about the way he moved when he showed me to the feedlot that the deputies had cleared. It was like he’d been relieved of some heavy burden.”
When he got to the pigsty, Jones saw that most of Little Boar’s flesh had been consumed already. Thierry showed little emotion, just gave this blank stare at what was left of his father. He told Jones that Little Boar had been drinking the evening before. The boy said that he did what he always did when his father was into his second jar of moonshine: he went to his room, locked the door, and read a book.
“Aristotle,” Jones said. “He was reading Aristotle.”
Thierry claimed he’d been deep into
Nicomachean Ethics
, reading about how man can best lead a good life, and had turned off his light around eleven. An hour later, he was roused by the pigs squealing, but that wasn’t unusual. There were all sorts of turf battles in the sties. You just got used to it. Thierry said his drunken father must have gone out to see about the ruckus and fallen in.
“I told Thierry that he didn’t seem too shook up about his daddy’s death,” the old detective recalled. “He said, ‘I hated the sonofabitch, but even I wouldn’t have wanted him to die that way.’”
That was Thierry’s line and attitude during the entire investigation. Jones said he searched Thierry’s room and found Aristotle on the table but also Dostoyevsky’s
Crime and Punishment
, the story of a man who murders someone he thinks no one will miss.
Jones asked him about it, and Thierry shrugged, said he hadn’t cracked it yet but that it was a requirement for honors English. Though his father had forced him to leave school, he’d been keeping up with the requirements.
The old detective said he tried every way he could to rattle the boy’s story, but Baby Boar never wavered. Young Mulch had admitted readily that he’d thought about killing his father. Who wouldn’t? The man was sadistic and in many ways deserved to die. And Thierry said that maybe someday, if it had come to it, he would have killed his father. But this was an accident, an act of God, and as fitting an ending as there could be for the man—eaten by his own hogs.
Jones said, “Autopsy showed a hairline fracture of Little Boar’s skull, but the hogs gnawed and hooved on it so hard the ME couldn’t say what had caused it.”
Soon after, the old detective learned of the offers to buy the Mulch land. He pressed Thierry on that angle too. But young Mulch said the offers were news to him. Little Boar had never confided in him about anything.
Four months later, however, Thierry turned eighteen, and as the sole heir to the Mulch land, he signed a contract selling the property to the Crossfield Mining Company for $5.5 million. Turned out the worthless mountain was made almost entirely of coal.
When Jones pressed Thierry about the sale, Little Boar’s son replied that he had no intention of being a pig farmer and that the sale was the practical thing to do, a way out, another act of God.
“He knew I didn’t believe him,” Jones said, shifting in his seat and adjusting the nose clip of his oxygen line. “He knew I was going to stay after him until I figured out a way to trip him up.”
“So you think he staged his own death?” I asked.
CHAPTER
33
THE OLD DETECTIVE TIPPED his beer my way, said, “Thirteen months after he killed Little Boar. Took almost that long to get the estate through probate and establish that Thierry had a legal right to sell the land. But it went through and he turned the land over, got his money, bought a brand-new Ford pickup, and started partying hard.”
The Crossfield Mining Company gave Thierry a month to sell the hogs and clear off the property. Two nights before they were set to bulldoze the pig farm, Baby Boar was seen drunk in town. Later that same night, around three a.m., someone traveling on Route 20 North spotted a fire burning up high on the ridge above Hog Hollow.
Jones gestured through
When he got to the pigsty, Jones saw that most of Little Boar’s flesh had been consumed already. Thierry showed little emotion, just gave this blank stare at what was left of his father. He told Jones that Little Boar had been drinking the evening before. The boy said that he did what he always did when his father was into his second jar of moonshine: he went to his room, locked the door, and read a book.
“Aristotle,” Jones said. “He was reading Aristotle.”
Thierry claimed he’d been deep into
Nicomachean Ethics
, reading about how man can best lead a good life, and had turned off his light around eleven. An hour later, he was roused by the pigs squealing, but that wasn’t unusual. There were all sorts of turf battles in the sties. You just got used to it. Thierry said his drunken father must have gone out to see about the ruckus and fallen in.
“I told Thierry that he didn’t seem too shook up about his daddy’s death,” the old detective recalled. “He said, ‘I hated the sonofabitch, but even I wouldn’t have wanted him to die that way.’”
That was Thierry’s line and attitude during the entire investigation. Jones said he searched Thierry’s room and found Aristotle on the table but also Dostoyevsky’s
Crime and Punishment
, the story of a man who murders someone he thinks no one will miss.
Jones asked him about it, and Thierry shrugged, said he hadn’t cracked it yet but that it was a requirement for honors English. Though his father had forced him to leave school, he’d been keeping up with the requirements.
The old detective said he tried every way he could to rattle the boy’s story, but Baby Boar never wavered. Young Mulch had admitted readily that he’d thought about killing his father. Who wouldn’t? The man was sadistic and in many ways deserved to die. And Thierry said that maybe someday, if it had come to it, he would have killed his father. But this was an accident, an act of God, and as fitting an ending as there could be for the man—eaten by his own hogs.
Jones said, “Autopsy showed a hairline fracture of Little Boar’s skull, but the hogs gnawed and hooved on it so hard the ME couldn’t say what had caused it.”
Soon after, the old detective learned of the offers to buy the Mulch land. He pressed Thierry on that angle too. But young Mulch said the offers were news to him. Little Boar had never confided in him about anything.
Four months later, however, Thierry turned eighteen, and as the sole heir to the Mulch land, he signed a contract selling the property to the Crossfield Mining Company for $5.5 million. Turned out the worthless mountain was made almost entirely of coal.
When Jones pressed Thierry about the sale, Little Boar’s son replied that he had no intention of being a pig farmer and that the sale was the practical thing to do, a way out, another act of God.
“He knew I didn’t believe him,” Jones said, shifting in his seat and adjusting the nose clip of his oxygen line. “He knew I was going to stay after him until I figured out a way to trip him up.”
“So you think he staged his own death?” I asked.
CHAPTER
33
THE OLD DETECTIVE TIPPED his beer my way, said, “Thirteen months after he killed Little Boar. Took almost that long to get the estate through probate and establish that Thierry had a legal right to sell the land. But it went through and he turned the land over, got his money, bought a brand-new Ford pickup, and started partying hard.”
The Crossfield Mining Company gave Thierry a month to sell the hogs and clear off the property. Two nights before they were set to bulldoze the pig farm, Baby Boar was seen drunk in town. Later that same night, around three a.m., someone traveling on Route 20 North spotted a fire burning up high on the ridge above Hog Hollow.
Jones gestured through
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