Wrestling With Madness: John E. Du Pont and the Foxcatcher Farm Murder
John Eleuthère du Pont was a multimillionaire. Part of one of the most prominent and richest families in America: The du Pont Family. Then, strangely, he started losing his mind.
This is what is known: du Pont was a fan of amateur sports and established a wrestling facility at his Foxcatcher Farm. He befriended several Olympic champions--including Dave Schultz, who he murdered.
It was a never a question of if he did it; the question is why. What turns an otherwise sane man into a psychotic killer? This page-turning true crime story will take you into the mind of a man who had everything and let it all fall away due to madness and paranoia.
This is what is known: du Pont was a fan of amateur sports and established a wrestling facility at his Foxcatcher Farm. He befriended several Olympic champions--including Dave Schultz, who he murdered.
It was a never a question of if he did it; the question is why. What turns an otherwise sane man into a psychotic killer? This page-turning true crime story will take you into the mind of a man who had everything and let it all fall away due to madness and paranoia.
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Wrestling With Madness PDF and ePub |
Excerpt
Prologue
JANUARY 26, 1996
Dave Schultz was in the driveway of his home on Foxcatcher Farm, putting a new radio in his Toyota Tercel, when he saw the silver Town Car heading towards him. John du Pont, the owner of the 800-acre estate where Dave lived and trained, was behind the wheel, and it looked like he had Pat Goodale in there with him. Goodale was John’s security consultant, and no one on the farm liked it much when he was around. He always seemed to bring out the worst in John, and lately, John had been pretty bad on his own. Especially since Dave had made it known that after the Olympics, he was leaving Foxcatcher for good.
The Atlanta games would be Dave’s last shot at another medal. He had won gold in freestyle wrestling back in 1984, but in ’88 and ’92, he hadn’t even qualified for the team. But now, at the ripe old age of 36, he was primed for a comeback. He had placed fifth at the World Championship last summer and was currently ranked number one in the 163-pound weight class. He was stronger and faster than he’d been in years. This time, he wasn’t just going to make the team, he was going to bring home another gold. It would be the perfect bookend to his competitive career, and in a lot of ways, he had John to thank for that.
John du Pont was amateur wrestling’s greatest supporter and had been for the last decade. He had donated millions to the U.S. Wrestling Federation, built a state-of-the-art facility on his own property and recruited the biggest and the best names in the sport to train and coach there. It was the most elite wrestling club in the country, maybe in the world, and there was a very good possibility that the entire 1996 U.S. Olympic wrestling team was going to be made up exclusively of wrestlers from du Pont’s Team Foxcatcher.
John’s athletes were the children he never had, and he made sure they were well taken care of. He wanted them focused on training to be the best and not worrying about how they were going to pay their bills, so he gave them all generous monthly stipends, and in Dave’s case, even a house on the estate grounds where he and his family lived rent-free. All he really wanted in return was friendship, which Dave had given willingly and gladly. But after the games, it would be time to move on. That’s why he was going to accept the coaching gig Stanford had offered him.
John hadn’t taken the news very well. In fact, he’d been acting like a petulant child about the whole damn thing. He refused to come over for Thanksgiving dinner and even un-invited Dave and his family to the Christmas party he held up at the mansion every year. The way John had been acting, Dave didn’t expect his year-end bonus check, but sure enough, it had arrived same as always. Dave shouldn’t have been surprised, though. John often let his money do his talking for him, and the check was his way of begging Dave to stay. It could be very persuasive, too.
But no, Dave’s mind was made up. He had to get away from this place.
John’s behavior had been getting worse, and some people were worried. Dave wasn’t one of them, though. Even with all the tension right now between the two of them, when Dan Chaid, Kenny Monday and all those other wrestlers went to the federation and asked them to cut their ties to du Pont, Dave was the one who had come to his defense. But the Olympics were only seven short months away. When the games were over, Dave would be gone and John would be on his own.
Dave didn’t know why John was paying him a visit on that cold, grey afternoon. But then again, you never really knew what to expect with John, anyway. It didn’t matter. No matter what kind of mood he was in, Dave knew how to handle him. So, when John pulled his Lincoln into the driveway and rolled down the window, Dave approached him with a wave and a grin.
“Hey, coach,” he said.
John stuck his arm outside the window. In his hand was a .44 revolver.
“You got a problem with me?” John said.
Without waiting for an answer, John pulled the trigger. Dave’s elbow exploded and he screamed in surprise and agony.
“John, what are you doing?” Goodale shouted from the seat next to him as John fired another round, this one into Dave’s chest. Dave stopped screaming and fell face-first into the snow. That was when John started screaming.
Dave’s wife, Nancy, appeared at the front door of the house just in time to see John fire a third shot into Dave’s back. John saw her on the porch and lifted the gun on her. Goodale, who was armed with two weapons, finally drew one. John wheeled on him and their barrels met.
Nancy rushed back into the house and called 911. She got through to the Newtown Square police immediately, but the dispatcher didn’t seem to believe her. Was this some kind of a joke? Why would John du Pont shoot her husband?
“He’s insane!” she cried.
Outside, Goodale had managed to open the car door and put one foot on the ground while he and John stared into each other’s eyes over the barrels of their guns. Finally, something changed in John’s cold stare. Without a word, he lowered his gun, tossed it into the back seat, put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. Goodale managed to get the rest of the way out of the car without injuring himself, then watched as John sped off towards the mansion.
Nancy rushed out of the house to her husband’s side and took him in her arms. He was still alive, but only barely. No one could survive wounds like these, not even Dave, the strongest man she knew, the strongest man on the planet. No, Dave was going to die and he was going to die right there in front of her. She had to be strong for him, as he had been strong for her so many times in the past. “Tough as nails, Schultzie,” he always said whenever the going got rough. She tried her best.
She told him she loved him and watched him exhale one last time. Nancy heard a gurgling sound—horrible in its finality—from somewhere deep inside him, and then, lying there in the embrace of his wife of fourteen years and mother of his two children, the light went out in Dave Schultz’s eyes.
In the days, weeks and months that followed, the world responded in shock and horror. A member of one of the country’s wealthiest and most prominent families had murdered his best friend, an Olympic gold medalist, for no apparent reason. Everything about it seemed bizarre and disconnected, but many of those who knew Dave Schultz and John du Pont were less than surprised. No one would say it better than Team Foxcatcher’s Kurt Angle, a wrestler who was trained by Schultz himself.
“People saw it coming,” he said. “No one did a damn thing about it.”
Chapter 1: The Family Fortune
John E. du Pont was the great-great grandson of Eleuthère Irénée du Pont, a French immigrant who first arrived on American soil on January 1st, 1800. He and his family were forced to flee France after betting on the wrong horse during the French Revolution; their support of King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette resulted in the destruction of their home by an angry mob and very nearly cost du Pont’s father his head. No longer welcome in their home country, they set sail for the United States, hoping to start a model community for French exiles like themselves.
It wasn’t long before du Pont took notice of the poor quality of American-made gunpowder, and that presented him with a golden opportunity. With his background in chemistry and his overseas connections at France’s royal powder works, he could manufacture a much better product at a fraction of the cost. So in 1802, on the banks of the Brandywine Creek in Delaware, he opened E.I. du Pont de Nemours and Company, a gunpowder mill that would grow into one of the most successful and enduring businesses in American history.
When you’re in the gunpowder business, bad times are good times. The War of 1812 made the mill very profitable and by the time of the Civil War, Du Pont had become the Union Army’s chief supplier of gunpowder and explosives. By the turn of the twentieth century, the company began to diversify into other areas, most notably the development of polymers. Du Pont created the first synthetic rubber, they created nylon and polyester, Kevlar, Teflon and Lycra spandex. The list goes on and on. Today, it would be difficult to go anywhere or do anything without encountering something first given to us by Du Pont. In other words, E.I. du Pont’s descendents were among the filthiest of the filthy rich. For generations, the du Ponts only married their own cousins in an attempt to keep their wealth completely in the family, although by the end of the 19th century, that practice had started to decline. Also in decline at that time was the family’s direct involvement in the company’s affairs.
William du Pont, Jr.’s only real connection to the business, was enjoying the wealth it generated. He grew up at Montpelier, president James Madison’s historic home in Virginia, and was educated in the best private schools. In spite of his polished upbringing however, his reluctance to bathe or change his clothes on a regular basis earned him the nickname “Dirty Willie.” He was also loud and brash and more than a little odd, but that was okay for men of great wealth. It made him memorable.
Dirty Willie du Pont married Jean Liseter Austin on January 1st, 1919, the anniversary of William’s great grandfather’s arrival in America, and it was “The Wedding of the Century.” Jean was the daughter of an executive at Baldwin Locomotive Works, a railway company that was enjoying its heyday, and her marriage into the du Pont family was a union of enough wealth to create an empire. As a wedding gift, Jean’s father gave the couple 600 acres of land in Newtown Square, Pennsylvania as a wedding gift. Not to be outdone, William du Pont, Sr. built Liseter Hall on the land. It was an exact replica of the Montpelier mansion, where his son had grown up. He would feel right at home.
Jean and Dirty Willie du Pont spent most of their time and money devoted to their common love of horses. They expanded their property and developed one of the most extravagant horse farms the world had ever seen. They built barns and training tracks all over the estate grounds, including the United States’ first indoor galloping track. The couple didn’t rest until their facilities had become the premier place for breeding and training of race, show and hunting horses.
The way they saw it, if you were going to build something, you built the best.
JANUARY 26, 1996
Dave Schultz was in the driveway of his home on Foxcatcher Farm, putting a new radio in his Toyota Tercel, when he saw the silver Town Car heading towards him. John du Pont, the owner of the 800-acre estate where Dave lived and trained, was behind the wheel, and it looked like he had Pat Goodale in there with him. Goodale was John’s security consultant, and no one on the farm liked it much when he was around. He always seemed to bring out the worst in John, and lately, John had been pretty bad on his own. Especially since Dave had made it known that after the Olympics, he was leaving Foxcatcher for good.
The Atlanta games would be Dave’s last shot at another medal. He had won gold in freestyle wrestling back in 1984, but in ’88 and ’92, he hadn’t even qualified for the team. But now, at the ripe old age of 36, he was primed for a comeback. He had placed fifth at the World Championship last summer and was currently ranked number one in the 163-pound weight class. He was stronger and faster than he’d been in years. This time, he wasn’t just going to make the team, he was going to bring home another gold. It would be the perfect bookend to his competitive career, and in a lot of ways, he had John to thank for that.
John du Pont was amateur wrestling’s greatest supporter and had been for the last decade. He had donated millions to the U.S. Wrestling Federation, built a state-of-the-art facility on his own property and recruited the biggest and the best names in the sport to train and coach there. It was the most elite wrestling club in the country, maybe in the world, and there was a very good possibility that the entire 1996 U.S. Olympic wrestling team was going to be made up exclusively of wrestlers from du Pont’s Team Foxcatcher.
John’s athletes were the children he never had, and he made sure they were well taken care of. He wanted them focused on training to be the best and not worrying about how they were going to pay their bills, so he gave them all generous monthly stipends, and in Dave’s case, even a house on the estate grounds where he and his family lived rent-free. All he really wanted in return was friendship, which Dave had given willingly and gladly. But after the games, it would be time to move on. That’s why he was going to accept the coaching gig Stanford had offered him.
John hadn’t taken the news very well. In fact, he’d been acting like a petulant child about the whole damn thing. He refused to come over for Thanksgiving dinner and even un-invited Dave and his family to the Christmas party he held up at the mansion every year. The way John had been acting, Dave didn’t expect his year-end bonus check, but sure enough, it had arrived same as always. Dave shouldn’t have been surprised, though. John often let his money do his talking for him, and the check was his way of begging Dave to stay. It could be very persuasive, too.
But no, Dave’s mind was made up. He had to get away from this place.
John’s behavior had been getting worse, and some people were worried. Dave wasn’t one of them, though. Even with all the tension right now between the two of them, when Dan Chaid, Kenny Monday and all those other wrestlers went to the federation and asked them to cut their ties to du Pont, Dave was the one who had come to his defense. But the Olympics were only seven short months away. When the games were over, Dave would be gone and John would be on his own.
Dave didn’t know why John was paying him a visit on that cold, grey afternoon. But then again, you never really knew what to expect with John, anyway. It didn’t matter. No matter what kind of mood he was in, Dave knew how to handle him. So, when John pulled his Lincoln into the driveway and rolled down the window, Dave approached him with a wave and a grin.
“Hey, coach,” he said.
John stuck his arm outside the window. In his hand was a .44 revolver.
“You got a problem with me?” John said.
Without waiting for an answer, John pulled the trigger. Dave’s elbow exploded and he screamed in surprise and agony.
“John, what are you doing?” Goodale shouted from the seat next to him as John fired another round, this one into Dave’s chest. Dave stopped screaming and fell face-first into the snow. That was when John started screaming.
Dave’s wife, Nancy, appeared at the front door of the house just in time to see John fire a third shot into Dave’s back. John saw her on the porch and lifted the gun on her. Goodale, who was armed with two weapons, finally drew one. John wheeled on him and their barrels met.
Nancy rushed back into the house and called 911. She got through to the Newtown Square police immediately, but the dispatcher didn’t seem to believe her. Was this some kind of a joke? Why would John du Pont shoot her husband?
“He’s insane!” she cried.
Outside, Goodale had managed to open the car door and put one foot on the ground while he and John stared into each other’s eyes over the barrels of their guns. Finally, something changed in John’s cold stare. Without a word, he lowered his gun, tossed it into the back seat, put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. Goodale managed to get the rest of the way out of the car without injuring himself, then watched as John sped off towards the mansion.
Nancy rushed out of the house to her husband’s side and took him in her arms. He was still alive, but only barely. No one could survive wounds like these, not even Dave, the strongest man she knew, the strongest man on the planet. No, Dave was going to die and he was going to die right there in front of her. She had to be strong for him, as he had been strong for her so many times in the past. “Tough as nails, Schultzie,” he always said whenever the going got rough. She tried her best.
She told him she loved him and watched him exhale one last time. Nancy heard a gurgling sound—horrible in its finality—from somewhere deep inside him, and then, lying there in the embrace of his wife of fourteen years and mother of his two children, the light went out in Dave Schultz’s eyes.
In the days, weeks and months that followed, the world responded in shock and horror. A member of one of the country’s wealthiest and most prominent families had murdered his best friend, an Olympic gold medalist, for no apparent reason. Everything about it seemed bizarre and disconnected, but many of those who knew Dave Schultz and John du Pont were less than surprised. No one would say it better than Team Foxcatcher’s Kurt Angle, a wrestler who was trained by Schultz himself.
“People saw it coming,” he said. “No one did a damn thing about it.”
Chapter 1: The Family Fortune
John E. du Pont was the great-great grandson of Eleuthère Irénée du Pont, a French immigrant who first arrived on American soil on January 1st, 1800. He and his family were forced to flee France after betting on the wrong horse during the French Revolution; their support of King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette resulted in the destruction of their home by an angry mob and very nearly cost du Pont’s father his head. No longer welcome in their home country, they set sail for the United States, hoping to start a model community for French exiles like themselves.
It wasn’t long before du Pont took notice of the poor quality of American-made gunpowder, and that presented him with a golden opportunity. With his background in chemistry and his overseas connections at France’s royal powder works, he could manufacture a much better product at a fraction of the cost. So in 1802, on the banks of the Brandywine Creek in Delaware, he opened E.I. du Pont de Nemours and Company, a gunpowder mill that would grow into one of the most successful and enduring businesses in American history.
When you’re in the gunpowder business, bad times are good times. The War of 1812 made the mill very profitable and by the time of the Civil War, Du Pont had become the Union Army’s chief supplier of gunpowder and explosives. By the turn of the twentieth century, the company began to diversify into other areas, most notably the development of polymers. Du Pont created the first synthetic rubber, they created nylon and polyester, Kevlar, Teflon and Lycra spandex. The list goes on and on. Today, it would be difficult to go anywhere or do anything without encountering something first given to us by Du Pont. In other words, E.I. du Pont’s descendents were among the filthiest of the filthy rich. For generations, the du Ponts only married their own cousins in an attempt to keep their wealth completely in the family, although by the end of the 19th century, that practice had started to decline. Also in decline at that time was the family’s direct involvement in the company’s affairs.
William du Pont, Jr.’s only real connection to the business, was enjoying the wealth it generated. He grew up at Montpelier, president James Madison’s historic home in Virginia, and was educated in the best private schools. In spite of his polished upbringing however, his reluctance to bathe or change his clothes on a regular basis earned him the nickname “Dirty Willie.” He was also loud and brash and more than a little odd, but that was okay for men of great wealth. It made him memorable.
Dirty Willie du Pont married Jean Liseter Austin on January 1st, 1919, the anniversary of William’s great grandfather’s arrival in America, and it was “The Wedding of the Century.” Jean was the daughter of an executive at Baldwin Locomotive Works, a railway company that was enjoying its heyday, and her marriage into the du Pont family was a union of enough wealth to create an empire. As a wedding gift, Jean’s father gave the couple 600 acres of land in Newtown Square, Pennsylvania as a wedding gift. Not to be outdone, William du Pont, Sr. built Liseter Hall on the land. It was an exact replica of the Montpelier mansion, where his son had grown up. He would feel right at home.
Jean and Dirty Willie du Pont spent most of their time and money devoted to their common love of horses. They expanded their property and developed one of the most extravagant horse farms the world had ever seen. They built barns and training tracks all over the estate grounds, including the United States’ first indoor galloping track. The couple didn’t rest until their facilities had become the premier place for breeding and training of race, show and hunting horses.
The way they saw it, if you were going to build something, you built the best.
