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

by Lawson McDowell

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photo copying, recording or otherwise without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to:

  RAWR Publishing Company

  P. O. Box 241396

  Omaha, NE 68124

  IBSN-13: 978-1481283809

  ISBN-10: 1481283804

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62347-905-3

  2013

  Text copyright 2013 by Lawson McDowell

  RAWR Publishing Company

  Omaha

  Cover Design

  KathyDinkel

  Visual Statements

  Omaha, NE

  There is no such thing as a bad boy.

  Father Edward Flanagan

  Boys Town, Omaha, Nebraska

  I turned the devil loose on the world.

  Charles Manson

  1986 – Parole hearing

  Contents

  Author’s Introduction

  Foreward

  Prologue 1

  Prologue 2

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue

  Conclusions

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Author’s Introduction

  This tale is a mixture of fact and speculation about Charles Manson and his time at Father Flanagan’s Boys Town in Omaha, Nebraska. It should be considered historical fiction.

  The story’s 1949 timeframe and Boys Town context are correct. While I do not represent that this account is a full and accurate depiction of events, there is more truth than many will want to believe.

  The essential fact is that Manson was a student at Boys Town, not long, but he was there, and he left in a hurry. Manson is Boys Town’s most well-known personality, exceeding even Father Flanagan’s considerable name recognition.

  Manson, of course, is best known for orchestrating seven barbaric slayings in Los Angeles during the free love, counterculture summer of 1969. The victims included actress Sharon Tate, the pregnant wife of director Roman Polanski, Abigail Folger, the coffee heiress, and Jay Sebring, a noted hairdresser to the stars.

  Nothing in Manson’s past compares to the impact of the horrendous murders: not recording music with The Beach Boys, not chumming with Jerry Garcia of The Grateful Dead, not rubbing shoulders with Hollywood’s elite, not recordings of his music by Guns N’ Roses, Marilyn Manson, or the alternative rock group Lemonheads.

  Charles Manson is recognized as one of the most evil mass murderers of all time. His name continues to strike fear into those who followed the events of 1969. To most, he is a fiend who took control of the minds of good sons and daughters for his own wicked purposes. We cringe considering what powers a man possesses who can require homecoming queens and hero-athletes to murder for him.

  The shocking slayings—with 169 stab wounds at the Polanski and LaBianca homes and messages written in blood—fulfilled the dark prophecies of old men in coffee shops across the nation. They had said for years that hippies were a no good sorry lot who would cut your throat for a dollar. And with the Manson Family’s grisly murders, they could say, “I told you so.”

  For his crimes, Charles Manson is serving a life sentence. He is currently held in a California State Prison in Corcoran, California, fifty miles south of Fresno. CSP-COR, as it is known, is a maximum security prison in the desert where California isolates its most feared criminals.

  Manson is caged in a small, ultra-secure housing unit that separates him and other celebrity prisoners from the general population. Manson’s cellblock mates have included Robert Kennedy’s assassin Sirhan B. Sirhan, mass murderer Juan Corona, who killed 25 migrant workers, and the parent-murdering Menendez twins. The bizarre collection of people also includes turncoat gang leaders and drug lords, all of whom require protection. They live together, play board games, and sleep on concrete beds. Manson strums away on his guitar and, for the most part, follows prison rules.

  Manson is an old man now and is kept apart, not for the safety of others, but for his own well-being. The prison recognizes that he and the others in the protective unit would be desirable trophy kills for any prisoner seeking notoriety.

  Decades after his conviction, Manson is still a relevant factor in American society. More people have sent him letters than any other prisoner in American history. He is an anti-establishment icon embraced by today’s youth. Young people write hundreds of letters every month asking advice. His followers are disturbingly dedicated. Whether they live near the prison or across the world, they are ready to do his bidding. He ignores nearly all inquiries, as he did mine for months.

  Manson is noted for his reclusive nature and distrust of strangers. It took over a year for me to clear Manson family vetting and talk directly with him over the prison’s recorded telephone lines. Even then, he flatly stated, “You, in your square box, are not a nice person and certainly not a friend.” Yet, the things he says hint at answers to questions that still haunt the world.

  But before he became a monster, Manson was a 14-year-old troubled boy who made his mark on Father Flanagan’s famous institution. His time at Boys Town was less than a week. Most sources set his stay at four days. Boys Town says it was five days. Manson himself doesn’t remember the duration. Regardless of the exact interval, Manson’s stay remains shrouded in mystery.

  Charles Manson knows about this book. From 2010 to 2012, Manson and I communicated about his time in Boys Town, his life, and the crimes that made him infamous. We still talk occasionally.

  Manson has positive recollections of Boys Town, far better than his bitter memories of the monks at Father Gibault’s Boys Home in Terra Haute, Indiana.

  Manson fondly recalls Boys Town’s priests, the beautiful chapel and new buildings. He remembers his friends, the weather and the diary. He laughs about his first encounter with the nun who took away his Marlboros. “She called me a dead-end Irish boy,” he says.

  And while he vividly describes the train ride to Omaha and his arrival, his sharp memory dulls when asked about why he left so abruptly. Manson only deepened
the mystery about his hasty disappearance, adding little to the scanty accounts previously published. “Let’s just say Omaha is too cold for me,” he says.

  Boys Town, too, is restrained about Manson’s departure. Said a spokesperson, “We consulted with our attorneys and can tell you only that Manson’s file shows he was here five days. All other detail, including the exact dates and details are sealed.”

  At Boys Town there is nervousness in the air when Manson’s memory is resurrected, and for good reason. Instead of becoming an astronaut, famous musician, or great leader, Manson traveled a different road.

  He had just turned 14 when an Indiana priest appealed to the courts to spare the young burglar from hard time. There was still hope for Charlie Manson when he came to Omaha. Despite his troubled past, the Indianapolis judge, a priest, and even Charlie himself believed there was a bright future ahead.

  Charlie graduated from Boys Town, but not in the traditional sense. He advanced from felony burglary to armed robbery, auto theft, pimping, and, ultimately, murder.

  For the events at Boys Town that occurred or were rumored, Manson made an impact that lasted long after his departure. His exploits were legendary among the boys through much of the 1950s. Then, as boys grew and graduated and left to be replaced by other boys, the stories were forgotten so that by the 1960s no one remembered or cared about him.

  When Manson’s name hit the headlines in 1969, few connected him with the skinny kid who had passed through Omaha twenty years earlier.

  The question this work attempts to address is how life could have gone so wrong for a talented boy who had so much to offer.

  Manson is no stranger to the types of events presented in this book. His use of strong arm tactics, crucifixion reenactments, music, and race relations all played, he thought, to his advantage in leading his flock.

  Is he evil? Is he insane, believing he is a modern incarnation of Jesus Christ? Is he possessed by demons, as some suggest? Or, was he simply the product of bad mothering and a society not equipped to deal with a unique individual? Without question, society’s safety nets failed to save Manson.

  Perhaps he was, as he himself proposes, the expendable pawn of media and law enforcement industries in need of a monster.

  Those who debate these questions do not have the answers. Nor do I.

  Lawson McDowell

  Foreward

  By Jake Bowden

  Jake Bowden. That’s the name they gave me for my story. It’s a decent name, I suppose, but it’s not my real name. Jake Bowden is a made-up name, one of those fake names used to protect the innocent. Funny thing is, I’m not so innocent, and I don’t need protection.

  I agreed to the name Jake Bowden for one reason: to protect my daughter. God knows, a book about me and Charles Manson could attract people to my baby—everyone from newsmen to the curious and the evil. She doesn’t deserve that sort of attention, even after I’m gone.

  The cancer is close to ending things for me. I’ve found it’s a pitiful situation when a man ends up bedridden and unable to do anything for himself. I can’t even pee without help. Most of the time, I can’t get out of bed at all. So, I’m not the important one. I’ll be dead soon. For my sake, it doesn’t matter at all who knows my name. Only Maggie matters.

  My nurses read the manuscript to me in my room, and helped me with this forward. I agree that the story is pretty close to how things happened.

  Looking back, it seems strange how events unfolded, how Charlie showed up at Boys Town at the same time Father Gallagher was cracking up. Charlie’s arrival was like a far-reaching butterfly effect that changed the courses of many lives.

  Even though I left Boys Town, I never forgot Charlie or the things we went through. For years I sold newspapers and magazines at a certain newsstand in downtown Omaha. For those who knew me, I want to say how much I appreciated your tips. Many days those extra quarters made the difference in whether I ate or not.

  All those years you never knew my secrets. I might have talked about Boys Town, but I never mentioned Charles Manson.

  As you read this, I ask one thing. Do not judge me harshly for the Los Angeles murders. Those happened years after I knew Charlie. I had no involvement.

  It may seem strange that after 63 years I’ve decided to come clean about what happened. I had good reasons to keep quiet about it. And now I’ve got reasons just as strong for speaking out. God knows I’ve carried a terrible weight for years.

  I figure it will be better for me to explain things than to have the Manson Family blindside my daughter with information she’s not prepared for. Charlie’s “family” is still out there, you know, and they’re just as fanatical and loyal as they’ve ever been. They’ll do anything for him. I had that same loyalty a long time ago.

  So it’s for her, my dear girl, Maggie, that I’m telling what happened. She’s always asked. Always wondered. I hope the money helps her. It’ll be a shock when she learns about it.

  She needs to know. I’m almost out of time to make things right, and now they’ve dug up the body.

  Before you read my story, I should say something about Boys Town and the priests. If the writer missed the mark at all, it was that he didn’t stress the devotion of the priests and staff.

  Father Gallagher, in particular, was a good man who knew how to deal with kids. He was the man who had to face Charles Manson. The priests are human, you know, with problems and frustrations just like regular people. I’ve often wondered how he handled things as well as he did.

  I can still picture Father Gallagher. He was a rugged and chiseled looking cuss for a 28-year-old man. He had one of those hard faces that seemed so common for men who lived through the Great Depression.

  With that tough look and with naturally dark skin, he was an authority figure that we boys paid attention to.

  So, now I will say it. Charlie was special to me. I liked him. I loved him. In my heart, I’ve always thought Charlie might have succeeded if he had stayed at Boys Town – if we hadn’t committed our own murder. Our lives changed forever after that.

  PROLOGUE 1

  Indianapolis, 1947

  The unexpected crash of a metal can alerted the cop in the same way the scent of blood attracts a shark. Patrolman Malloy froze to allow his senses to gather information.

  Someone’s there.

  He pulled the blackjack from his belt and moved cautiously into the dim alley behind a greasy spoon cafe on the bad side of Indianapolis.

  Lowlife thief. I’ll stop this shit. Careful now. Careful. Yeah. There he is, digging in the garbage.

  “Hey you! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  A thin boy, no more than twelve or thirteen years at most, stood upright.

  “Lookin’ for food,” he answered.

  “You can’t look for food here,” the cop’s voice more forceful now.

  “Ain’t no sin to eat unwanted food from a trash can,” the boy argued.

  “I didn’t say it was a sin, goddamit, but it’s against the law, ain’t it? You can’t take things what don’t belong to you.”

  “But I’m hungry. It don’t seem right for me to starve when there’s half a hamburger here. It won’t do anybody any good at the dump. It’s trash.”

  “But it ain’t your trash, is it?” The cop’s tone was increasingly sarcastic and derisive. “Get your ass home, boy. If your people are on hard times, there are churches and charities to feed street urchins like you. The thing is: you can’t steal, not on my beat. Now, get moving.”

  The cop slammed the blackjack against a trash can for punctuation.

  Disgusting little punk. His folks ought to be horse whipped.

  The boy stood his ground and glared at the cop with intense, unnerving eyes. Alarm bells sounded in the cop’s brain.

  “Get going,” the cop demanded. His voice was strong, but the thoughts behind it were stricken with doubt recalling last week’s reports of a young boy who had shot a cop in an alley only a few miles aw
ay.

  .22 caliber rat-shot to the left eye. Cop, like me, blinded for life. Probably no chance it’s the same kid.

  The cop shoved back the worry and held a stern gaze in the stare-down.

  The boy blinked first, turning away without a word and walked toward the opposite end of the alley, all the time scouring doorways and abandoned cars for something he might need.

  The cop grunted at the small victory and returned to his beat.

  Like juvenile officers who knew the boy in Ohio and Indiana, Officer Malloy ignored the unalterable rule of mankind: that, faced with starvation, people, including 12-year-old boys, will do whatever it takes to stay alive.

  Two nights later, the 12-year-old boy progressed from pilfering trash cans to breaking and entering.

  At a central Indianapolis grocery store, he lowered himself through a window to gather food.

  Behind the counter, he found a box that made him drop his stolen bread and bologna. He rejoiced finding the next morning’s startup money, over a hundred and fifty dollars.

  PROLOGUE 2

  Indianapolis City Jail, December, 1948

  Fifty boys lined the cell block hallway, waiting alert and nervous for any sign that the breakout was beginning.

  Their ages ranged from 14 to 17. They were a motley collection of shoplifters, vandals, and car thieves. Indianapolis street urchins. Two were in jail for assault, one for arson. One was a 15-year-old drunk whom police had found unconscious in a grocery basket dressed in only his underwear.

  Every boy knew that time was running short before Fats Miller, the night guard, would awaken from his nap and make his rounds. Minutes saved now would be extra time they needed to escape cops who would scour the city for them.

  Around the corner, at the front of the line, their de facto leader was a scrawny 13-year-old boy with a flashy smile. Smaller than most kids his age, he struggled with a hacksaw blade lifted from a workman’s tool box in the laundry. Completing the last cuts on the padlock securing a window, he flipped the latch and eased the window open.