SNAP of Tennessee

By Phillip O'Connor
© Of the Post-Dispatch
Monday, Nov. 15 2004

For nearly 50 years, St. Thomas Aquinas Seminary in Hannibal, Mo., served as
the first stop on the path to the priesthood for many young Catholics. But for
much of that history, at least three priests on the faculty sexually abused
their high school-age students.

The scandal first broke two years ago and brought down a popular church leader,
Bishop Anthony J. O'Connell. Now, several former seminarians are speaking out -
some for the first time - providing more detail about the evil that befell them
and the lengths to which the Jefferson City Diocese has gone to keep it secret.

Their accounts show that the abuse was more widespread than has been reported,
that at least one other faculty member never publicly identified also abused
students and that the abuse occurred more recently than the diocese has
publicly disclosed.

What the victims want, they say, is the truth to be told.

During the 1990s, several former students of St. Thomas Aquinas Seminary came
to terms with the sexual abuse inflicted on them by men of the cloth.

For the victims, recognition of their abuse years before at the hands of
faculty members Father Anthony J. O'Connell and Father Manus Daly proved a
tortuous journey that dragged them through the depths of depression and to the
verge of suicide.

Adding to the pain was the reaction of the church itself, an institution they
loved, implicitly trusted and to which they had willingly dedicated their young
lives.

Instead of the compassion and contrition they expected, the church turned its
back on their plight, they say.

Meanwhile, O'Connell had become bishop of Knoxville, Tenn., Daly had replaced
him as rector of St. Thomas, and another priest had begun to target the boys of
St. Thomas.

Shy and scared, St. Thomas freshman David Bange felt better when Father James
P. McNally took a special interest in him.

The year was 1986 and McNally, then 31, was a St. Thomas alumnus who'd joined
the faculty.

In Father McNally, Bange said, he found a willing listener who laughed at the
boy's stories and seemed to value his ideas and opinions.

As the boy's friendship with the priest grew, McNally also developed a
relationship with the rest of the Banges. He often visited their farm home in
Pike County and became a friend, confidant and confessor for the devout family.

In summer 1988, Paul and Linda Bange thought nothing of it when McNally offered
to drive their 16-year-old son to Knoxville for O'Connell's installation as
bishop and to share a hotel room with him. Other family members attended
separately.

It would be in the hotel room in Knoxville where McNally would first sexually
abuse David Bange, something he would do more than 100 times over the next
eight years, Bange said in an interview.

To this day, the diocese never has disclosed the abuse publicly, and church
officials declined to comment for these stories. McNally and his lawyer also
declined to comment.

At St. Thomas, McNally and Bange were almost inseparable, with the student
constantly visiting the priest's office to play on the computer or staying up
late in McNally's room.

Bange's role as the teacher's pet angered fellow students to the point that one
sent an anonymous letter to the bishop about what he considered Bange's favored
treatment.

McNally charmed his way into the Bange family, stopping by for frequent visits
on weekends and in the summer, spending the holidays together and staying
overnight. McNally would room in the basement and abuse the boy, sometimes for
hours, while his parents and siblings slept upstairs, David Bange said.

The priest took the boy on vacations to California, Canada and elsewhere and to
visit O'Connell in Knoxville.

When Bange graduated St. Thomas and began college at Conception Seminary, the
abuse continued, according to Bange. McNally arranged for Bange to have a
summer job painting St. Thomas.

"It was just me and McNally in this great big, huge, empty building," Bange
recalled. The priest would abuse him almost every night, he said.

Bange said over the years he tried again and again to get McNally to stop.

"I don't want you to do this anymore," he recalled telling McNally.

"OK, I'm sorry. I promise I won't do it. It will never happen again," he
remembered the priest responding.

A week or two would pass, and then the kissing, masturbation, oral sex or some
combination would resume, Bange said.

Looking back, Bange - now 32 - thinks about a comment he said McNally made that
very first night in Knoxville.

"Some people don't like it when I rub them like this," he recalled McNally
whispering.

Now he wonders. How many others were there?

Confronting an abuser

In 1993, Matt Cosby told a counselor at Kenrick Glennon Seminary in Shrewsbury
that he had been abused by O'Connell - the first time he had divulged that
information to someone within the church.

The abuse had continued relentlessly almost since Cosby had first met O'Connell
while a student at St. Thomas, Cosby said. Cosby was 15 when the abuse began
and 23 when it ended in 1991, according to a deposition Cosby gave as part of a
suit against O'Connell and others.

In addition to telling the counselor, Cosby said he also divulged the name of
his abuser to at least two other priests on the faculty at Kenrick.

Cosby said that, to his knowledge, none of the Kenrick officials he told about
the abuse ever reported O'Connell's actions to other church officials who could
have sought the bishop's removal.

In Knoxville, O'Connell had become a presence in the hills and hollows of east
Tennessee. The popular bishop often called on the governor and other lawmakers
in support of causes such as the abolition of capital punishment and increased
spending for the poor. He also continued his rise in the church. He served on
various committees and boards such as Catholic Relief Services, which allowed
him to travel the world.

With his counselor's encouragement, Cosby traveled to Knoxville to confront
O'Connell during Martin Luther King Day weekend in January 1994.

He asked O'Connell why he'd done what he'd done and whether he'd done it to
anyone else.

O'Connell, through tears, denied the abuse. He said he'd only wanted to show
that two men could lie in bed together naked and touch each other without it
being a sexual situation, according to Cosby's deposition.

O'Connell said he did it to show Cosby he wasn't gay, that this type of
behavior was normal. He apologized and asked for Cosby's forgiveness.

Cosby thought the explanation outlandish. To him, O'Connell seemed most
concerned about the abuse being made public, according to Cosby's deposition.

Still, Cosby forgave O'Connell and they agreed to remain friends. He left
Knoxville with the belief that he had been the only victim. O'Connell told him
that he would help in whatever way he could.

Later that spring, depressed, suicidal, now open about his homosexuality,
struggling with celibacy and other church teachings, Cosby decided to leave the
seminary. He soon changed his mind and petitioned to be readmitted.

That summer, the seminary sent a letter that said it would be best if he not
return.

"This past academic year was a time of significant self-discovery for you and I
believe that it would be better for Kenrick and for you, pardon my saying what
might be good for you, if you took the time to live your discoveries for a
while away from the seminary," wrote William Hartenbach, the dean of formation.

Cosby felt abandoned. Rather than offer compassion and continued counseling,
they'd simply told him to leave.

In late July, remembering O'Connell's previous offer to help, Cosby traveled
with a friend to Knoxville, where he asked O'Connell for money to buy a car.

That August, O'Connell sent him $7,200 that Cosby used to buy a Honda Accord.
O'Connell continued to send Cosby money, including a $3,500 check in December
1996 when Cosby told O'Connell he was having financial trouble, according to
Cosby's deposition.

Cosby knew what O'Connell had done to him was wrong. But he says he never
looked at the payments as blackmail. He says he considered O'Connell his
friend.

Telling a bishop

In 1994, another former student at St. Thomas Aquinas was living in Kansas City
when a sex scandal involving a priest there prompted him to divulge his abuse
by O'Connell. For these articles, the former student asked to be identified by
his initials, T.L., to help protect his family and his privacy.

The abuse had begun in fall 1968 during T.L.'s sophomore year. The following
year, T.L. was kicked out of St. Thomas after he confided his sexual feelings
about two younger students to O'Connell.

Despite that history, T.L. maintained his relationship with O'Connell. The
bishop frequently sought him out for sex until the former student was well into
his 30s, according to T.L.'s deposition in a suit he filed against O'Connell
and the diocese. T.L. is identified in that suit only as "John Doe."

T.L. in 1994 approached Bishop Raymond J. Boland, bishop of the Kansas City-St.
Joseph Diocese, after a Mass, according to the suit.

T.L. said he later met with Boland in his office and told Boland that he had
been abused by O'Connell, that they continued to have a sexual relationship and
that he wanted O'Connell to get help. T.L. also said he told Boland about
persistent rumors that other priests continued to abuse seminarians at St.
Thomas.

Boland told him that the dioceses "like to keep these things quiet" and
encouraged him to handle his problem directly and discreetly with O'Connell,
according to the suit.

In an interview with the Post-Dispatch in 2002, Boland said he recalled being
approached after a Mass one day by a layman who asked about O'Connell's
whereabouts. But the bishop denied he had any discussion about O'Connell and
sexual abuse allegations with that person.

Boland declined to comment for these stories. "I'm not making any more
statements on this," he said. "I think this has been handled, hasn't it? I've
been . . . sued for the past two or three years on this sort of thing and I'm
not going to reopen it."

T.L. said he reached O'Connell at his residence in Knoxville a day or so after
the meeting in Boland's office. O'Connell told T.L. that he was seeking help
and that such behavior was no longer occurring.

Later that year, O'Connell traveled to Kansas City, and T.L. made arrangements
for the bishop, whom he still considered a close friend, to bless his new
apartment.

The sexual relationship over, O'Connell now acted cold, distant and guarded,
T.L. said. Toward the end of the visit, T.L. said, O'Connell asked him, "Are we
OK? Is everything OK between us?"

T.L. told him it was and that he planned to do nothing further.

They stayed in contact for the next several years by phone and mail. O'Connell
occasionally would send T.L. money.

In 1998, O'Connell began to more routinely send checks, typically about $400 a
month, according to T.L's suit. The payments would continue for about four
years and total about $21,000, he said.

Making an apology

In 1995, depressed, exhausted, racked by panic attacks and on the brink of
suicide, Chris Dixon went to an old friend then serving as the Jefferson City
Diocese's vicar general. He divulged that he'd been abused by three priests
during his youth and that he might leave the priesthood.

Ordained in 1990, Dixon had spent three years as an associate pastor and
part-time teacher at a Jefferson City parish and school before Bishop Michael
McAuliffe assigned him to the faculty at St. Thomas, his alma mater. He went
willingly, with the belief that things had to have changed since his time as a
student.

Dixon's 2 1/2 years on the faculty there were difficult. By now, O'Connell had
become bishop of Knoxville. But another of Dixon's alleged abusers, Manus Daly,
had replaced O'Connell as rector of St. Thomas.

Dixon said Daly treated him as though he were still a student rather than an
equal. An angry Dixon challenged Daly whenever he could.

At a faculty meeting, Dixon said he complained to Daly about Father McNally
having students in his room long into the night.

He knew the abuse he had suffered under similar circumstances and he asked Daly
to put a stop to it. Dixon said Daly did nothing.

Soon, Dixon began to suffer panic attacks. He struggled to get out of bed. He
fell into a deep depression.

Dixon said his friend who served as vicar general told him to leave the
seminary as soon as possible.

Just days after Dixon left St. Thomas, O'Connell wrote him a letter.

"If I could relive those days again, I would surely have recommended better
help for you than what I was able to give," O'Connell wrote. "To the extent,
Chris, that through my own misguided help or failure to respond in a way that
would be more helpful for you, I am profoundly sorry and I abjectly apologize."

That wasn't good enough for Dixon.

He wanted O'Connell to acknowledge the sexual abuse, get help and resign as
bishop.

In April 1996, Dixon wrote a letter to O'Connell.

"It is vitally important for my continued healing, as well as necessary for the
sake of justice, that I know you are receiving help and doing what is
appropriate to come to terms with your own blindness in terms of what you did
and to make restitution," Dixon wrote. "I do not desire to take the matter any
further as long as I know that you are dealing with this forthrightly and
judiciously. If that is not the case with you, and for that matter, Manus, I
will consider taking legal action that will force you to come to terms with
what happened."

He told O'Connell to write him and let him know he was getting help.

"I know you and Bishop McAuliffe are good friends and that he has confronted
you about this, yet he has no jurisdiction over you and cannot hold you
accountable very well, I suspect," Dixon wrote in his letter.

O'Connell wrote back and told Dixon that he was in therapy "and will continue
to do so as I strive for greater self-knowledge and insight."

Telling Bishop McAuliffe

That May, another victim traveled to talk to Bishop McAuliffe. David Bange,
then 24, told the bishop that he had been abused by Father McNally. The last
incident had happened just two months before, he said.

"I guess it got to the point to where part of me was strong enough to just say,
no, I don't care, this is going to stop," Bange said in a recent
interview.

He doesn't remember McAuliffe's reaction, only the relief he felt at finally
having told the bishop of his abuse.

McAuliffe, now 83 and living in a nursing home, could not be reached for
comment.

Late the night Bange talked to McAuliffe, McNally was waiting for Bange when he
returned to his parents' home.

"I thought we were going to keep this between us and we would work it out,"
Bange recalled McNally saying while they stood in his back yard.

Bange hasn't talked to him since.

A secret agreement

Meanwhile, Dixon, who had been in counseling, decided to leave the priesthood
because of the emotional trauma he had suffered. At a meeting with his
therapist that McAuliffe attended, Dixon said he told the bishop he felt he
should be paid by the church because of the abuse that had occurred.

In July 1996, McAuliffe wrote Dixon offering him $65,000 in severance "out of
charity and concern for you and what has happened to you."

Dixon hired a lawyer.

Five months later, Dixon and the church reached a settlement. In return for
$125,000, Dixon agreed not to pursue claims that O'Connell, Daly and another
priest from his childhood had abused him. Both parties agreed to keep secret
the allegations and the settlement.

"The diocese does not acknowledge the validity of any of Dixon's claims as to
the cause of his alleged injuries," read the document signed by Bishop
McAuliffe. "Although the diocese maintains that it has no legal liability
whatsoever to Dixon on account of the alleged incidents of abuse or otherwise,
the diocese desires to provide Dixon with financial assistance for his future
and past treatment and counseling expense and to assist him in adjusting to
life outside the priesthood, as well as to settle, compromise and adjust any
and all claims that Dixon has or claims to have against the diocese, its
representatives, and its past and present bishops and priests."

On Jan. 3, 1997, Dixon wrote back to McAuliffe saying that while he would honor
the terms of the settlement, he was upset by the wording.

"Nothing was admitted by any party, and no credence was given to the
allegations I brought forth," Dixon wrote. "I would never stoop so low as to
make accusations of this nature against these individuals if in fact they were
not true. The Lord knows of my honesty. At any rate, we move on now."

Trouble in Palm Beach

McAuliffe moved on as well - resigning from his post at age 75, after 28 years
of leading the Jefferson City diocese. In August 1997, Monsignor John R.
Gaydos, vicar general of the St. Louis Archdiocese, was installed as bishop of
the Jefferson City Diocese. He remains so today.

John Fischer, Dixon's childhood pastor and the third priest he'd accused of
abuse, was no longer a priest. He had been removed in 1993 because of other
child abuse allegations.

After Dixon's accusations, diocesan officials did not remove Daly from the
priesthood or send him for sexual-offender treatment. Instead, they granted him
a year's sabbatical for "spiritual renewal." With the Dixon settlement behind
him, O'Connell continued to flourish in Knoxville.

Yet trouble was brewing elsewhere.

In Palm Beach, Fla., hints of the clergy-abuse scandal that would explode into
the public consciousness four years later in Boston already were appearing.

There, Catholics in the 250,000-member diocese reeled from the news that year
that their bishop was being removed over allegations he'd had inappropriate
sexual conduct with altar boys years before.

Church leaders needed someone to guide the diocese through the troubled times.

In 1999, the Vatican provided them with a charismatic and popular bishop who
had just finished work on a sexual misconduct policy for his own diocese in
Tennessee. His name: Anthony J. O'Connell.

Silent no more

It was an early evening in March 2002. For weeks, Chris Dixon had watched
victims parade forward in Boston to tell the media how they were abused as
children by priests. In the last few days, he had followed the front-page
coverage as the scandal hit the St. Louis Archdiocese.

Now the 40-year-old sat alone in his bedroom in the Soulard neighborhood of St.
Louis. The memories flooded back of the sexual abuse he had suffered as a child
growing up in the Jefferson City Diocese.

Dixon stared at the computer screen. In his mind, the debate raged: Break my
years-long silence or continue to hide the dirty secrets of a powerful Catholic
bishop?

Six years before he'd taken money from the Jefferson City Diocese and agreed
never to tell anyone about his accusations that O'Connell, Daly and Fischer had
abused him.

Now, that decision left him conflicted.

He worried that there might be other victims afraid to come forward. Would
going public force the church to confront the issue of sexual abuse in an open
and honest way?

He feared what might happen should he break the confidentiality agreement.
Would the church come after him?

What would his family say? He'd never told them of his abuse.

His fingers moved toward the keyboard.

He would no longer protect his abusers.

He had found his voice.

He began to type.

"I am finally finding the courage to come out into the open about this and the
ways my life has been affected," he wrote in an e-mail to the Post-Dispatch. "I
would like to tell my story."

Reporter Phillip O'Connor
E-mail: poconnor@post-dispatch.com
Phone: 314-340-8321