Caught in the Devil's Backbone: The Mysterious Death of Meriwether Lewis

Photos.com/iStock via Getty Images Plus
Photos.com/iStock via Getty Images Plus

Priscilla Grinder wasn’t sure what to make of her new guest's odd behavior. When she'd welcomed him to the inn she ran with her husband, Robert, that evening of October 10, 1809, he'd come with packhorses and a request to stay the night. On the surface, he was merely one of many to make the trek along the Natchez Trace, a 450-mile path that connected Natchez, Mississippi, with Nashville, Tennessee. The trip could take up to four weeks, and weary travelers often found shelter in one of the many inns along the way. It was here at Grinder’s Stand, near Hohenwald, Tennessee, where this particular traveler had stopped to get some rest.

Priscilla watched as the man moved about in an erratic manner. When servants who had been traveling with him arrived, the guest ordered them to the stables [PDF]. Then he began pacing. He would walk up to Priscilla, and then quickly turn around. At supper, he took only a few spoonfuls of his meal before launching into what she would later describe as a “violent” verbal tirade directed at himself. He then retired to his room, where his footsteps echoed across the hardwood. Priscilla and her children—Robert was not at home—retired to nearby quarters, disconnected from main cabin but within earshot.

Late into the night, Priscilla heard what sounded like a pistol being fired. And then another. She heard the man cry out, “O Lord!” As she peered out of spaces between the wooden walls, he appeared, bleeding and rambling. He begged for water and for Priscilla to “heal” his wounds.

Priscilla was so shaken by the sight of the wounded guest, not to mention his odd behavior earlier, that she did something nearly unthinkable: She ignored him. His pleas for help went unanswered. When the servants arrived from the stables early the next morning, the guest begged them to kill him. He was missing part of his forehead and, according to some accounts, had slashed at himself with a razor.

He died at sunrise.

And that was how Meriwether Lewis, aged 35 and once co-captain of the famed Lewis and Clark expedition, met his untimely end. For the next 210 years, scholars, his family, and forensic analysts would comb over his life—and attempt to analyze his remains—searching for an evasive truth. Had Lewis turned his pistol on himself? Or had someone at Grinder’s Stand murdered him?

 

With the Louisiana Purchase, when the United States bought 828,000 miles of French territory in 1803, the country nearly doubled in size. President Thomas Jefferson was determined to map the new acquisition, forge relationships with Native American tribes, explore the flora and fauna of the region, and, most importantly, find an all-water route to the Pacific for trade purposes. Jefferson appointed Meriwether Lewis—his protégé, one-time secretary, and an Army captain—to lead the expedition.

Between 1804 and 1806, Lewis, his co-captain William Clark, and their team traversed 8000 miles, enduring bad weather, treacherous terrain, hunger, disease, and, at times, hostile Native Americans. He and Clark returned from their expedition to St. Louis, Missouri, as heroes in September 1806.

A postage stamp honoring explorers Meriwether Lewis and William Clark is pictured
iStock.com/traveler1116

The rewards for enduring such an arduous trip were numerous. Jefferson gave Lewis double pay for the journey and 1600 acres of land. Lewis was also named governor of the Territory of Upper Louisiana.

By rights, Lewis should have settled into a comfortable post-expedition life. But it was not to be. Scholars have suggested that despite the plaudits he was receiving, Lewis might have been somewhat disappointed with the expedition. For one thing, Lewis and Clark had not found the all-water route—the fabled Northwest Passage—to the Pacific. For another, the trading posts they had helped set up were faltering. The government had also complicated matters by asking for additional documentation and evidence that some of the filed expenses were necessary. If they weren’t, Lewis might have had to pay for them himself, which would have drained him financially.

Lewis was also prone to dark moods, a gloom that Jefferson noticed throughout their long friendship. It could have been depression, exacerbated by Lewis’s tendency to drink alcohol to excess. Based on his symptoms, scholars have also suggested malaria or syphilis may have been attacking both his body and his mind: Lewis himself wrote in a journal in November 1803 that he had been seized with a "violent ague," ague being the term at the time for malaria, a parasitic disease transmitted by mosquitoes that was not then treatable by antibiotics. Lewis also made several moves that support the idea of a morose state of mind, arranging for his possessions to be disbursed in the event of his death and preparing a will.

On a boat headed for Fort Pickering in September 1809, a number of military officials reported that Lewis was obviously distraught and had made two attempts to take his own life. It’s not clear how he tried to do it, but the prevailing belief was that Lewis was in a state of deep despondency that appeared to some as a mental illness. Captain Gilbert Russell, who was in charge of Fort Pickering, would later state that he ordered Lewis detained until he regained his composure. "His condition rendered it necessary that he should be stoped until he would recover which I done [sic]," Russell wrote. Lewis, he added, exhibited "mental derangement."

Lewis traveled on, following the Natchez Trace, and headed for Washington, where he intended to answer to questions concerning his expedition expenses. That’s when he stopped off at Grinder’s Stand.

It would be his last night alive.

James Neelly, a federal agent also on the Natchez Trace trail, had traveled part of the way with Lewis and had witnessed the explorer's odd behavior. The two had split up the morning of October 10, when Neelly remained behind to pursue two escaped horses.

Neelly came upon the grisly scene the day after Lewis's death. He buried the explorer near the inn and wrote to Jefferson that the death was a suicide. Owing to Lewis's recent behavior, it was an apparently easy assessment to make, and there was no autopsy or further investigation. But not all of the facts supported that conclusion.

 

According to the servants who discovered him, Lewis had purportedly shot himself in the head, a non-fatal wound that failed to penetrate his brain. Then he was believed to have turned the gun to his abdomen and fired again, the ammunition tearing through his torso and out near his backbone. But Lewis was a military man and an expert marksman. If he intended to kill himself, skeptics argue, a glancing shot against his head and another in his stomach seemed to be lousy choices. Surely, he would have had the sense to aim for his heart or to take a more measured aim toward his brain. Lewis's own mother expressed doubts; she believed he had been murdered.

The suspicion of foul play grew in 1848, almost 40 years after Lewis's death, when his body had to be partially exhumed in order for a monument to be erected at his burial site. The medical professionals who assisted in the exhumation reportedly made an offhand declaration: One of the bullet holes appeared to be in the back of his head, a strange spot for a self-inflicted gunshot. "It seems to be more probable that he died by the hands of an assassin," the exhumation committee concluded.

A plaque stands next to a monument at the burial site of explorer Meriwether Lewis in Hohenwald, Tennessee
Ron Gilbert, Flickr // CC BY-ND 2.0

That comment, which lacked documentation or further explanation, ignited a number of theories about how Lewis had really died. Some—like the idea Lewis had been carrying on with Priscilla Grinder and was discovered by her returning husband, or that the innkeeper murdered Lewis for his money and possessions—seemed fantastic. Others seemed somewhat plausible. Known as the “Devil’s Backbone,” the Natchez Trace was considered rough both geographically—it was made up of uneven terrain—and because of the bandits who lurked in the woods, ready to pounce on travelers carrying goods. Lewis had died on a path riddled with crime, and though nothing appeared to be missing, it was not inconceivable that an assailant could have fatally wounded him. At least, it seemed more likely than the idea that a competent soldier tried to kill himself by gruesomely shooting and slashing his own body.

Another theory, put forward by historian Kira Gale in two books, 2009's The Death of Meriwether Lewis: A Historic Crime Scene Investigation and 2015's Meriwether Lewis: The Assassination of an American Hero and the Silver Mines of Mexico, argues that Lewis was the target of a political assassination. As governor of the Louisiana Territory, he may have run afoul of a plot by General James Wilkinson (his predecessor as governor) to control lead mines south of St. Louis and invade Mexico to seize silver mines. Wilkinson was far from trustworthy, having sold American secrets to the Spanish empire and even warning Spain of the Lewis and Clark expedition and forthcoming American expansion. If he believed Lewis could expose his plans for the mines, he might have taken extreme measures to guarantee his silence.

"I propose the motive was to prevent Lewis from bringing information to Washington regarding crooked land deals involving Wilkinson and John Smith T, a mine operator in the lead mine district south of St. Louis," Gale wrote in 2015. "Wilkinson had a history of assassinating, or attempting to assassinate, people who were his rivals and possessed incriminating information that could jeopardize his career. Meriwether Lewis was a man 'of undaunted courage' who stood up to him." Gale also asserts that Wilkinson poisoned Anthony Wayne, commanding general of the U.S. Army, so second-in-command Wilkinson would climb in the ranks. Wayne died in 1796 following a bout of intense stomach pain, which Gale argues was really arsenic poisoning.

Priscilla Grinder herself added to the ambiguity around Lewis's death with her shifting recollections. She had told Neelly about Lewis's final hours. But roughly three decades later, when prompted by a schoolteacher for her memories of the night, she said three strange men had followed Lewis to the inn and that he had warned them off with his pistol. She also noted that she had seen John Pernier, Lewis's servant, wearing the clothes Lewis had arrived in. (Pernier would go on to become an unlikely but persistent suspect, having no obvious motive beyond simple theft. He died seven months after Lewis in an apparent suicide.)

A theory presented by Lewis historians Thomas C. Danisi and John Danisi and published in 2012 [PDF] attempted to reconcile Lewis’s reported depression with the unusual nature of his death. They pointed to Lewis’s longstanding “paroxysm of intermittent disease,” or the physical discomfort he experienced as a possible result of malaria or syphilis infection. Jefferson had taken note of his friend’s maladies, and described them in letters as a “hypochondriac affection.” Jefferson, using the language of his day, didn’t mean Lewis was having health anxiety—he meant Lewis had some kind of bodily discomfort, possibly involving his alcohol-saturated liver or spleen. The expedition, Jefferson wrote, had taken Lewis’s mind off the discomfort. Upon his return, his mind had the freedom to return to it.

In the throes of pain, illness, and frustration, it’s possible Lewis turned his weapons on himself without intending to take his own life. Instead, the Danisis argue, he wanted to quiet his ailing body. In an addled state, he might have even thought a wound could “cure” his affliction. That would explain why he targeted his abdomen and why, when the two shots failed to resolve his discomfort, he may have taken to slashing himself with a razor. Had Lewis wanted to die, why beg the innkeeper’s wife for water and attention? Why ask—or make a proclamation—about “healing” his wound?

 

Lewis is still buried in Hohenwald, Tennessee, in land that is now federally owned and part of the National Park Service. In 1996, George Washington Law University Professor James Starrs petitioned for the body to be exhumed in the hopes of examining Lewis's remains and possibly shedding light on his cause of death. Even close to 200 years later there might still be tell-tale clues on the body: Gunpowder residue could be tested to see if he was shot at close range or not. Fracture patterns in the skull could indicate the direction of the shot. Somehow, forensic analysis might be able to resolve what’s grown into a mystery enduring over two centuries.

So far, those attempts have not been successful. Starrs received no cooperation from the National Park Service, who told him it would set a bad precedent and that they have no interest in disrupting a burial site. The exhumation idea was also floated in 2009 by Lewis's descendants, but rejected by the Department of the Interior in 2010.

There’s no guarantee that any evidence exists that could prove exactly what happened to Lewis the night of October 11, 1809. Sick and tired, he could have taken his own life. He could have been trying to cure himself of a persistent pain. Or he could have been victimized by a bandit or bandits that simply disappeared back into the Natchez Trace. It’s a secret that Lewis took to his grave—where it’s likely to remain for a long time to come.

A Lost Japanese Village Has Been Uncovered in the British Columbia Wilderness

Ferenc Cegledi/iStock via Getty Images
Ferenc Cegledi/iStock via Getty Images

In 2004, a retired forester reached out to Capilano University archaeology professor Bob Muckle about investigating what looked like the remnants of an old logging camp in the forests of British Columbia, Canada. North Shore News reports that each spring for the next 14 years, Muckle took his students there to help him excavate what he now believes was a sort-of-secret Japanese settlement.

The site is located on the Lower Seymour Conservation Reserve, about 12 miles northeast of Vancouver. It’s approximately the size of a football field and contains the remains of more than a dozen cabins, a bathhouse, a road made of cedar planks, and a cedar platform that may have been a shrine. Muckle and his students have also unearthed more than 1000 items, including sake and beer bottles from Japan, teapots, game pieces, medicine bottles, clocks, pocket watches, clothing buttons, coins, and hoards of ceramics.

Japanese businessman Eikichi Kagetsu secured logging rights to the area near the camp around 1918, so it’s likely that the settlers were originally loggers and their families. Though the trees were cleared out by 1924 and Kagetsu continued his business ventures on Vancouver Island, there's evidence to suggest that some members of the logging community didn't leave right away.

Muckle believes that at least some of the 40 to 50 camp inhabitants chose to remain there, protected from rising racism in Canadian society, until 1942, when the Canadian government started moving Japanese immigrants to internment camps in the wake of the outbreak of World War II.

Muckle thinks the residents must have evacuated in a hurry since they left so many precious and personal items behind. “When people leave, usually they take all the good stuff with them,” he told North Shore News. His team even uncovered parts of an Eastman Kodak Bulls-Eye camera, a house key, and an expensive cook stove that someone had hidden behind a stump on the edge of the village. “They were probably smart enough to realize people might loot the site,” he added.

According to Smithsonian.com, Japanese immigrants had been victims of racism and discrimination in Canada since the first wave of immigration from Japan in 1877. They were generally met with hostility across the country, and kept from voting, entering the civil service, and working in law and other professions. Anti-Japan sentiment dramatically worsened after the bombing of Pearl Harbor in 1941, and The Canadian Encyclopedia estimates that more than 90 percent of Japanese Canadians—many of them citizens by birth—were displaced during the war.

To Muckle, this all contributes to the likelihood that villagers would have chosen to stay insulated by the forest for as long as they could. “The impression that I get, generally speaking, is it would have been a nice life for these people,” he said. It wouldn't be the first time a remote, wild area served as a refuge for a persecuted community—farther south and east, escaped enslaved people settled in the swamplands bordering North Carolina and Virginia for the century leading up to the Civil War.

While Muckle believes people stayed in the Canadian camp until the 1940s, it's hard to prove—there are no records for the inhabitants of the camp or where they might have gone. If there’s evidence in the village that can prove residents did stay until the 1940s, it will soon fall to other curious archaeologists to find it: Muckle thinks this will be his last season at the site.

Or, maybe the smoking gun will be discovered by someone who isn’t an archaeologist at all. Here are 10 times ordinary people (and one badger) unearthed amazing archaeological finds.

[h/t Smithsonian.com]

The Man Who Forgot Himself: How Presumed-Dead Lawrence Bader Invented a New Life

AlexLinch/iStock via Getty Images
AlexLinch/iStock via Getty Images

Suzanne Peika could not quite believe what she was seeing. It was February 2, 1965, and Peika was standing in front of an archery booth at a sporting goods convention in Chicago. A man with brown hair, a thin mustache, and an eyepatch was holding court for retailers. Aside from the patch and the facial hair, he looked exactly like her uncle Lawrence Bader.

There was just one problem: Her uncle was supposed to be dead.

In 1957, Coast Guard authorities had discovered Bader's rented boat washed ashore on Lake Erie after a storm. There was no sign of Bader, and no clues as to what had happened to him. Bader’s wife, Mary Lou, was effectively widowed, and his four children were left without a father. Eventually, he was declared legally dead.

Now, nearly eight years later, Peika had been summoned by a man from Akron, who told her to rush over to the sports convention. He had seen something there she would not believe.

After staring at a man who was almost certainly her uncle, she approached the booth. "Aren't you my Uncle Larry?" she asked.

The man laughed and seemed confused. No, he was not anyone’s Uncle Larry. His name was John Johnson, though he went by the nickname “Fritz.” He lived in Omaha, Nebraska, where he was a sports director for a local television station. He was polite but firm. It was nothing more, he said, than a misunderstanding.

Peika rushed to a phone and called her family. Lawrence’s two brothers jumped on a plane from Ohio to Chicago, where Johnson was again confronted. No, he said. He was not their brother, this man named Larry Joseph Bader, who had disappeared in 1957. Finally, he agreed to accompany them to a police station to be fingerprinted. The brothers explained that Bader had been in the Navy and his fingerprints would be on file. That would settle the matter once and for all.

The next day, they all received a call from police. The fingerprints matched: The man known as Fritz was Lawrence Bader. After disappearing during a storm on on Lake Erie, he wound up over 700 miles away, with a new job, a new face, a new wife, new children, and a completely different set of memories about the first 30 years of his life.

 

Bader was born December 2, 1926, in Akron, Ohio. His father, Stephen, was a dentist, and Bader considered following him into the practice. After a stint in the Navy from 1944 to 1946, Bader enrolled at the University of Akron, but his grades were mediocre, and he flunked out after just one semester. During his brief enrollment, Bader met Mary Lou Knapp, and the two were married on April 19, 1952.

To support their growing brood of children, Bader took on a job as a cookware salesman for Lifetime Distributors. Though he was an affable man and well-liked by colleagues and clients, the earning potential of the job was limited. He carried debts and fell behind on his taxes. It was later estimated that Bader failed to file tax returns from 1951 to 1957.

A wooden oar is pictured in the water
Jurgute/iStock via Getty Images

On May 15, 1957, Bader announced to Mary Lou that he needed to drive to Cleveland on business. Afterward, he planned on going fishing and would be late. Mary Lou, pregnant with their fourth child, suggested that he might want to come directly home instead.

“Maybe I will and maybe I won’t,” Bader said, and left.

Bader did drive to Cleveland. He also cashed a check for $400 and paid some outstanding bills, including an installment premium for his life insurance policy. Then he headed for Eddie’s Boat House, a boat rental operation on the Rocky River, which empties into Lake Erie. It was late afternoon, and the proprietor, a man named Lawrence Cotleur, warned him that a storm was coming. Bader seemed unconcerned. He paid a $15 deposit and asked for the boat to be equipped with lights. When Cotleur told him it wouldn’t get dark for hours, he insisted. Cotleur noticed he was carrying a suitcase.

Bader went out on the motorboat, which was also equipped with oars, and began making his way along the water. The Coast Guard spotted him and reiterated Cotleur’s warning, advising him it wouldn’t be safe when the storm hit.

That was almost certainly the last time anyone interacted with a man answering to the name Lawrence Bader.

The next morning, the boat was found washed up on shore at Perkins Beach in Lakewood, more than five miles away from Eddie’s Boat House. One of the propellers on the motor was bent and the hull was scratched, but there was no sign the boat itself had capsized or had tipped over. A single oar was missing. The life jackets were accounted for. The gas can was empty. Bader and his suitcase were nowhere to be found.

The Coast Guard made a thorough search of the water but discovered nothing. It was impossible, they said, to survive the choppy current without a life jacket, and certainly not for hours at a stretch. After two months, law enforcement had little choice but to effectively give up hope Bader would ever be found, alive or dead.

Obviously, no one thought to look in Omaha.

 

It was between three and five days later, depending on the account, when a man named John Johnson materialized at a restaurant and bar named Ross’s Steak House in Omaha. He was there looking for a bartending job, a drink guide stuffed under his arm. He carried a suitcase and a heavy canvas bag along with a Navy-issued driver’s license. He explained to his would-be employer, Mike Chiodo, that he had just gotten out of the Navy after a 14-year stretch. A bad back had led to his discharge, and he decided to travel the country a little. He was staying at the Farnam Hotel near the bus station. He’d be a good hire, he told Chiodo, because he used to tend bar at clubs in the service.

He got the job and was soon holding court among the regulars. When people remarked on his unusual name, he said he was originally reared at an orphanage in Boston. Of the 22 babies found on doorsteps, they were given the same generic name but a different nickname. His was Fritz, he explained, because he reminded people of a character in the Katzenjammer Kids comic strip popular in the 1920s and 1930s. Sometimes, that story would change, and he would say the nickname came from a short haircut he got in the service that made him look like a German soldier.

Two glasses filled with ice are pictured
Igor Vershinsky/iStock via Getty Images

He insisted on being called Fritz and used his full name infrequently. Checks were signed Fritz. He had his bills made out to Fritz. He also had the curious habit of dating his checks by season, not month, day, and year. If a bill came due in July, he would write “summer” on it.

Yet no one seemed to think he was unusual at all. They found Fritz to be a joy to be around, and Fritz found joy in virtually everything. He was a determined bachelor who went out on frequent dates, sometimes playfully showing up in an old hearse that had a place to lounge in the back. He listened to classical music and proved to be adept at archery, winning several regional championships. It was a life, one Akron resident later said, that would never have been welcome in a more conservative town like the one back in Ohio.

He also had ambitions beyond bartending. After his shift and late at night, he would visit local radio station KBON to use the recording equipment and practice his broadcasting skills. In 1959, he was hired by the station and became something of a local celebrity. Fritz was game for stunts like sitting in a box on top of a 50-foot flagpole to raise money and awareness for polio. He didn’t come down for 15 days, an endurance challenge that added to his local legend.

Around 1961, he met and married a former model named Nancy Zimmer. Nancy had been married once before and had a daughter. Soon, they’d welcome a son and he would begin a prosperous career on KETV, a local television affiliate.

Between his social life, marriage, and career, Fritz was very much alive. Back in Akron, Lawrence Joseph Bader had been declared legally dead.

 

When he was discovered by his niece in 1965, Fritz was a broadcaster working part-time as an advisor for archery companies. The eyepatch was from the excision of a malignant tumor, which had taken his eye in 1964. Now cornered by his family, the new life he had built for himself began to crumble.

Though he insisted he had no memory of being Bader, whom he called “that other fellow,” his reappearance led to a number of legal and ethical quandaries. There were the insurance policies worth roughly $40,000, which had been paid out to Mary Lou and which now seemed to be null and void. Social Security payments sent to Mary Lou and calculated based on his demise would have to be addressed. Even Cotleur, the boat house owner, was looking for restitution. Bader had left behind a damaged rental that needed replacement. “He owes us a boat,” Cotleur said.

There was also the matter of the marriage. Because Bader was alive, he was still legally married to Mary Lou and could be considered a bigamist. At minimum, he had a financial responsibility to the family he had left behind in Akron. Fritz hired a lawyer, Harry Farnham, who recommended he undergo a battery of psychological testing at an area hospital. After several days of intense evaluation, doctors could not say he was willfully deceiving anyone. It truly appeared as though he had no recollection of ever being Lawrence Bader.

“I am John (Fritz) Johnson and I have never heard of this Bader man until this matter came up,” he told the Akron Beacon Journal. He seemed more bemused than upset by the situation, admitting that, yes, he did look like Bader and that both shared a love of archery. Beyond that, he didn’t care to explore his memories with anyone, citing doctors who told him that examining his past could be psychologically damaging.

A white mask is pictured
francescoch/iStock via Getty Images

“My God, don’t you understand?” he told a reporter. “All of a sudden, I find out that 30 years of my life never happened. You see, I really do have 30 years of memory as Fritz Johnson. What am I supposed to do with those 30 years? Throw them out the door?”

For a time, the situation seemed precarious. If it could be proven Bader committed fraud, he was looking at legal consequences. But no one could prove that. Instead, his lawyer argued the surgery to remove a cancerous lesion may have affected his memory. Perhaps he once knew why Bader disappeared and Fritz appeared, but there was little hope of finding answers now.

Struck by the peculiar nature of their employee’s double life, KETV terminated him. Nancy left him, their marriage essentially erased in light of the fact that he was already married. She seemed bewildered. "I just don't know what to think," she told a reporter.

Quickly, Fritz found himself back to work as a bartender, earning $100 a week. Of that, $50 went to Mary Lou for child support and $20 went to Nancy. He was left with $30 and moved into an Omaha YMCA.

 

Mary Lou spent several months in seclusion, shying away from curious reporters and from Fritz. Eventually, she decided to meet him in Chicago, with their four children in tow. That meeting, which took place in August 1965, was described as amicable, though Fritz insisted he had no recollection of meeting, marrying, or having a family with her. Because he insisted they were strangers, there was little choice but to consider him a stranger, as well. Mary Lou voiced hope that maybe one day he would come around.

"I am hopeful he will eventually remember," she said. "He's convinced himself that he doesn't recognize anybody." Learning he was alive was "unreal," she said. "It was sort of like a numbness. It wasn't like an emptiness when I thought he was drowned."

It turned out that there would be no time for Fritz to come around. In 1966, his cancer reappeared, this time in his liver. He died on September 16 of that year.

His passing posed the question of how to pay respects to a man who appeared to have lived two distinctly different lives. In Omaha, a service was held at First Methodist Church for John “Fritz” Johnson. The next day, his body was transported to Akron so he could be buried in a family plot at Holy Cross Cemetery as Lawrence Joseph Bader.

The question of whether Bader suffered some kind of injury during the storm or had some kind of neurological disorder has never been fully answered. Given the circumstances of his disappearance—his timely insurance premium payment, his mounting debts, and his wildly different and unencumbered lifestyle in Omaha—it seems likely that Lawrence Bader decided he was trapped in the life he was leading and saw only one way out.

If he was telling the truth about having 30 years of memories as Fritz, then it’s possible Bader experienced dissociative amnesia, a rare condition where a person has no memory of their life owing to trauma or stress. In a dissociative fugue state, they have an urge to travel and may invent a new personality, settling in a new area with no recollection of how they got there.

In one such case, in 2005, a lawyer and father of two in New York disappeared. He was found six months later living in a homeless shelter in Chicago under a new name. Once discovered, his wife revealed he had been overcome by stress relating to his experience in Vietnam as well as being near the World Trade Center on 9/11.

Only neuropsychological tests can sift out cases of true dissociative fugue from people simply hiding from their problems. It’s unlikely, however, that Bader would have suffered from amnesia for nearly a decade. In such cases, memories are not lost but are misplaced. They eventually return.

If he did experience a total erasure of his previous existence, at least some remnants lingered. He managed to retain his ability in archery. And while he may have believed his nickname came from an orphanage his psyche invented out of whole cloth, it’s far more plausible that a conscious memory of his previous life had inspired it. As a cookware salesman, his boss was a man named Mr. Zepht. His first name was Fritz.

SECTIONS

arrow
LIVE SMARTER