The Night Humanity Drove Away: Fort Worth's Chilling Tale of Gregory Biggs

Imagine, if you will, a Friday night in October, way back in 2001. The air in Fort Worth, Texas, probably had that slight chill of autumn just settling in. And for Chante Mallard, then a young nursing student, it was a night of partying — drinks flowing, perhaps a little ecstasy. But what unfolded next wasn't just a regrettable mistake; it was, honestly, a descent into something truly horrifying.

It happened, as these things often do, in a flash. Mallard, behind the wheel, struck a man on the highway. Gregory Biggs, a homeless man, likely just trying to cross the road, was the unlucky soul. But here's where the story veers sharply from tragic accident to unspeakable crime: Biggs didn't just bounce off the car. No, he became, impossibly, lodged in her windshield. Think about that for a second. He was alive. He was conscious. Groaning, they say. For miles, some seven long, agonizing miles, Chante Mallard drove with a man, a human being, bleeding and suffering, quite literally in her face.

And then, she got home. You might think, naturally, she'd call for help, right? Any help. The police, an ambulance, a neighbor. But she didn't. Instead, she pulled into her garage, the man still tangled in the glass and metal, and just… left him there. To die. Slowly. Horrifically. For hours, Gregory Biggs clung to life, his last moments spent in the darkness of a stranger's garage, bleeding out, his pleas, if there were any left, unheard. The indifference, frankly, is staggering.

His body, or what was left of it, remained in that garage for two days. Two full days. What do you do for two days with a dead man in your garage, a man you essentially condemned to a drawn-out, agonizing end? You could say she panicked, but even panic has its limits. Eventually, she called a couple of friends — Clete Deneal Jackson and Trace Douthitt, heroin addicts, it turns out. And together, in an act that truly boggles the mind, they dismembered Biggs’ body. Yes, dismembered. Then, they drove to a park, dumped his remains, and tried to wash their hands of the whole grisly affair.

But secrets, especially those soaked in such profound depravity, rarely stay buried. A tip, thank goodness, came in, leading authorities to Mallard. The ensuing trial, for obvious reasons, captured headlines. Mallard, this seemingly ordinary young woman, was sentenced to 50 years in prison for murder. Her accomplices, Jackson and Douthitt, faced charges too, for tampering with evidence. Justice, in a way, was served. But for Gregory Biggs, and for his son Brandon, who testified at the trial, the wounds, one can only imagine, run far deeper than any court sentence could ever heal.

The case of Chante Mallard isn't just a crime story; it's a stark, chilling look into the darkest corners of human nature. It makes you wonder, doesn't it, about the moments when empathy, compassion, even basic decency, simply vanish. And that, in truth, is the most disturbing part of all.