Gallagher was reviewing the preliminary files bringing Charles Manson to Boys Town when he heard a knock at the door.
“Please enter,” he called, rising to greet his guest who was already opening the door.
He saw instantly the boy was not with the cop. The cop and the priest hurried through the well-mannered introductions. Neither, it seemed, wanted to delay getting down to business. The priest made the first move at the edge of politeness.
“Sister Agatha tells me you have our new student.”
“He’s outside with her now,” said Carl. “A real nasty one this boy is.”
“Oh?” Gallagher asked. His tone revealed neither surprise nor disappointment.
“For the sake of this discussion,” the priest said, “let’s assume I don’t know anything about young Mr. Manson. Tell me your concerns.”
“Well, there may not be a lot about it in the file, but you should know the little prick, pardon my French, led a big jail break that got a long-time jailer fired. Stole a car for his getaway. We’re lucky he’s so short. He could barely see over the steering wheel. Might not have caught him otherwise.”
“And those details are not in your papers today?” Gallagher queried.
“I hope so, but I’m not sure. I have several documents including court papers for you, Father.” Carl offered a file folder to the priest.
The folder contained two sealed envelopes that originated from different worlds. One came from the theological world of optimism, the other from the darker, grittier world of law enforcement.
“This thick envelope, the one from the Indianapolis Police Department, has the court orders and releases.”
The cop made no comment on the second envelope. It was thin, perhaps no more than one or two written pages, he thought. It showed a return address of the Catholic Diocese of Indianapolis.
Gallagher instantly recognized the handwritten address and was surprised.
It’s Father Powers’ handwriting. The letter is addressed to me personally.
Gallagher knew Monsignor George Powers. He was one of the most revered clergymen he had ever encountered. Powers had been his sponsor while he studied in Rome.
I haven’t heard from him in over two years. Strange how he would surface in connection with this wayward boy. Why is Powers involved? What will he have to say?
You never knew for sure with Father Powers, for he was a man of varied opinions, sometimes taking positions that baffled and challenged the imagination.
Despite his curiosity, Gallagher set aside the church letter for the moment and opened the thicker packet from the Police Department.
The detective watched Gallagher unfold the Captain’s letter. As Gallagher began reading, a small newspaper clipping fluttered onto the desk.
Gallagher picked up the clipping and set it aside.
He read the letter.
Indianapolis Police Department
Indianapolis, Indiana
March 9, 1949
Monsignor Nicholas Wegner
Boys Town
Omaha, Nebraska
BY HAND DELIVERY
Re: Charles Maddox Manson
Dear Father Wegner:
Attached are court orders from the Juvenile Court of Indianapolis directing the Indianapolis Police Department to deliver Charles Manson to the Boys Town facility at Omaha, Nebraska per previous arrangements.
Although only fourteen, Manson has proven himself a practiced burglar. At the county jail he organized and led a mass escape of 50 juveniles. He is suspected in up to thirty burglaries over the past two years in Indianapolis.
He may have a tendency toward violence, although some of this might be driven by self-defense. While at the Gibault School for Boys, he received no visitors and required frequent discipline.
I strongly encourage you to house this individual in a lockdown environment, at least initially.
Please sign the attached court-ordered affidavit acknowledging Mr. Manson’s arrival and acceptance at Boys Town.
Sincerely,
D. R. Schnell, Captain.
Enclosures
When he finished reading the letter, Gallagher picked up the newspaper clipping from the desk and browsed it.
“This is about a school that burned in McMechen, West Virginia, several years ago. Is this part of the file?”
“No, Father. I have no idea how that got in there,” Carl grinned. “But now that you raise the question, I recall that your new boy was a suspect in the case, the only suspect. He was living with an uncle at the time. Nothing was ever proven though.”
Gallagher corralled his first inclination to defend the boy.
“Based on the dates, he would have been only nine years old at the time of the burning,” Gallagher observed.
“Right,” said Carl. “I’m sure there’s nothing to it. Who ever heard of a nine-year-old burning a school?”
Gallagher set the clipping aside and thumbed through 20 pages of court documents. He located the signature lines where Boys Town would officially accept Charles Manson.
But first, there was the other letter, the one from Father Powers.
Gallagher recalled how he had grown into a promising priest under Powers’ tutelage, or so the archbishop had told him. The older priest had also been responsible for his assignment to Boys Town and the Immaculate Conception Parish.
At the time, Gallagher had desperately wanted his own parish and was bitterly disappointed with the Omaha assignment.
It was Powers who had softened the blow with his encouragement.
“You’ll find your future at Boys Town. It’s a place where we want our best priests. The Lord will provide challenges you can’t find anywhere else.”
Lord knows that was an understatement. The last time I saw Father Powers, he was leaving for Rome with a new group of priests-in-training.
Gallagher picked up the letter and read with reverence in his heart.
March 8, 1949
Fr. Sean Gallagher
Boys Town, Omaha, Neb.
Care of Indianapolis Police Department
Dear Father Gallagher,
I hope this finds you safe, well and prospering in the favor of our Lord and Savior. The Omaha diocese informed me this afternoon that you are overseeing Boys Town while the staff is away on important duties.
This morning, I appeared before Judge Hoffman in the Indianapolis Juvenile Courts on behalf of Charles Manson. I found success in convincing the judge to approve his assignment to Boys Town.
Charles is a fourteen year old boy who has never had a chance to succeed. His mother is a prostitute who rejected him at an early age. The boy has been living on his own or in state facilities most of his life.
I met him at the Gibault School for Boys where he impressed me with his charm and charisma. He is quite gifted and seems sincere about improving his lot in life.
I believe Charles can be guided to fulfill a promising future. As you become acquainted with him, I hope you will see his potential. He is one, who if converted, can successfully carry the word of the Lord to the world.
I am placing my faith in you, Father Gallagher, to achieve a minor miracle with Charles Manson.
My reputation rests on your success in this difficult mission. I told Judge Hoffman that you are the best person I know to turn him around.
I wish you well, my son.
In the name of our Lord,
Rev. Msgr. G. Powers
Enclosures
Gallagher looked at Monsignor’s authoritative signature and suddenly felt as insecure and lacking as he had ten years ago as a student leaving to study in Rome.
There was a newspaper article with Powers’ letter, not a small back-page footnote like the one about the burned school. The article was a two-column front page feature article from the Indianapolis News dated Monday, March 7, 1949. It included a photograph of a smiling judge shaking hands with a boy wearing a coat and tie. The boy’s smile was equally as big as the judge’s.
DREAM COMES TRUE
HE’S GOING TO BOYS TOWN
Charles Manson, 14, a “dead-end kid” who has lived in an emotional “blind alley” most of his life is happy today. He’s going to Boys Town.
At a hearing in Juvenile Court this morning he learned the good news that he had been accepted by the famous nonsectarian refuge for “homeless and abandoned boys” near Omaha.
The gentle hand of the late Father Edward Flanagan thus reached out to touch another young life with the gift of hope.
Charles had been day-dreaming about Boys Town. That’s where they have rolling farm lands, big red-roofed barns and cows and horses.
HE LIKES ANIMALS
Wistfully Charles told Judge Joseph O. Hoffmann, “I think I could be happy working around cows and horses. I like animals.”
For the young boy, Father Flanagan’s institution means an escape from “home,” but not home as other children know it.
“Home” to Charles Manson means living with a drunken mother. It meant being told
“Get out of the house” while she entertained a “boyfriend.”
Charles hated it so that he got a job as a messenger and rented a room downtown where he could sleep. Left to his own devices, Charles got into trouble with the law. He stole.
He was caught when his mother, wanting to get him out of the way, told police where they could find him.
She was surprised when police arrested her too. The charge was adultery. Released on her own recognizance, she “skipped town” to escape prosecution.
Charles doesn’t know where his mother is today. It’s hardly surprising that he doesn’t care.
In fact, Charles told the court that there were only three persons in his life for whom he did care – an uncle with whom he lived for a time, a priest at the Gibault Home for Boys, Terra Haute, and another priest who visited him at the Juvenile Center.
When Charles was placed at Juvenile Center, he remembered the kindliness of the man who wore the collar and wondered if he could talk to the Catholic father who visits children in the center.
It was the beginning of the third friendship in the boy’s life. To the priest, he expressed his desire to become a Catholic and live in a home “something like Gibault.”
The answer came in a letter to Judge Hoffman from Msgr. Nicholas Wegner of Boys Town. It was a letter of acceptance.
Charles will go to Boys Town cheered by the wishes of his neighbors who Sunday raised enough money for an outfit of new clothes.
Gallagher laid the article aside and turned his attention to the detective who was staring back impatiently.
“You can’t believe that shit, Father. Pardon the French again,” Carl blurted.
“How so?”
“This kid is a con artist. He told the judge and that do-gooder priest exactly what they wanted to hear. He worked his lying jaw overtime trying to get sent here. The toughest juvenile judge in the state got talked out of sending this thug to the reformatory, which is where he belongs.”
“We will consider your comments when we make our own evaluations,” Gallagher said.
“Don’t expect much. The sordid truth is that when he was a baby and toddler, his alcoholic, prostitute mother traded him for a pitcher of beer on many occasions. His uncle, when he was sober and out of jail, had to find the boy and bring him home. That’s the trashy baggage this boy brings with him.”
In a world where few stories surprised the priest, Gallagher found his heart aching.
“And there’s more, Father. If the boy gives a clue of past abuse, you can bet there’s a story that he is hiding deep inside. People hide abuse from the world. They feel shame and humiliation over it. I think that’s why he’s a mean, hateful cuss. He believes every authority figure is going to hurt him.”
“Society and family have failed this child,” Gallagher said. “We’ll try to do a better job at Boys Town. We believe there is no such thing as a bad boy, detective.”
The priest, anxious to meet the boy, signed the papers and shoved them across the desk to the detective.
“I’d like to meet Charles now. Can you bring him in?”
“I’ll leave you with this, Father. No one at the department can figure the kid out. He’s smart and unpredictable. He changes constantly, adapts like a chameleon. They say he’s always at the extremes of feelings. When he’s happy, he’s ecstatic. And when he’s angry, he has what the department shrink calls ‘volatility.’ The kids here better watch themselves.”
Carl gave the priest a nod and disappeared out the door long enough to return with the boy.
Chapter 9
Charlie Meets Father Gallagher - Boys Town, April 1949
The squeaky hinge on the conference room door announced Charles Manson’s arrival as he and Carl stepped into the priest’s world. The boy paused momentarily to examine his new surroundings and the priest facing him across a huge desk.
Charlie had never met a priest who didn’t look angry. Maybe a few of them were likeable, but they always looked so annoyed. So far, the priest behind the desk looked no different. He was younger than the others priests he’d met, but still pretty much what he expected. He had a stern face, clean shaven, not a hair out of place, and with a suspicious, or at least edgy, expression.
“This is Charles Manson,” Carl said by way of an unneeded introduction.
Gallagher stood expecting to shake hands, but instead, Manson was already looking away, studying a large painting on the sidewall nearest the desk. The image was of Christ as a boy sitting in the Jerusalem temple surrounded by astonished teachers who listened in awe.
Gallagher turned to the policeman.
“Thank you, detective,” he said in a clearly dismissive tone. “I’ll take it from here. Thank you for delivering Charles safely. Would you mind closing the door on your way out?”
The cop knew his cue and began his exit.
“Sure, Father.” The cop slipped out the door and wasted no time in directing the taxi to Omaha’s Union Station. With any luck he could catch the Evening Limited and be home in time to salvage the weekend.
Father Gallagher looked at the young man who had made himself comfortable in an overstuffed chair, and who had, so far, ignored him. The room went silent. The hushed footsteps of students passing in the hallway was the only sound in the room.
Gallagher allowed Manson a few more uninterrupted seconds, filling the time straightening files and opening the intercom to the church office.
“Sister Agatha?” the priest called.
“Yes, Father.”
“Will you check the student schedules and help me locate Jake Bowden? I’d like him to come to the conference room as soon as he can get here.”
“Right away, Father.”
It’s time to break the ice and see what we have on our hands. Make it authoritative, yet friendly.
“The policeman certainly seemed in a hurry,” Gallagher began. “He must be anxious to get back to Indianapolis.”
Charlie, still focused on the painting of young Jesus, spoke without diverting his gaze.
“There’s a big barbeque at the cop credit union this weekend. The thought of missing a free meal made him pissy all the way to Omaha. I’m surprised he didn’t dump me at St. Louis when we changed trains. Good thing he had papers to get signed. Plus he’s angry because he was the one who got stuck bringing me.”
Ignore the flippant edge in his tone. It’s almost like I’m the one in an uncomfortable situation. Don’t let him get to you. Give it time.
“We’re happy to have you here, Charles. I am Father Sean Gallagher. I’m an associate priest here at Boys Town.”
There was no response from Manson, who continued studying the painting.
Gallagher interrupted the silence with a different approach.
“Normally the Boy’s Town director, Monsignor Wegner, would be here to personally greet you. He likes getting to know our new boys. He enjoys familiar
izing them with how we do things at Boys Town. Unfortunately he is out of town now with most of his staff and our choir.”
Charlie abandoned the painting and turned piercing, knowing eyes on the priest.
“Sounds like the big guy left you with the whole kit and caboodle while he and everyone else are gone on a fun vacation.”
“We all help out where we can,” Gallagher answered.
“But I’ll bet you’re not happy having to double up on all those other jobs.”
From an almost imperceptible facial response, perhaps an involuntary twitch in a lower eye-lid, or a pupil contraction, Charlie saw he had found a chink in the priest’s armor.
“That happened to me last month at the jail laundry in Indianapolis. I got stuck with all the work. I guarantee there were some new holes in the prisoner stripes before I was through. I’ll bet you know what I mean, right, Father?”
Gallagher ignored the obvious control tactic, trying again to bring the meeting back to business on friendly terms.
“Here at Boys Town, you’ll be living in a dormitory with roommates. One of the boys you’ll live with is Jake Bowden. He’s on the way here now to show you around and explain our rules. He’s part of your new family.”
“Family, huh?”
Gallagher could not read Charlie’s tone.
“We’ll let you shadow Jake for a few days until you’re settled in and you get a permanent schedule. Incidentally, what grade are you in?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been to a real school. I can’t read all that well.”
“You can’t?” Gallagher asked.
“No one ever taught me. But that’s okay. God’s given me a different kind of wisdom. I’ve been able to fend for myself most of the time.”
Gallagher wasn’t surprised. Many rebellious boys arrived at Boys Town lacking basic reading skills.
“We can check your reading proficiency. It’s not a concern at this point. Boys Town can teach you almost anything you’d ever want to know. We’re excited about our new vocational training available for our boys. You name a job, and Boys Town probably offers the training. Auto mechanics, hair cutting, accounting, food processing, all facets of agriculture and raising livestock. Father Flanagan used to say, ‘Everyone can be taught a craft.’ It all depends on what you want to become.”
Before He Became a Monster: A Story Charles Manson's Time at Father Flannigan's Boystown Page 5