Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 123, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 751 & 752, March/April 2004

White Pigs by Joseph Monninger

Joseph Monninger is a teacher of creative writing at Plymouth College in New Hampshire and the author of eight books, most of them fiction. His most recent publication is A Barn in New England, from Chronicle Books, an account of how he restored a barn in a rural section of his state. Mr. Monninger has appeared in EQMM before, most recently in the June 2000 issue.

I heard the pigs oinking as Wally brought the lobster boat to dock. They made a lot of noise, like sea gulls getting strangled. Wally shook his head as he tossed me the line.

“He fed the marijuana to one of the pigs, Detective Poulchuck,” Wally said to me. “They watched him from the Coast Guard cutter. He fed the pot to one of them.”

“Smart guy,” I said.

“No evidence, no arrest.”

“The pot’s still in the pig.”

“Yeah, but which one?” Wally asked. “It’s a needle-in-a-haystack kind of thing.”

He stepped aside. Down on the deck, in holding pens, twenty pigs stared at me. White pigs, I thought. They looked kind of sweet. I had heard about using pigs before. Guys took shipments off the New Hampshire or Maine coast, fed the pigs the pot in baggies, then sent the pigs on a produce truck to wherever they had a market. Then they killed the pigs, probably smoked a joint, and ate a good pork dinner.

“You want to kill twenty pigs?” Wally asked. “We’ll have a hell of a pig roast.”

“Use the meat to raise money for the Benevolent Association?”

“Something like that.”

Wally was my deputy. He smiled. He liked being out on boats. He grew up in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I grew up in Plymouth, New Hampshire, a mountain town. I didn’t particularly care for lobster boats. But I liked pigs. I climbed on board. The pigs were identical. One after another, pig after pig, all white, all with curly eyelashes. I thought about Clarence Maines, an old pig farmer I knew. He’d know how to get the pot out.

“I’m going to make a call,” I said, the boat going up and down beneath me. “Why don’t you get some boys down here and we’ll load up the pigs?”

“Already done,” Wally said. “The cutter radioed in. Got a farmer from over in Rochester on his way.”

“I’m going to make a call,” I repeated.

“You do that,” Wally said. “I’ll tie this off.”

I got Mrs. Maines. She didn’t recognize my name, but she said Clarence was out back. Out back, I knew, could mean he might be anywhere in twenty acres or so of land.

“I’ll beep him,” she said.

“Clarence has a beeper?” I asked.

“Yes, he does. He likes to stay modern about those things.”

“Okay.”

“Let me put you on hold.”

She put me on hold. I watched the boat bobbing at its dock. Some other lobstermen came over to watch Wally tie up. They weren’t happy. They wore rubberized overalls, yellow, and turtlenecks. It was October so it was already cold out on the water. One man smoked a pipe. The others held coffees.

“Clarence Maines,” Clarence Maines said.

“This is Detective Poulchuck. Do you have a minute, Clarence?”

“What do I have if I don’t have a minute?” Clarence asked. “You ever think of that?”

“I’ve got a pig question,” I said.

“You raising pigs?” he asked, then I suppose he covered the mouthpiece of the phone, because I heard him shout something to someone. When he came back on, he said, “Got a boy up here running a bush hog and he doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.”

“Clearing land?”

“Naw, just keeping it free of saplings. You know. So you have a pig question? I thought you were transferred down south over to the coast.”

“I was,” I said. “That’s why I’m calling.”

I explained the situation.

“And you don’t know which one it is?” Clarence said. “They’re likely to bind up if they can’t pass it.”

“I guess so.”

“You could give them some kind of physic.”

“We don’t want to kill twenty pigs, is the main thing,” I said.

“Funny situation,” Clarence said. “You could X-ray them. You consider that?”

“No, I didn’t think of that.”

“Go to a vet’s office and he could do it.”

“That might be what I should do. Anything else you could recommend?”

“It’s just good meat,” Clarence said. “Nothing much to killing twenty pigs.”

“I don’t think I want to kill twenty pigs.”

“You a vegetarian, Detective?”

“Thanks a lot, Clarence,” I said.

“Spank the lot of them,” he said. “That’s what I’d do.”

Wally said, “I just talked to the Coast Guard and they’re now saying they’re not even sure the guy fed the pot to the pigs. He might have thrown it over.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The guy’s brother is a lawyer. He’s saying all we have is a bunch of pigs and a lobster boat. No one taped anything, I mean. It’s all just hearsay.”

“They have any advice?”

“They said we have to recover the pot or release the lot of them.”

“Back to the guy?”

Wally nodded.

Just then a livestock truck pulled into the dock area.

“Get him,” I told Wally.

Wally went off and brought the driver back. The guy inched his truck as far as it would go down the pier, then climbed out. Lobster crates jiggled at the hum of the truck. He was a big fellow with bad teeth. He wore bib overalls and Sorel boots. The bib overall had a nameplate on one strap: Porky.

“These the pigs?” Porky asked, notching his chin toward the boat.

“Yeah,” I said. “You know much about pigs?”

“Hate the bastards.”

“But do you know anything about them?”

The guy, Porky, shrugged.

“You know how to make a pig upchuck?” Wally asked. He had come up to help out. He took one step to the side when a gull swung down and nicked onto a light stanchion. The gull looked at us sideways as if he was hearing our confession.

“Listen,” said Porky, “I come to load them. That’s it. You want a vet, you better call one.”

I asked, “How you going to load them?”

“Got a chute.”

“All right, start loading them. We’ll figure something out.”

Wally said, “The Coast Guard said the guy said he was bringing some pigs back from an island offshore. That’s all. I don’t know the name of the island. But there’s a pig farm out there. The story’s not too bad. It’s a good cover.”

“Help Porky load them,” I said, “while I figure out a couple of things.”

“Okay, Detective.”

I stood watching while Porky and my deputy, Wally, lined up a livestock chute. The chute had a telescopic extension that could stretch twenty or thirty feet. The pigs could go right up the ramp and into the livestock truck.

Porky bounced it a couple times and yelled back and forth with Wally. Wally angled it one way, then back, then settled it. Porky yelled to open both gates. The pigs didn’t enter at first. They appeared suspicious. Then Porky yelled sueeeeeeeeeee pig pig pig pig sueeeeeeeeee and rattled two pans together. It replicated the sound of slopping, I guess, because the pigs grunted and started squeezing their way up toward the truck.

The pigs were about half loaded when a station wagon pulled up. I saw the insignia when the woman opened the door. It was the New Hampshire Humane Society. The woman wore a camera around her neck.

“Uh-oh,” Wally said, seeing the same thing that I saw.

“I see her,” I said.

“I bet the lawyer brother called her. He’s smart, I’ll give him that.”

“Keep the pigs moving,” I said.

One of the lobstermen whistled at the woman. She was young and pretty, blond. Her shoulders were wide. She wore a red mackinaw and jeans, barn boots on her feet. She looked over the pig ramp before she came to talk to me.

She snapped two pictures at the pigs, then shook her head.

“Who called you?” I asked her.

“Are you in charge?”

“The pigs are in charge.”

“Funny. Are you?” she asked.

“I guess I am.”

“And what’s your name?”

“And what’s your name?”

She looked at me. Then she raised her camera and clicked a few more pictures. I was grateful Porky didn’t use a prod on them. Wally slid the chute door closed once the last pig had left the boat. The last pig shuttled up the ramp quickly, nervous at being the final one to leave.

“I’m Greta Niedleman with the Humane Society,” the woman said when she finished taking pictures.

“I’m Detective Poulchuck. Who called you?”

“It was anonymous.”

“Of course it was,” I said.

“Many of our tips about animal abuse are anonymous. I’m surprised you don’t know that, Detective.”

“I have a lot to learn.”

“Why are you confiscating the pigs?”

“We think someone fed them pot.”

“Loose or in baggies?”

“Baggies,” I said. “You know how to make them evacuate?”

“There are different ways,” she said. “Are you certain they swallowed the baggies?”

“That’s what the Coast Guard says.”

“Just hold them for a while, can’t you? See what happens?”

“No pot, no crime. No reason to hold anyone.”

“Clever method,” Greta said. “And you’d have to turn the pigs back to the boatman?”

“Exactly.”

“And he could take the pigs somewhere new, right? I get it now.”

The pigs squealed. Their voices got caught in the wind and the whole mess swirled around. Wally and Porky started pushing the telescopic chute back into the truck. Porky gave the commands. When it was stowed properly, Porky came over and asked me where he should take the pigs.

“We’re thinking,” I told Porky.

“Well, the clock’s running. Just wanted you to know. I’m paid for my time.”

“Of course you are,” I said.

“Fair’s fair,” Porky added.

“What else would fair be?” I said. I asked Greta, “What would you do?”

“Are you really asking?” she said, her camera halfway to her eye.

“Yes, of course.”

“I’d forget about it,” she said quickly, “it’s just pot.”

“You got a point,” I said. “You should run for governor.”

“The Kennedys got rich rumrunning,” she said. “It’s the same thing.”

I looked at her. I was still thinking about the pigs. They made a hell of a racket. Three or four of them had their snouts pressed through the bars of the truck, flinging drool and hay onto the dock. The sideways gull listened from up on the stanchion. Porky smoked a cigarette. Every time I looked at him he pointed to his watch, tapped it, then nodded his approval that the clock was running.

Wally came over and said the Coast Guard had delivered the owner of the boat to the old Pease Air Force Base. He was on his way to collect the pigs. His brother, the lawyer, had weaseled in and was now with him. The staties were bringing him. Wally reported that the dispatcher said that the Coast Guard said that whatever I was going to do I had better get doing.

“How do I know which pig it was?” I asked. “This is crazy.”

“Maybe one of the pigs has the munchies,” Greta said. “That’s the best way to tell.”

“You got pigs?” I asked Porky.

He shook his head.

“How about a holding lot?”

He shook his head again.

“Okay, let me ask you this. You know anyone who keeps white pigs like these?”

“Sure,” he said and flicked his cigarette into the water. It hissed as it went out. “Guy up in Dover. Big operation.”

“Let’s go, then.”

“You want me to take them over there?” Porky asked.

“Yes.”

Porky shrugged, then climbed into his truck. The lobster traps jiggled again when he pulled off the pier. One of the lobstermen in yellow gave me the finger as we pulled out.

We drove behind the pig truck. Greta What’s-her-face drove behind us. It took us fifteen minutes to arrive at a large farm that smelled like pigs. It was a dirty place. I counted three Ford trucks that had been cannibalized for parts sitting in the front yard. A man in a filthy Carhart jacket stood framed in a large barn door when we pulled into the dooryard. He had a cigar in the center of his face. He looked like Robert Frost’s backward brother.

“Get her out of here,” he said, pointing to Greta. He had seen the Humane Society insignia. “Those people are nothing but trouble.”

He said it before we had climbed out of the squad car.

“Wally,” I said, “go tell Greta to get out of here. Tell her it’s private property.”

Wally nodded.

Porky hopped down from his truck and introduced me to Bill Froglich. Bill didn’t shake hands. He was filthier than he first appeared. The barn behind him didn’t look great, either. But spooling around the barn on either side were two herds of white pigs. They resembled the ones we had in the truck.

“Why should I help you out?” Bill asked after I explained the situation. “Who the hell cares who smokes pot? I sure as hell don’t.”

“We’ll pay you for holding them,” I said.

“How much?” Bill asked.

“What’s fair?”

“They might have disease. Could ruin my whole herd, don’t you know?”

“How much?”

“Fifty dollars a day,” he said. “Plus feed.”

“Okay,” I said to Porky. “Put them in that pen over there.”

I pointed to the pen on the right side of the barn. Porky hopped back in the truck. Bill Froglich walked over to the pigpen and kicked at the fence a little. The white pigs backed away, then swarmed forward again. I watched their pink noses sniffing through the fence slots. From out on the road, when the pigs were quiet, I heard Greta snapping pictures of us all.

The pot smuggler was a normal-looking guy. Probably a fisherman, I figured, down on his luck. He had a reddish beard and fairly long hair, but the hair, except for a ponytail, was curled up under a black watch cap. His name was Danny. He didn’t seem nervous or distraught, despite the day he had had. His lawyer brother, on the other hand, couldn’t shut up. The brother was a slick guy in a gray suit who also wore a ponytail. His tie was supposed to be funny. It had a picture of Curly, of the Three Stooges, poking his fingers at you as if he wanted to dot out your eyes.

He gave me a business card. The card said his name was Albert Torsey. It also said he handled domestic litigation, which was a fancy way, I guess, of saying he was a divorce lawyer.

“Very funny,” Albert said as soon as he saw the pigpen. “Mixing them in like that. But the pigs are tattooed on the ear. Are you supposed to be tricky?”

“So go get them,” I said. “Probably a little muddy in there. You might want to change shoes.”

“This is my brother’s livelihood you’re playing with,” he said. “And the joke’s on you. If one of those pigs did vomit up something, how would you know they were our pigs that did it? Why not the other guy’s pigs?”

“You got me,” I said. “You guys are just too smart.”

“Pigs with pigs,” Albert said. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“I guess we’ll just impound them,” I said. “Check for disease.”

“You got no right,” Albert said. “You’re interfering with a man’s right to happiness.”

“We’ll keep them for a week. You get a court order, we’ll release them.”

“You’re just jerking our chain,” Albert said. “I can get a court order. And I can bring suit against you for harassment.”

“Pig harassment?”

Wally started yelling then that two pigs had passed plastic bags. One of the pigs hadn’t quite succeeded and the bag hung half out of the pig’s butt. It was gross. We all watched. Danny, the lobsterman-turned-dope-smuggler, shook his head.

“Not my pigs,” he said.

“Of course not,” I said.

We cleaned the bags on a feed table next to the barn. Wally hosed them down. I held them with a pair of pliers Froglich gave me. I stacked the bags when they were cleaned. It was merely a guess, but I figured it rang out to over a pound in nine baggies.

“You going to make it easy?” I asked Danny.

He looked at his brother. His brother shook his head.

“Our position, those bags could have come out of any pig here. You screwed yourself, Detective.”

“Might be prints on the bags,” I said. “Fibers. Come on, you watch the cop shows. Figure it out.”

“They got molasses on them,” Wally said, “the bags. Something gooey. I guess they get the pigs to eat them that way.”

“We can run it down,” I told the brothers. “It’s a pound of dope, some dealing charges, but it’s pot. You cooperate, things will go easier.”

The brothers looked at me. I waited for a second, then called the office. I told the office to call out to the island. I got a police officer named Smith on the line. Smith was a constable, he told me. I asked him to go over to Danny’s house and call me back. He said he would after I gave him the number.

“Here’s a bet,” I said when I clicked off. “You’re a bachelor, aren’t you, Danny?”

Danny nodded.

“What I bet is, a guy like you doesn’t have a ton of things around to save leftovers. That’s just not the way life is. Single guy, you eat day to day. I’m making no judgments. I’m telling you how we figure things out, okay?”

He shrugged. Albert made a gesture that said I was amusing myself sexually.

“My guess is, you bought a box of baggies brand-new. Figured they would be better, anyway. And then you pulled out the ones you needed. Now, what do you think a judge will say when I can tell him that your baggies match the brand that were in the pigs? And here’s the other thing. I’ll bet you didn’t put the baggies away, so they’re sitting right out on the kitchen table. Something like that. So what is a judge going to do when you have nine baggies out of a roll of say twenty-four missing and we find nine baggies in the pigs? You think that amounts to circumstantial evidence? You lump that with people watching you from the Coast Guard cutter, and what do you think?”

My cell rang. Constable Smith said he was standing in the kitchen of Danny’s house.

I looked at Danny. He looked at Albert.

“GLAD Bags,” Constable Smith said when I asked. “On the counter here, next to the sink.”

Greta sat with the door open on her car, changing film.

“Film is made with petroleum products which in turn cause the devastation of pristine environments which in turn kills off habitat which in turn kills off animals,” I said. “Something like that?”

“Funny,” she said.

“The pigs had pot in them,” I said. “Thought you’d want to know.”

“Oh, you’re a hero.”

“Only to pigs. They don’t like swallowing plastic bags.”

“I understand your situation, Detective,” she said. “I’m not as green as you think.”

I shrugged. She stood. She let the camera hang around her neck.

“Do they?” I asked.

“Do they what?”

“Lobsters. Do they scream when you cook them?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“So I guess buying you a lobster dinner is out of the question,” I said.

She looked at me. Then she lifted the camera. She snapped three pictures.

“Today it is,” she said. “You can’t tell about tomorrow.”