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

by Lawson McDowell

  It was mid-afternoon when a bored worker on the backup wrench considered the work ahead and estimated they would finish in two hours. He was a thin, twitchy man that reminded his co-workers of a rat. With nothing to occupy his mind, he looked across the empty playing field to the opposite side of the sports center.

  “Hey, Al, look at that.”

  “What is it?” asked the other, focused on the bolt he was torqueing. He was a burly man with U. S. Navy tattoos on both arms.

  “There’s a kid on the other side of the field,” said the first.

  “Where?”

  “Up in the bleachers. He just sort of appeared half an hour ago. Ain’t moved a muscle since.”

  “So what?” the tattooed man asked. “Hand me the ball peen. This bolt ain’t set right.”

  The backup man retrieved a hammer from his tool belt and passed it to the larger man.

  “So, why’s a kid’s in here on a Sunday afternoon? When I was a kid, I sure had better things to do than hang around an empty building.”

  Tattoo’s tone sharpened. “Maybe he’s pouting over something. Who cares? As far as I’m concerned, he’s just another dirty-face orphan looking for an angle. Now, get back to work. We’ve got to show something for the overtime they’re paying.”

  It was Charlie across the way, sitting on the highest row of bleachers, far above the expansive playing floor. He was thinking amid the clangs and clatter as the workmen extended the railings to the opposite corner of the balcony.

  When Charlie retreated to the field house, he wasn’t sure how he felt. Spider was a force to be reckoned with, but Charlie was unsure what to do, if anything.

  Why should I care what happens to Hiram? Leave him to his own destiny, I say. I’ve only known the guy a couple of days.

  He thought longer. Irrespective of Hiram, Spider was too dangerous to ignore. Charlie had seen his kind before; he knew his own proximity to Hiram made him vulnerable too.

  If the shit comes down, and if Spider’s as bad as Hiram says, he won’t leave witnesses. Who’ll care about a missing orphan or two? I’ve got to do something.

  What to do? It was one thing to make up one’s mind about taking action, yet quite another to devise a workable plan.

  What’s the best way to take care of this situation and myself?

  If the workers across the field had been close enough, they would have seen a progression of deliberation in the boy’s face. Initially, they would have noticed the strange wild eyes with their burning gaze and next, perhaps, the slight contractions in his facial muscles before finally, the appearance of a blood-chilling, treacherous smile as a plan formed.

  What they would not have seen was the regret in Charlie’s heart – the realization of painful losses he now faced. Charlie glimpsed the future and knew his life would take a different road – a one-way road away from the redemption he had sought in the failed confession with Gallagher.

  Charlie quarried deep into his soul for hope. Perhaps Spider’s appearance was the jump start he really needed after all. Wasn’t he meant for something better than shoveling shit in the Boys Town stock pens? Maybe it was already time to take the next step toward his real future.

  Gallagher entered the empty dining hall and negotiated his way around the tables and kitchen to the storeroom at the back of the building. He had the key ready and opened the door.

  His unexpected arrival startled two portly mice who had gnawed into a sack of rice and were enjoying a feast. They stopped their meal and stared indignantly at the priest as if daring him to enter the room.

  Gallagher occasionally sought comfort in food, especially when prayer did not soothe his apprehensions. This was one of those afternoons.

  Unlike Hiram, whose frequent storeroom raids were clandestine, Father Gallaher strode through the front door. He had normally only to wait for boys to serve food at his table and to whisk away his dishes after the meal. Today, however, he had immediate need for the consolation that only chocolate could provide, and he knew where it was kept.

  He watched the mice for a moment, then shuffled his feet, startling them into flight.

  Where’s Diablo when you need him?

  He moved a box of canned goods next to the shelves and stepped onto it. It was a practiced moved that extended his reach to the top shelf. He slid aside two boxes of green beans. To his anxious satisfaction, he located his prize, a case of Hershey bars. His mouth watered.

  But when he grasped the treasured box, he noticed that what should have been a heavy carton moved too easily. Then he noticed something else. The box was open.

  Someone has been into the candy! But how? Who would take this chocolate? Only the nuns have keys to the store room. Apparently some of them have developed a sweet tooth.

  He nodded affirmatively, as if he had a full understanding of the missing chocolate. His temper flared at the thought of Franciscans lowering themselves to stealing candy, never equating such action to his own.

  He pulled the Hershey box off the top shelf and slid it onto a lower shelf. Realization smacked him.

  Hiram! Could Hiram have done it? Maybe he came in through the access passageway.

  From his position atop the canned goods carton, he could see the door to the breezeway was indeed unbolted.

  The breezeway. It had been a good idea when it was built and still served the campus well. With solid walls and a good shingle roof, it allowed for weather-free food deliveries. Most students who carried food boxes between the garage and the store room called it a tunnel for there were no windows. But by most standards it was not a tunnel at all but an enclosed hallway extending between the garage and the dining hall. From the outside it assisted as a landscaped windbreak and natural boundary that enforced a predictable route as boys walked from one area of campus to another.

  Few people become more incensed than the privileged whose entitlements are affected. The more Gallagher thought about Hiram, the more indignant he grew. The accusatory thinking soured his mood and revealed itself in an uncharacteristic scowl.

  Hiram relies on his charm to get out of scrapes. He has invariably gotten the best of me in the past with his quick responses, but this time he’ll have some explaining to do.

  An hour earlier, while Charlie organized his thoughts in the bleachers, the Chicago gangster had materialized on the wide lawn near the highway. He worked his way up the hill, strolling casually, and took a seat on a bench beside the traffic circle near the dining hall.

  If Hiram is here, he’ll show sooner or later.

  Spider watched the few comings and goings, studying the faces that wandered by. Hiram never appeared. From somewhere across campus he heard the random sounds of a baseball game.

  Where are you, Mr. Hiram Hubert? Are you playing ball? Maybe I’ll check out the game from behind a tree.. Or maybe you’re at the garage. I’ll bet you’re a dirty grease monkey, like your old man.

  Spider rose from the bench and stretched. He wandered down the street that ran beside the dormitories, and passed the old school and power building on its way to the barns.

  Passing the priest’s residence, he studied the ramshackle building next door. It had two trucks outside, one with the hood open and oil spots on the bare ground. An old radiator leaned against the corner of the building.

  A mechanic’s garage for sure.

  Spider saw the double doors were closed and locked. He circled the building, planning to move on to the barns when he noticed a light shining through a side window. He shielded his eyes from the sunlight and leaned close for a look. He saw movement.

  Someone’s in there.

  Spider returned to the garage doors for a closer look. The padlock hug open in its hasp. He pulled the door ajar and passed inside, his footsteps covered by the air compressor’s sudden chugging and Hiram’s curses at a stubborn fan belt.

  Spider maneuvered a path around the shop clutter, following the banging and cursing. And there was Hiram, bent over a pickup engine, absorbed in his task.


  Hiram never heard a sound as Spider drew close. A cold knife blade touched his throat, then his head was forced down onto the oily engine. The knife sliced shallowly into Hiram’s flesh. Blood trickled onto the engine.

  “Well lookie here. Mr. Hiram Hubert his self,” Spider announced proudly. “I found you, you little shit. Game fuckin’ over. You’re going with me, right now, nice and quiet. No questions. No jibber-jabber. I’m walking out of this shack with my loving arm around my little nephew. Walking straight down the hill to my car where we can talk. Maybe take a little trip.”

  Hiram knew there would be no talk at the bottom of the hill. Most likely there would be a trip to Chicago in the car’s trunk.

  “Now stand up real slow like so I don’t cut you no more.”

  Hiram discerned it was now or never to save himself. His grip tightened on the box-end wrench in his hand. There would be no other opportunities.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll stand up,” Hiram said, his voice muffled, face still pressed against the carburetor. “You won’t have any problems from me.”

  But as Hiram came fully upright, he jerked away from the knife and swung the wrench with all his strength into Spider’s face. The blow was true, opening a nasty gash on the gangster’s cheek. Spider was momentarily stunned.

  In one fluid motion Hiram bolted across the room and disappeared into the midnight blackness of the breezeway.

  Spider followed seconds behind, but as he reached the breezeway door, he hesitated.

  Little shit might be waitin’ for me in the dark with that damn wrench … or worse.

  Beyond the door at the far end of the breezeway, Gallagher satisfied his desire for chocolate and turned his thoughts to other urges. He was consumed with thoughts of Sister Klara and flushed with guilt, as he licked the candy from his fingers. For now he forgot his troubles with Charlie and the archbishop. He set aside his anger at Hiram and hungered over his love for the young nun.

  So engrossed was he in his secret thoughts that the distant sounds of running footsteps in the dark breezeway disturbed only the mice hiding in the shelves.

  Gallagher stood on the carton of canned goods to return the Hershey case to its hiding place on the top shelf.

  In the garage, Spider regarded the route ahead. The breezeway was dark and foreboding. His protective instincts kicked in, like a predator wary about following a badger into its den.

  There’s got to be a damned light switch here somewhere.

  He turned to the shelves next to the doorway, leaning close to the stacked oil cans, looking, feeling for a light switch.

  Suddenly, from the shelves came a fearsome shriek. Razor-sharp claws lashed out. Before Spider could react, Diablo struck, opening wounds on Spiders right eye and eyelid.

  Spider recoiled, holding one hand to his injured eye, the other wildly thrusting the knife at the cat. Diablo escaped by bounding onto Spiders shoulders, digging in his claws before leaping to safety.

  Diablo had given Hiram precious seconds, but Spider recovered quickly and bounded headlong into the darkness, arms and knife outstretched. He made his way down the breezeway following the sounds of Hiram’s footsteps.

  Hiram reached the door at the far end of the breezeway, found the doorknob, and bolted breathless into the dining hall storeroom. He slammed the door shut and threw the bolt. He rested his forehead on the door and allowed himself a moment of relief.

  The priest examined Hiram curiously, almost forgetting that he had only moments earlier been angry at the boy.

  Hiram whirled to leave, never seeing Father Gallagher towering above him, still on the carton of canned goods. Three quick steps and Hiram was out of the storeroom and into the kitchen.

  “Stop!” Gallagher shouted from his perch. But the command only jolted Hiram to run faster.

  “You’re in big trouble, young man!”

  Hiram was already out of the kitchen and sprinting around the tables to the front door.

  “We’ll deal with this tomorrow, Hiram Hubert!” the priest called out to the now-empty kitchen.

  Playing tag in our buildings is unacceptable. There will be a price to pay for this. And I’ll bet Charles Manson is involved.

  On the other side of the door, less than twenty feet away, Spider was coming, knife ready. He heard a man’s voice ahead and stopped. He moved the knife to his left hand and reached for the pistol.

  Thoughts of danger were far from Gallagher’s mind. He gave a harrumph and stepped from the carton to the breezeway door.

  We’ll see about your game of tag. I have a good idea about who’s chasing you.

  Gallagher threw the deadbolt and pulled the door open expecting to face Charles Manson.

  Instead he faced blackness. The only sound from the breezeway was that of fleeing footsteps. Gallagher reached for the switch and flooded the corridor with light. He was rewarded with a glimpse of someone disappearing into the garage at the far end.

  Just as I thought. Charles Manson! I’m certain of it. This will not stand.

  With Hiram gone and pockets heavy with chocolate, Gallagher secured the breezeway door and departed. He pondered what had gotten into Hiram.

  Such rebellious behavior! I don’t expect monastic obedience, but Hiram left in blatant defiance of my instructions. Charles is the cause of this. He and Hiram – and Jake too – have been thick as thieves since Manson arrived.

  As he pulled the storeroom door shut and locked it, he forced his thoughts to calmer, more pleasant fantasies. It soothed his anger to visualize sharing one of the Hershey bars with Sister Klara.

  In the quiet storeroom, the two mice calmed as well. They emerged from their hiding spot and resumed their feast.

  Chapter 41

  Hiram Returns - Boys Town, April 1949

  Hiram made sure no one was outside and stepped quickly from the dining hall to the thick shrubs outside. He was hollow with fear.

  For the first time since his father’s murder, Hiram feared for his life. He had openly disobeyed Father Gallagher and run away for his own protection as well as the priest’s. Righteous as the priest was, Gallagher would be of little help in a fight with Spider. Hiram knew the inevitable outcome if Gallagher tested God’s will against the gangster.

  Hiram remained hidden in the bushes as Gallagher came out of the dining hall and walked past him in the direction of the rectory. There was no sign of Spider.

  It occurred to Hiram that he had to reach the dormitory. Only there would he find relative safety, a place to think and plan. The dorms were close, less than two blocks away. The problem was that leaving the bushes would require him to traverse the open area at the traffic circle. For a while he would be completely exposed and vulnerable to interception.

  Even if I can outrun Spider, I can’t outrun a bullet. There’s no knowing what he’ll do.

  The thought of leaving his hiding spot only to run smack into Spider was terrifying. He shivered at the thought, but within minutes decided his best chance would be to cover the distance to the dormitory at a dead run, stopping for no one or any reason.

  Hiram took several deep breaths to bolster his resolve and then burst from the bushes. He ran for his life, as if the devil were on his heels, which might have been the truth of it except at that moment, Spider was at bent over a water hydrant on the backside of the dining hall washing blood from the wounds inflicted by Hiram’s wrench and Diablo’s claws.

  Charlie was on his bed and in deep thought when Hiram, ashen-faced and out of breath, threw open the door and rushed into the room.

  “You look like shit,” Charlie said. “You alright?”

  “Spider found me. Damn near caught me. Had a knife to my throat. Told me he was taking me on a little trip.”

  Charlie sat up in full alarm. Jake dropped the book he had been reading and stood from the desk chair, knocking it over.

  “What’s going on?” Jake demanded.

  Hiram ignored Jake and addressed Charlie.

  “If he catches m
e, he’ll take me back home to his gang. They’ll torture the truth out of me, and kill me when they get what they want. That’s the only plan he could have.”

  “Calm down,” said Charlie, trying to do so himself.

  “I’m cuttin’ outta here before something bad happens.” Hiram peeked through the venetian blinds and then began pulling belongings from a dresser drawer.

  Charlie spoke firmly. His face was fixed in the rigid lines of unbreakable conviction.

  “Stop, Hiram. Something bad is already happening. You’re not going anywhere yet.”

  Charlie took Hiram by the arm and turned him. They stood motionless facing each other, Hiram’s heart racing with panic. Charlie shook him lightly. Hiram looked daggers at Charlie until he fell into Charlie’s eyes. In them he found the power and safety he needed. He calmed.

  As the moment passed, Hiram shoved the pants he was holding back in the dresser and slammed the drawer shut.

  “Godammit, Charlie. It’s not your life on the line. If you’ve got a better plan than leaving, let’s hear it. And don’t even think about telling me to trust the cops.”

  “No cops. We’re got to deal with this asshole. You can’t spend your whole life running. We’ve got to stop him ourselves. We got to stop him for good.”

  “What d’ you mean we? You kidding me? You’re nothing but a sawed off kid with a guitar. We can’t take on a killer like Spider.”

  “Don’t let panic get the best of you, Hiram. Man’s Son is the one person who can save you.”

  Jake, who had been listening, spoke again.

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”

  Charlie gathered his flock.

  “Sit down, guys. Jake, we’ll get you up to speed. And Hiram, I have a plan, a good one, so calm down.”

  Jake sat on Charlie’s bed, all ears. Hiram sat beside him, but remained on the edge of the bed, tense and ready to spring.

  Charlie took them under his spell, reasserting control. He spoke in soft tones giving assurances, support and telling them the words they needed to hear. As Charlie talked, Hiram regained composure. He trusted Charlie. Jake began to realize the danger they faced. He believed Charlie was their way to salvation.