caught fire, and Kring and other neighbors suspected that Jake had set the fire on purpose to collect the insurance. Kring took a temporary job at a drugstore in St. Louis, but after a few days Broemser, who’d received his insurance money, tried to persuade Kling into going back into business with him. Kling refused at first but relented after Broemser sent his wife to personally plead the case.
Dora helped out in her husband’s store, and during the winter of 1872-1873, she and Kring were often left alone together when Broemser made trips into St. Louis. Gradually, they fell in love or “became infatuated with each other,” as Margaret later described their relationship.
According to Kring’s story, Broemser confided that he had indeed burned his store to collect the insurance, but Kring kept the secret, even after Broemser burned the second store in April of 1873, because he did not want to disgrace Dora. Kring, who had reconciled with his father, even agreed to help finance a new partnership. By this time, Broemser had begun to suspect his wife and Kring had feelings for each other, but he seemed not to mind greatly. Either he naively trusted them not to betray their marriage vows, or, as Margaret believed, he “was trading upon his wife’s virtue.”
In the summer of 1873, the Krings and the Broemsers moved to Mud Creek, Illinois, where Kring and Broemser again went into the drug business together. Jake again spent a lot of time away from the store. Kring and Dora grew more and more attached, and they finally declared their love for each other and became intimate.
Like Broemser, Margaret also suspected her spouse of being unfaithful, but she would not let herself believe it at first, for she, too, was charmed by Dora Broemser.
Only when Jake Broemser, apparently exasperated at last by his wife’s attentions to Kring, confronted Margaret with a love letter her husband had written to Dora did Margaret finally leave Kring and return to her parents’ home.
Not long after the separation, Kring and the Broemsers moved to Nashville, Illinois. Jake was away on business most of the time, and Kring and Dora, according to Kring’s story, lived almost as husband and wife. A female resident of Nashville later confirmed that everybody in the small town knew an infatuation existed between Charles Kring and Dora Broemser.
In late 1873, the Broemsers moved back to St. Louis, and Kring soon followed. Dora was several months pregnant, and Kring was convinced he was the baby’s father. He confronted Dora, demanding to know whether she would leave her husband and marry him. She wouldn’t give him a definite answer and, instead, led him to believe she was contemplating aborting the child.
Greatly distressed by this news, Kring began to believe that Dora had, after all, only been playing with his affections to get him to go along with her husband’s criminal schemes and to provide capital for Jake’s business ventures. He declared his intention to kill Dora if she refused to leave her husband. If Kring could not have the woman he loved, no one else would have her either.
Much of the foregoing is Kring’s side of the story. What we know from contemporaneous reports is that, after receiving a brief New Year’s greeting from Dora, Kring penned a letter to her on January 2, 1875, again intimating his intent to kill her if she did not leave Jake. On the morning of the 3rd, he wrote another note to her threatening that they would soon lie in one grave, “for we have laid criminally in one bed,” if she did not agree to marry him.
On the evening of January 4, Kring carried out his threat, shooting Dora down at the corner of Fifteenth and Mullanphy streets, after he called her out of her nearby home and she refused to leave her husband for him. He then tried to kill himself, but the pistol misfired. Kring dropped the weapon and ran and then gave himself up at a nearby police station.
The mortally wounded Dora died a few days later. After a series of continuances, Kring went on trial in late December and was found guilty of first-degree murder. An appeal to the Missouri Supreme Court and several more continuances resulted in a new trial in May 1878. It ended in a mistrial when a juryman took sick, and a third trial also ended in a mistrial when the jury could not agree.
At his fourth trial in November of 1879, Kring accepted a deal offered by the prosecution and pleaded guilty to second-degree murder. He was surprised when the judge sentenced him to 25 years in prison and wanted to back out of the deal. The judge refused the motion, and Kring again appealed. Again the supreme court ordered a new trial.
Kring’s fifth trial got underway in May 1881, and he was once again found guilty of first-degree murder and scheduled to hang. Another series of appeals all the way to the US Supreme Court delayed the hanging, and while the case was being decided, Kring told his story to a St. Louis newspaper in early 1882. Reaction to Kring’s autobiography was mixed. Some people partially blamed Kring’s crime on Dora and asked for clemency while others urged that the sentence be carried out promptly.
In April 1883, the US Supreme Court sustained the motion for a new trial. Kring, who was sick, was released on bond and removed to a hospital. He died there on May 17 before having to face a sixth trial. Upon hearing of Kring’s death, most people on the streets of St. Louis expressed the sentiment that he had sufficiently expiated his crime. From a legal standpoint, the case was regarded by many as “the most remarkable in the annals of criminal history in this country.”
This is condensed from my newest book, Show-Me Atrocities: Infamous Incidents in Missouri History.
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