Twelve feet below, the sidewalks were clear of snow and people.
One final look up and down the street, and the boy threw out a blanket rope tied securely to a fire standpipe. He watched it unroll to the ground then turned to his anxious followers. He motioned them to the window with the same exaggerated gesture a doorman would use at a fine hotel.
For the next fifteen minutes, the leader encouraged them with pats on the back, or handshakes accompanied with a brilliant smile or wink.
The twelfth boy to the window held out his hand to offer a gift. He spoke in a whisper.
“Thanks for bustin’ us out. I’ll never forget what you’ve done. Take my guitar pick, the one you like so much. Gene Autry used it on his radio show.”
The leader took the guitar pick and ran his fingers lightly over gold lettering that read “Gene Autry.”
He smiled and winked. “Thanks, Bobby. Get going, now. You don’t have long to disappear.”
As the thirty-fifth boy stepped into the window sill, the leader gave him a sharp slap to the ear.
“Disbeliever,” he hissed. “Never doubt me.”
The bigger boy slipped out without reply.
At the sidewalk, they scattered fifty directions into the darkness. The leader was the last to leave, first urinating on the jailhouse floor before sliding down the makeshift rope.
An hour later jailer Fats Miller awakened from his mid-shift nap, rubbed his eyes and stumbled into the corridor to start his rounds. The grogginess fled when he noticed the first cell was empty. He was turning to check his records when he found more empty cells.
Shit! They’re gone! Every last one of those little fucks.
Ten minutes later the jail break was broadcast to patrol cars across Indianapolis.
Within two days, over half the boys were recaptured, including the leader. Jailer Fats Miller was fired in disgrace.
Chapter 1
Omaha, Nebraska – 2012
The sun never rose that morning. At dawn, the sky lightened to an ominous gray and remained so until late afternoon when the crime scene team finished their work. The Nebraska wind was strangely still, as if holding its breath in suspense.
In west Omaha, Eddie Nester stopped his pickup at a forty acre tract just off Dodge Street and looked at what had been a productive cornfield only two months ago. His experienced eye told him the ground was dry enough for grading. The scattered wet spots shouldn’t delay the project.
Eddie stepped from his truck and pulled up jeans pushed low by his developing gut. He kicked at the dirt as a final validation of his judgment. The soil was indeed dry enough to shape the precise slopes required for construction.
Next he walked to the grader, still parked where he had left it in a thunderstorm three days ago. He checked the fuel gauge and saw the shop mechanic had come by and filled the tank. He started the diesel engine and let it warm while he checked the survey stakes across the field.
Looks like they’re all in place, not like the last job. Damned teenagers pulled ‘em out almost every night.
Construction for the new car dealership would begin in two weeks. It was essential to complete the grading for an on-time start. Eddie’s boss was anxious about the weather delays, and Eddie was feeling the pressure.
Twenty minutes later the grader was at the far end of the tract systematically removing mounds and filling in dips to the precise levels staked by the surveyors.
An hour into the job, the weather was still holding, and Eddie was pleased with his solid progress. He was cutting down a broad five foot tall hump that extended three hundred feet to the east when he saw a white flash in the dirt rolling off the blade. He brought the grader to a stop.
His knew immediately it was bone. This site’s too remote to find PVC pipe.
Grader operators frequently uncover animal bones and less frequently Indian burials. Because Nebraska laws protect ancient cultures, Indian burials require professional field investigation. Eddie knew the laws and the fines. He dismounted to inspect the area.
Once I confirm it’s animal bone, I’ll get right back to the job.
It took Eddie less than a minute to locate the bone. Slender and eighteen inches long, it was fully intact. Eddie recalled two year ago when a dozer operator in Bellevue uncovered woolly mammoth bones, not even a complete skeleton, but enough that it drew media attention for the huge tusks and skull.
He knew this was not a Wooly Mammoth or even a buffalo or elk. Something smaller, like antelope or deer. He was unsure. He picked up the bone and took it with him as he inspected the area. He hoped to find deer antlers or a skull.
Thirty feet behind the grader he found a six inch section of leg bone. This second bone was thicker and longer, like a femur. He looked further still hoping to find something identifiable. What he found was a human skull.
The gold tooth told him this was not an ancient burial site. Eddie turned off the grader’s engine and called the shop foreman. He knew there would be no more grading today. An hour later, with work still stopped, Eddie and his boss watched as the Omaha Police Department took charge of the scene.
The investigation moved with agonizing slowness. Just after lunch, when the crime scene team had found no additional remains, the lead investigator asked Eddie to remove another six inches of dirt from the area.
By mid-afternoon, as Eddie was scraping away additional soil, two vehicles drove onto the dirt field from Dodge Street. The first vehicle was an unmarked police sedan with two Omaha detectives, George Deerfield and Vance Hinsley. The other vehicle brought Omaha Tribune reporter Liz Wilson and a photographer to the scene.
Liz knew Detective Deerfield. She felt comfortable standing close, watching the grim work as the grader shaved away thin layers of dirt. The grader stopped when more bones finally surfaced. They were in a tight pattern and included ribs and vertebrae.
“Burial site! Got it. Get the shovels and trowels. We’re going to need evidence bags, Bob.” And to Liz, “Ma’am can you stand back now? Don’t want you in the crime scene photos. Stay on the other side of the vehicles, please.”
By the time the crime scene processors completed their work, it was approaching five o’clock. Deerfield stood talking to the team. Liz watched as the grader roared to life and rumbled off to its original parking spot.
When she could stand the suspense no more, Liz called to the detectives, “Can you tell me anything about what you’ve found?”
“No, Liz, we can’t tell you anything,” Deerfield called back.
Her pretty face formed a pouty look.
The detective approached, smiling at her reaction.
“I can tell you one thing, and you can quote me. This is an old skeleton dating back maybe fifty or sixty years. Maybe more. There’s no I. D. yet.”
Liz wrote the information on her pad, secretly excited this was not an Indian burial hundreds of years old.
Deerfield continued, “Off the record, Liz, and I mean off the record, the forensic guys say we’ve got the remains of an African-American. Small pelvis, adult male, not over thirty years old. And – you keep this to yourself too – there was a sash of white cloth with the bones.”
“White cloth?” Liz asked, seeking clarification.
“It’s maybe five feet long, five inches wide gold embroidered crosses, maybe silk. Found near the skull.”
“No kidding?” Liz remarked. Her mind was spinning, trying to make a link.
“Probably an old Klan murder,” the detective continued. “But if you quote me on any of this, I’ll never tell you anything again.”
“Sounds more like a priest’s stole than KKK,” Liz offered.
“A priest stole what?”
“A stole is a religious cloth about the size you described. It fits around a priest’s neck and drapes in front of his sacred robes. I see them at Mass all the time.”
“What? You Catholic or something?”
“All my life. Your cloth may be a priest’s stole. Check it out”
>
“We’ll look into it. And remember, babe, for your report, all you can say is it’s an old burial, remains are unidentified.”
“Got it,” Liz answered. “Thanks for the scoop, I appreciate it.”
In a city where homicides and drive-by shootings are commonplace, the discovery of human remains buried so long ago is not front-page news. The next morning’s Omaha Tribune buried Liz’s fourteen line article on page four of the Local News section. The editor cut the photograph of the crime scene and grader.
In the hospice ward of the Douglas County Health Center, the article would change a life already destined to be short.
Chapter 2
Omaha Destiny, April, 1949
In chambers, the Honorable Joseph O. Hoffman, presiding judge for the Greater Indianapolis Juvenile Court, faced a boy, a priest, and a juvenile officer. He addressed the clean-cut boy dressed in a in a suit, starched shirt, and tie.
“Well, boy, you heard him. Father Powers has great confidence in you. He’s presented a strong case on your behalf. I need you to tell me in your own words why I should spare you from reform school. This is your chance. Convince me.”
The boy looked the judge in the eye and spoke with confidence.
“I’ve never had much of a chance in life, Your Honor. You’ve heard about my mom, and I ain’t got no dad at all, don’t even know who he is. Everyone who’s tried to help me, except for Father Powers here, has either died or gone to prison. But I don’t let it get me down. I know I can make it at a good place like Boys Town–learn a trade and get a real education. I know they work hard there, sir, and I’m willin’ to jump in and help. I just need the chance. I’m beggin’, sir. Give me a decent place to live for the first time in my life. It’s something I never had. I can make good. I know I can.”
The judge nodded and turned to the priest.
“Is everything set for Boys Town to take him?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“You have the reporter outside?”
“Yes, Your Honor. He’s waiting to sing your praises for doing the right thing. Front page story, he says.”
“How about the photographer?”
“He’s outside too. They’re both waiting.”
“Very well. It looks like we’re sending this young man to Omaha. That’s my ruling.”
With no gavel handy, Hoffman pounded a fist on the desk.
The juvenile officer, who had been quietly waiting for his chance to speak, raised his hand.
“Pardon me, Judge Hoffman. I never got to present my case. May I say something on behalf of the city?”
“No. I’ve made my decision. This boy is going to Omaha. Put your papers away and get on board with what’s happening. The other thing you can do is step out in in the hallway and fetch those media folks.”
The juvenile officer turned and stalked away, unsuccessful in hiding his aggravation. The priest followed close behind to ensure the newsmen received the right message.
Hoffman stood and retrieved his suit coat from the coatrack behind his desk.
“We’ll have to send you back to the jail for at least one more night, son. But as soon as the police chief can break loose an escort, we’ll get you on your way to Omaha. I hope you do well there.”
The boy flashed a dazzling smile.
“Is my tie straight?” Hoffman asked.
“It’s straight and good, just like you,” the boy said. “You’re perfect, Judge.”
Hoffman returned a politician’s smile as the newsmen entered.
Chapter 3
The Roadside Diner – Thursday Evening, April, 1949
On the southern edge of Lafayette, Indiana, where Highway 52 rolls into town on its sixty mile trek from Indianapolis, a small diner beckoned the hungry to come in for a good meal.
George’s Diner was a fourteen table, chrome-sided structure made to resemble a railroad dining car. It was typical of the roadside diners that have dotted America’s by-ways since the 1930s
You’d never find George’s Diner in a travel magazine or even recommended by the Lafayette Chamber of Commerce. Not that the food was bad, because it wasn’t. It’s just that George’s Diner catered to a less visible, often less affluent clientele than the larger restaurants around the courthouse.
In the mornings, George served a full house of locals from all walks of life. Then, travelers and truckers kept the diner busy until almost dark. The flow of customers was enough to provide a decent living for George and the help. Not bad for a retired Marine sergeant whose most defining features were his knobby bald head and bushy eyebrows.
The food is what kept them coming back. George specialized in homemade pies and soups to go along with his signature chicken fried steak. And in the summer, he stoked a big barbeque pit out back for beef, chicken, and sausage. The girls up front always laughed when the irresistible barbeque smoke caused a traveler to turn around for a meal.
“That sweet smoke is the best advertising we could ever have,” they would say.
On a Thursday evening, in the quiet before the dinner crowd hit, only two tables hosted customers. One waitress was away on a run into Lafayette for supplies.
Rosie, the waitress left behind, leaned against the back side of the counter and surveyed the work ahead. She considered whether she had time to light up a Winston. No time for a cigarette now. Maybe in a bit. She turned the radio volume up a notch to hear Pee Wee King wailing about how he’d lost his love during the Tennessee Waltz.
Rosie was a good waitress, slender and tall, with a pretty face and matching friendly disposition. Though approaching middle-age, she still had breasts full enough to keep a steady flow of men and tips.
She paid little attention to the big sedan that pulled off the highway and onto the diner’s gravel lot. Rosie was oblivious to the telltale signs that would have told most city girls this was an unmarked police car.
She glanced toward the car while pouring refill coffee at a window booth.
Two men and a boy for burgers, I’ll bet.
She returned the coffee pot to its burner and grabbed three menus as they came in the door.
Well isn’t that unusual? Two worn out suits and a kid with new clothes and Buster Browns. I’ve never seen two unhappier looking men.
New blue jeans with cuffs rolled up six inches and new industrial shoes should have marked a boy as a delinquent, but Rosie missed most of the clues except the plain white t-shirt that, even in Lafayette, marked him as poor white trash.
“Evening,” she chirped. “Just sit anywhere you like.”
The boy smiled up at her, caught her eye, and gave her a wink.
The taller of the scowling men gave her the once over, then snarled disapproval as he brushed past.
Have a seat, asshole. I sure hope I don’t spill boiling coffee all over you. Oh, I’m sooo sorry.
Now with her Irish up, she looked over the three of them as she followed them to the last booth.
Is that blood on the butt of his pants? Yeah. I believe it is, And there’s a small rip.
They sat, directing the boy into the corner. The taller man, the one with blood on his pants, sat next to the kid, close in.
“Where ya’ll headed?” Rosie asked, setting three water glasses on the table.
The shorter man, the one without bloodstained pants answered. “We’re catching the Wabash Limited in a couple of hours. That is, if we can find the railroad station. Meanwhile we’ll have two coffees and a small glass of milk.”
Make that two coffees. Forget the milk. Water is fine for the boy,” the man with bloody pants interjected.
“Well, you’ll find the depot right downtown. Can’t miss it. It’s only about five miles from here. What can I get you folks to eat?” She was still trying to sound friendly.
The order was simple, decided by the shorter man with no deliberation or emotion.
“We’ll each have a hamburger and fries.”
“I’ll get that order right in and be back wi
th your coffee.”
At least they’re not giving me problems. So far.
Rosie clipped the food order to the rack of clothes pins above the pass-through window and then leaned into the kitchen heat.
“Psssst. Say, George,” she whispered as loud as she dared. “Look out here. Hurry.”
The bald owner-cook looked up from the pork chop sizzling on the griddle.
He raised his huge bushy eyebrows and cocked his head expressing a degree of exasperation.
“What is it, Rosie?” His tone made no pretense of hiding irritation.
“Come look at this kid. Looks like he’s with two cops.”
The cook paused a moment considering her request. Then he laid down his greasy spatula and wiped his hands on a white apron already spotted with three days’ food. In two steps he was at the pass-through window.
“What kid am I supposed to look at?” he asked.
“Shhh. Booth eight,” she hissed. She made a move to adjust her cardboard waitress hat and rolled her eyes and head in the direction of the diner’s far end.
George looked at the two suits wedged in the booth. There was the boy, too, maybe thirteen or fourteen years old. Skinny.
The men wore rumpled clothing, and sure enough, they had the look of detectives. The men, each outweighing the boy by a hundred and fifty pounds, sat, whether intentionally or not, so that the boy was blocked from leaving.
Thus checkmated by two walls and flesh, the boy sat pushing a bead of water in circles on the Formica tabletop. He wore blue jeans and a white t-shirt, his face angelic and innocent.
George was about to reproach Rosie with a caustic comment when he saw one of the men suddenly punch the boy in the ribs, not with bone-breaking force, perhaps, but enough that the boy crumpled and grimaced with pain.
What the hell is that about? He’s going to punch him again!
“Hey, pal!” George hollered. “Knock that off in here.”
The cop stopped in mid punch to see George, looking very much like a Marine, coming out of the kitchen taking off his apron. The detectives quickly stood.
Before He Became a Monster: A Story Charles Manson's Time at Father Flannigan's Boystown Page 2
