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Nelson sagged onto a couch, stuck his pistol inside his coat, and began petting the Langes’ dog, which began barking. After resting a few minutes, he pointed his gun at the frightened couple and said he wanted Lange to drive him in his car, a 1932 Chevrolet coach. Mrs. Lange began to cry. Nelson needed her to calm down, but as always the human touch that came so easily to Dillinger eluded him. “Come on now, shut up” was the best he could come up with.

The Langes put on their coats and got in the car, Mr. Lange driving with Nelson beside him. The headlights wouldn’t come on. Nelson told him to drive anyway. Lange edged out onto Route 51 and turned right, toward the Birchwood Lodge a half mile down the road. The car had only gone a few hundred yards when it stalled.

Nelson was in a precarious position; any minute he expected a carload of FBI men to drive by. To his left he saw a house ablaze in light. “Who lives there?” he asked Lange.24

“Alvin Koerner,” Lange said.

Koerner was the switchboard operator. At that moment he was sitting with his wife in his living room, petrified, having heard the gunfire at Little Bohemia followed by the panicked call from the wounded John Morris. His maid and two children were asleep in a back room. Peeking out his window, Koerner saw the Langes’ car before he saw them, and hurriedly telephoned Birchwood Lodge to report it.

Nelson shoved his pistol into George Lange’s back and marched the couple up the muddy lane to Koerner’s front door. Koerner, not seeing Nelson behind them, let the trio in. Nelson announced he wanted the Koerners to drive him to the town of Woodruff. Koerner, groping for an excuse, said he couldn’t; he had children to care for. Nelson trained his gun on him and said it didn’t matter.

The two men were still arguing when a car drove up.

“Who’s that car belong to?” Nelson demanded.

“Don’t know,” said Koerner.

It was George LaPorte and a friend named Carl J. Christiansen (no relation to the constable), who after declining to pick up the hitchhiking Van Meter had stopped by Little Bohemia, where Emil Wanatka and his two employees jumped in the car. Wanatka’s group needed coats and had decided to come to Koerner’s to get some. Leaving Christiansen in the car, the men walked into the house. Nelson let them in. “Hello, Jimmy,” the bartender said. The two men had gotten along well that weekend; Nelson was a great tipper. “Never mind the bullshit,” Nelson said, producing the pistol. “Just line up against the wall.”

Wanatka reached for Nelson’s gun. “Put that gun down, Jimmy,” he said. “These people are friends of mine.”

Nelson stepped back.

“Who’s in that car out there?” he asked Wanatka.

“Nobody,” Wanatka said, forgetting that Christiansen was still in the backseat.

“Are there any G-men in that car?”

“No.”

“Now I’m getting out of here,” Nelson said, motioning to Wanatka and Koerner, “and you two are going with me.”

Nelson jabbed the gun toward the two men and they walked outside. Mrs. Koerner began to cry. Nelson ordered Wanatka to drive; he sat beside him in the front seat, keeping the pistol pointed at his side. Koerner got into the backseat beside Carl Christiansen.

“Jimmy,” Wanatka said, “I have no keys for this car.”

Just then a car drove up behind them. At the wheel was Agent Jay Newman.

Adrenaline surged through Nelson as he leveled his gun inches from Agent Newman’s face.

“I’ll kill you!” he snarled. “Get out of that car!”

Newman leaned back in his seat, hoping Carter Baum, who had a submachine gun in his lap, or the constable, Carl Christiansen, might take a shot. When neither man moved, Newman slid his hand inside his coat and reached for his pistol.

“Don’t reach for that gun!” Nelson said. “I’ll kill you! Now get out of the car!”

Newman stopped. Beside him Baum, the agent stricken by guilt over shooting an innocent man, ducked his head behind Newman’s shoulder, as if to hide; he made no move for his gun. Christiansen ducked his head behind