The Syndrome

Chapter 31

Finding out about Calvin Crane was about as easy as taking a cab to the New York Public Library. Walking past the magnificent stone lions that guard its entrance, Adrie

Philanthropist, foundation head. B. July 23, 1917, Patchogue, N.Y. Yale, ‘38. Harvard Law, ‘41. Atty., Donovan, Leisure (New York), 1942, 1945. Office of Strategic Services (OSS), London, Basel, Maj., 1942-5. Central Intelligence Group (CIG—Washington, D.C.), 1946-7. Foreign Service Officer, Dept. of State (Zurich), 1947-9. Secretary-Treasurer, Institute of Global Studies (IGS), 1949-63 (Zurich). President and Treasurer, IGS, 1964-89; President Emeritus, IGS, 1989-. Legion d’Ho

Adrie

The Who’s Who entry required a certain amount of deconstruction, Adrie

Prematurely ended by her crazy sister.

There had to be more. Getting up from her chair, she went to the reference desk and asked directions to the periodicals reading room, which turned out to be just down the corridor. With a librarian’s help, she selected microfiche spools from the New York Times, Miami Daily News, and the Sarasota Star-Tribune. Each of the spools covered the same period in October when Crane had been killed.

Sitting down at one of the readers, she went from obit to obit until she had a sense of the man—if not an understanding of her sister’s relationship to him.

The references to the OSS were especially interesting. From what she read, the organization had been formed under the influence of British intelligence at the outset of World War II. Like its European counterpart, it had recruited from the country’s upper classes, drawing as much as possible from the best schools and most prestigious firms on Wall Street. According to the Times, the OSS was “at once the principal precursor of the CIA, and a transatlantic Old Boys network par excellence.”

As if to emphasize the point, there was a page of photographs—billed as “a visual tribute”—in the Star-Tribune, showing Crane at different ages. As a young man, he’d been almost movie-star handsome, with bold eyebrows, a strong chin, and a shock of thick dark hair that fell, Ke

It was all very interesting, Adrie

Returning to her hotel, Adrie

“We’ve had a breakthrough,” Shaw told her.

“Fantastic! So… “ She cleared her throat. “So come on, who is he?”

“Well, he’s a very troubled man.”

“Doc…”

“His name is Lew McBride—Lewis with an ‘e.’ That’s the good news. The bad news is: he beat his wife and son to death with a baseball bat.”

“What!?”

“I think you heard me, though whether this is another fantasy of his—or something else—we can’t be sure.”

Adrie

“San Francisco.” Shaw filled her in on McBride’s background, from Bethel to Bowdoin to Stanford, including his parents’ deaths. “Bright young man—no question. Magna cum laude. Doctorate in psychology, prestigious fellowships—it was all ahead of him. Until…”

“What?”

“He went off the deep end. Suffered a psychotic break, of some kind. Beat his family to death. Swears he wasn’t on drugs, though you have to wonder if angel dust wasn’t involved.”

“He killed his wife?” Adrie

“And his infant son. Three months old.”

They fell silent for a moment. Then she asked: “Was he arrested, or… what?”

“‘Or what,’ indeed!” the psychiatrist exclaimed. “According to the patient, everything slips into soft focus at that point. He remembers the murders, but that’s it. The next thing he knows, he’s in Washington, and he’s Jeffrey Duran, therapist.”

“So… where is he now?”

“In restraints. I have him on A-4. Security ward.”

Adrie

“No. I think he’ll try to kill himself. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

“Then… “ Adrie

“The implant?”

“Yes.”

“That could have been a part of the problem, but I really can’t tell you anything. I’m having a helluva time finding out about it,” Shaw complained. “I’ve called the lab three times and… nothing.”

“So—”

“I’ll deal with the lab,” Shaw promised. “But, I have to say that if Mr. McBride’s recollection of himself as a murderer is accurate, it would explain a lot—the dissociation he experienced, the hysterical amnesia—even the sublimation of his personality into an alternate identity.”

“‘If’…”

“Pardon me?” the psychiatrist asked.

“You said, ‘if’ his memory is accurate.”

“So I did.”

Adrie

“Five years ago—in San Francisco.”

“Let me look into it,” she suggested. “And if I find out it’s true… ?”

“I don’t think either of us would have any choice. We’d have to notify the police.”

She knew he was right. But she also knew there was room for doubt—and that any call to the police at this time would be premature. Until the day before, the recently-confessed murderer had been someone else entirely. “I just can’t believe it,” she said.