Before He Became a Monster: A Story Charles Manson's Time at Father Flannigan's Boystown

by Lawson McDowell

  Gallagher shoved the door almost shut again and looked over his shoulder into the room.

  “It is probably penitents who have come to pray,” Gallagher offered.

  “God must have told them something pretty damn funny. I heard laughter,” Hiram answered.

  “Language, Hiram. What time is it?” Gallagher’s voice projected slight irritation.

  “Late. It’s close to eleven.”

  “I think everything will be alright, Hiram. You run along now. I’m tired. Thank you for telling me, son.”

  The door closed before Hiram was able to bade the priest farewell. He turned and walked away.

  “The mice will play while the cat’s away,” Hiram muttered.

  The priest’s agonizing predicament had started easily enough, as naturally as new leaves budding in spring. Sister Klara was affecting him like nothing he ever experienced.

  She was one of the Polish nuns, Franciscans, sent by the Chicago diocese to serve at Boys Town. She loved her work, her church, her God. And after two years in America, her English was improving daily.

  Sister Klara worked full time in the laundry and in her spare time, taught religious education to the first and second graders. She was sad when Sister Beatrice developed pneumonia and returned to Chicago. Klara quickly volunteered to increase her work load to help with the ailing nun’s clean up duties around the parish.

  Sister Klara came to the associate priest’s residence every Friday after evening prayers, habit clad and rosy cheeked, to clean the home. She glowed with the expectation of a good life in service to the church.

  Not that Father Gallagher was an untidy person for he was not, but to keep the residence clean, she vacuumed, changed sheets, dusted, and gathered dirty towels weekly.

  The weathered old nuns of the order never gave a second thought to her volunteer service, for they were busily engaged in the work of weathered old nuns.

  Father Gallagher saw her rarely at first. His duties kept him busy, leading Mass, taking confessions, visiting the sick, and managing the parish’s business affairs. But with the coming of spring, his routine changed, placing him in the rectory on Friday evenings alone with Sister Klara.

  Even then, they conducted their business separately—he planning parish activities, she dispassionately keeping things in order. Then one evening he heard her singing in his kitchen. He listened and took a closer look.

  Judging from the few features available for viewing, she appeared superbly built, thin and beautiful as a model. When strands of hair slipped from her wimple, they were a rich auburn that matched the scattered freckles on her high cheeks.

  The attraction to Sister Klara during those quiet days was innocent, but hard to deny. Yet he successfully ignored the humming, smiling distraction and immersed himself in work.

  A week after she came to his notice, Sister Klara requested a word with him to discuss her ailing father in Poland. She was worried and wanted to ask about a prayer vigil. Father Gallagher took a genuine interest in her concerns.

  In their second discussion, she cried, and he touched her hand as a gesture of compassion. The electricity between them was unexpected and unmistakable. Her hand was warm and wonderful and seemed to respond to his comforting touch. She thanked the young priest between shuddering breaths.

  For several more sessions, they met, each session involving a hand or arm touch.

  At a time when she thought she was approaching the brink of insanity from worry over her father, Father Gallagher was there. He provided everything she needed for comfort and understanding.

  In the sixth discussion, she told him a letter had come with the sad news that her father had died and was buried a week earlier. She was heart-broken.

  Father Gallagher comforted the young nun and gently stroked her forehead with the same tenderness that Jesus might stroke a child’s forehead, or so they believed. They both felt the warmth of a Holy Spirit enter them like a fire. He held her while she tried to stifle sobs that shook her entire body. Without realizing it, they inched closer until they embraced completely from head to foot, consoling, comforting.

  They talked every Friday. Initially, she confused the man and the priest, thinking them one. But as their sessions continued, she became more comfortable with the man and less needful of the priest, yet never recognizing a transition or the weakness of flesh.

  Not love maybe, but dependence. A friendship sufficiently close to create a longing for further closeness. Had anyone spoken to her of love, she would have disregarded their concerns.

  But as their relationship grew, they felt powerless to prevent regret over sacred vows. No kissing. No sex. Neither spoke of it. He came to realize she was no longer a temptation, but a necessity.

  In a moment of epiphany, she realized she loved him. Everything she knew came apart and came back together differently with a new, bizarre understanding.

  They knew they must stop. They knew things must change. They must.

  But not tonight.

  Chapter 21

  Charlie’s Business - Boys Town, April 1949

  Jake stumbled out of the sacristy with Charlie half-holding, half-guiding him toward the dormitory. No one saw their trek across campus.

  At their room, Charlie pointed Jake toward the bed and let him collapse. Jake was too drunk to pull a blanket over himself. Sleep claimed him within seconds.

  Hiram stirred in his bed long enough to see Charlie spreading a blanket over Jake. He noticed they reeked of wine.

  “I’m glad you’re keeping him quiet,” Hiram whispered. “It just hit me. That was you two whooping it up in the church.”

  “Sometimes he laughed too loud, but he’s a good kid. Good kid,” Charlie whispered back.

  “Good thing the trash can’s close to his bed. He smells like he might need it,” Hiram said, and resettled under his covers.

  Charlie turned out the light and lay in his bed. Moonlight streamed through the window illuminating the room with soft light. Outside, the wind had turned still so that what had been a raw, cold night now seemed pleasantly cool. The window stood open just enough for fresh air.

  Charlie stared at the ceiling, listening to the night sounds floating in from outside. He found sleep elusive and rarely slept more than a few hours per night. He lay planning his next move.

  He disregarded a flock of geese announcing their passage overhead and a dog barking in the distance, but could not ignore the pitiful meowing. Charlie raised the window three more inches, allowing Diablo to jump onto the windowsill and into the room. The two lay together silently. The cat soon slept. With his eyes closed, Charlie looked every bit as if he was asleep too, but his mind was fully conscious in deep thought.

  Just before midnight, vengeance rose from its bed, eyes red and nostrils flared. Charlie slid out the dormitory window as the innocent slept. Unrestrained hatred guided him to the street. He turned toward the chapel and the cottages beyond.

  Jake said the filth sleeps alone tonight in cottage four.

  Twenty-five new cottages on the east side of the campus stood as a physical manifestation of Father Flanagan’s dream to transform Boys Town from dormitory living to family-like homes. Each brick cottage was designed to accommodate boys with bedrooms, a family area, and a shared kitchen.

  Only six cottages were complete and occupied, and of those, occupants were few tonight because of school trips. Only one boy was in cottage four, enjoying full control of his time and the personal belongings of others. Two hours earlier, Link had gone to bed and masturbated twice before falling into a deep sleep.

  Charlie passed like a ghost through the campus, staying in the moon’s shadows so as not to attract attention. But the fact was, if anyone had seen him, it would have been a remarkable thing, for all the boys in the village slept.

  On the road, he recognized the garage where Hiram worked, and next door, he saw the high peaked roof of a home marked with a sign that read “Associate Priests’ Residence.”

  He paus
ed only a moment before deciding to alter his course to circle the modest structure. Not that he was looking for anything, but it struck him that circling the home of the reigning authority might be a worthwhile activity.

  Charlie checked to ensure no one was watching then slipped off the road where his approach was covered by shrubberies. He crept along the side wall toward the back. The fourth window was opened slightly for air. He stopped.

  Gallagher never saw the eyes, watching at the window. Charlie’s nostrils flared, sniffing soundlessly for air-borne information. He studied the sleeping priest. After a minute, Charlie cocked his head curiously for a different perspective—a vantage or scent that might reveal secret information.

  He resumed his walk to the chapel, each step taking him further from the priest, each step building dark intensity and sinister thoughts. In the church, he made his way past Father Flanagan’s crypt, to the front of the church and past the altar to the sacristy. He arrived and opened the closet where the broken Jesus suffered alone.

  In one motion, Charlie reached under the Comet Cleaners bag and with caressing hands pulled the Papal-blessed stole from its hanger. He left the church and returned to the wide lawn.

  Man’s Son slipped along the dark streets and came upon the cottages quiet as a fog. He entered the new neighborhood, scanning the cottage numbers painted on the doorposts. By daylight the doorposts were bright and cheery, but at this dark hour, the red paint under the dim porch lights looked more the color of a spring lamb’s blood. Charlie saw the numbers and passed them by one by one until he came to cottage four.

  Charlie leaned his ear against the front door and heard the faint rumble of snoring. He turned the knob and glided in, determined and lethal. Link was there alright, lying like a fattened hog waiting for slaughter. Snoring led Charlie to the sleeping giant’s bed.

  Charlie hovered over Link, measuring his attack. He saw a jackknife on the dresser. It was the one he had left with Link in the dining hall. Charlie picked up the knife and put it in his coat pocket. Had he wanted to, he could easily have sliced Link open like a cardboard beer carton. But killing Link was not his goal.

  From the dresser, Charlie picked up a baseball, a token captured from an eighth grader mugged in broad daylight. He studied the ball thoughtfully.

  Reaching into his coat, Charlie pulled out, not his knife, but Father Gallagher’s stole rolled scroll-like under his arm. With his left hand he let the stole unroll silently until the ends touched the floor. With his right, he gripped the baseball.

  For a time, he stood over Link watching him sleep. The violent attack came without warning. Like an enraged pitcher, Charlie hurled the ball into Link’s groin. Link screamed with pain and sat up. Charlie was waiting and instantly leapt onto the bed behind his victim. The stole slipped over Link’s head to the throat. The silk tightened with a powerful jerk, cutting off all air.

  Link got his hands up, but the silky jaws of death yielded not. Charlie’s knees slammed against Link’s back as the noose squeezed off blood to the brain. The pain in his balls was of no concern now, not with the urgency for life-giving air and blood.

  Link flailed, but vengeance held, positioned perfectly against Link’s back to avoid being struck or thrown off. Charlie clutched the stole like prey.

  Link’s arms fell as the smell of shit rose from the sheets, permeating the room. His eyes widened with terror and lack of air. He knew he was weakening. The stole that only last week had adorned the priest as he blessed Link and the other students was hurrying him closer to God.

  Charlie’s eyes bulged wildly. His voice pierced the darkness with the intensity of a divine wrath.

  “If you struggle, I will send you to God. You may take one breath. Do you understand?”

  Link became still.

  Charlie loosened his hold to reward Link with, not one, but three gasps before closing off the windpipe again.

  “Your days as a bully are over. Here is a vision for you, asshole: If you ever again mistreat me or Jake or any of my flock, or ever speak evil of me, I will deliver you to the feet of Jesus. Believe this, for you have a choice: atone or die.”

  As Link faced death again, Charlie whispered, “I will let you breathe if you hold perfectly still.”

  Link stopped struggling.

  Charlie loosened the stole enough to allow several gasps.

  “I am deciding whether to end your miserable life now or grant you a chance to prove you can change.”

  Link remained still, sucking in air.

  A hand came up. Charlie cut off all air again. The arm fell in submission. Charlie restored a small air flow.

  “Whether you live or die tonight, today was your last day as a bully. Do you want to live?”

  Link nodded desperately.

  “I worry that you might not change. Can you do it?”

  Link’s head nodded frantically, and he began to whimper.

  Link heard Charlie’s deathly whisper.

  “You don’t want to piss me off. You don’t want me back here again. You understand? Get yourself straight while you still have a chance. You think you’re a big man, but you are vermin. I am your savior, your Jesus.”

  Link listened.

  “I need to know you understand. Do you, Link? Do you understand me?”

  Link nodded.

  Charlie saw the fear in his eyes and fed off its energy.

  “Forgot this not, I will come down upon thee in the night and deliver God’s vengeance. I am Man’s Son.”

  Charlie released his grip from one end of the stole and pulled it free from Link’s neck. Charlie’s arms screamed wonderfully in pain as he stretched his muscles.

  “Goodbye, Link,” he said. “I’ll see you religion class.”

  As he walked out, he gave one final edict, “I think Jake is due an apology. See that he gets it.”

  Overhead, a half-moon now shrouded in clouds provided little light on the quiet street. No one had seen him slip in, and now, there was no one to see him disappear into the darkness. Charlie picked his way past the dining hall, comfortable he could find the way to his bed.

  I believe he will repent.

  Chapter 22

  Jake Calls - Douglas County Health Center, August, 2012

  Alone in the back offices of Bryant Lighting Company, Maggie Bryant replaced the phone receiver. Her mind was spinning from her father’s unexpected call. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples to ease the tension.

  Near the end of her work day, her arthritis was flaring, and a massive headache was setting in.

  I just need a moment to think.

  She rubbed her temples, willing the pain away.

  First things first. I’ve got to cancel my appointment.

  There was no choice really. Dad’s words had hit with startling impact. When a parent calls from the charity hospital and begs his child to come, obligation and guilt will invariably melt away resistance. She had to see him.

  Maggie lifted the receiver and dialed her salon.

  They’ll just have to understand.

  “Becky this is Maggie Bryant.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Bryant. How are you?”

  “Listen, Becky, I’ve got to cancel my appointment for this evening. I just found out my father was taken to the hospital. I’ll have to reschedule.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear it, Mrs. Bryant. You’ve never mentioned your father before. Where does he live?”

  “Dad has lived here in Omaha most of his life,” Maggie said. “I’ll try to call tomorrow to reschedule.”

  Maggie’s short answer was vague and while not unfriendly, it clearly invited no further inquiry. It was as if she was unwilling to reveal her past, and that was the truth of it.

  “Okay. Well, good luck. We can color your hair anytime. It’s more important that you take care of your father.”

  Maggie replaced the receiver and stared blankly at the wall allowing the memories to flood in.

  In the store’s showroom, Maggie’s husban
d of nearly 40 years finished with a customer and watched as the man left with a new lamp.

  Jim Bryant was dressed in tan slacks and blue shirt, the Bryant Company uniform. Tall and good-looking for sixty-three, Jim had been a good husband, providing everything Maggie had ever wanted: love, children, and respect. Together they had resurrected his family’s dying business. In turn, it had provided a comfortable living.

  With the showroom empty for a moment, Jim opened the door behind the counter and disappeared into the back office.

  He heard Maggie sighing deeply and looked in her direction. He saw the look on her face and knew immediately something was amiss.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” he asked.

  She looked at him with pained eyes and felt comforted knowing that they would get through this.

  “I just heard from my father,” she said. “He’s in the hospital and says I need to come.”

  “Accident?”

  “I don’t think so,” she answered. “He wouldn’t say what was wrong, just that he’s sick. He sounded so weak. I barely recognized his voice. There was a nurse with him who wouldn’t let him talk long. I was on the phone less than a minute.”

  “Which hospital is he in?”

  “Douglas County Charity. They call it the Health Center now.”

  “You need to go. Take off. You can be there in twenty minutes. I can close the store and come down later.”

  “You don’t need to come, Jim. You can go home. I put on a pot roast this morning that needs to be turned off. If I’m not home by dinnertime, go ahead and eat. The dogs need attention too.”

  Jim nodded.

  He accepted her plan as the brush-off it was. That was how it always was when her father was involved. Maggie had shielded him from her dad for most of their marriage. And why? He couldn’t figure it out. He doubted that even Maggie could explain her relationship with the old man.

  Jake Bowden was nice enough, never embarrassing, and smart as a tack. But something about daughter and father was standoffish. Most of the time they seemed completely unemotional toward each other.