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A perplexing death by spontaneous combustion...
KOVACSEV: Some of the aspects of this case were so bizarre,
her death seemed almost unnatural.
...the humble beginnings of a game-changing pitch...
MARTIN: Strike three. He's out.
He can't figure out what happened.
...and a bandit with impeccable manners.
RICHARDSON: The robber very graciously said,
"Ma'am, I'm not here for your money.
I'm here for the money of Wells Fargo."
WILDMAN: Within the walls of great institutions
lie secrets waiting to be revealed.
These are the mysteries at the museum.
-- Captions by VITAC --
Closed Captions provided by Scripps Networks, LLC.
St. Petersburg, Florida.
Nicknamed the Sunshine City,
this coastal town averages 361 sun-drenched days a year.
And just steps away
from the breathtaking downtown waterfront
is an institution that catalogs the area's bright past,
the St. Petersburg Museum of History.
On display is an 1860s all-metal velocipede bike,
a 19th-century post office counter,
and a replica of the airboat
that made the world's first commercial flight.
But set aside from these eye-catching artifacts
is a seemingly plain item that is singed by intrigue.
KOVACSEV: The artifact itself is three separate binders.
There are a number of papers. They are 62, 63 years old.
They have yellowed over the years.
WILDMAN: And according to St. Petersburg Police Major Michael Kovacsev,
this artifact tells the story of a woman
who met a bizarre and blazing fate.
KOVACSEV: What happened here seemed obvious.
But actually, it was anything but.
WILDMAN: What inflammatory event is documented by this dossier?
And why does it continue to confound authorities
to this day?
July 2nd, 1951 -- St. Petersburg, Florida.
At just after 8:00 a.m. on this summer day,
the landlady of an apartment complex on Cherry Street
visits the home of a 67-year-old tenant
named Mary Reeser.
But when Reeser doesn't answer, she grabs the door handle
and quickly notices it's hot to the touch.
She was alarmed. And she went to seek help.
WILDMAN: With the aid of bystanders,
she forces her way inside and sees a room full of smoke.
But nothing could prepare them for what they discover.
All that remained of Mrs. Reeser was a pile of ashes,
some bones and an intact foot, as well as her shoe.
WILDMAN: When cops and firefighters arrive at the scene,
they notice that the fire that consumed Mrs. Reeser
is bizarrely contained to just one spot.
Aside from the smoke damage on the walls and the ceiling,
nothing else in the apartment is destroyed.
KOVACSEV: The fire was contained in an area
directly around Mrs. Reeser and her chair.
WILDMAN: And while closely examining Mrs. Reeser's remains,
they discover that her skull is abnormally small.
In fact, it appears that it has shrunk.
KOVACSEV: Some of the aspects of this case were so bizarre,
her death seemed almost unnatural.
WILDMAN: Unable to determine the cause of the mysterious blaze,
local authorities turn to the FBI for help.
And after thoroughly examining the physical evidence
and this case file, now on display
at the St. Petersburg Museum of History,
they determine that the blaze was caused
by nothing more than a cigarette Reeser was smoking
as she fell asleep.
But the bizarre details from the case
catch the eye of renowned forensic anthropologist
and fire expert Wilton Krogman.
An intrigued Krogman gains access to photos from the scene,
as well as Reeser's remains,
and draws a startling conclusion.
KOVACSEV: Mr. Krogman completely disagreed
with what the FBI and the police department
had to say about Mrs. Reeser's death.
WILDMAN: Krogman determines that the investigators failed to address
several glaring abnormalities,
most notably, the fire's isolated damage
and the near total reduction of Mrs. Reeser's body to ashes.
The body would've had to have been at a temperature
of at least 3,000 degrees for it to reach
the level of cremation that it did.
WILDMAN: But the most troubling aspect of the case
is Mrs. Reeser's shrunken skull.
KOVACSEV: Mr. Krogman felt that the fact
that Mary Reeser's skull had shrunken
was completely implausible.
Skulls tend to explode or tend to get larger
with any type of fire.
And this seemed to be opposite of what happened in this case.
WILDMAN: So, what could possibly explain
the mysterious death of Mary Reeser?
Mr. Krogman felt that lightning
was a possible cause for her death.
WILDMAN: But a lightning strike would've left
entry and exit marks on the apartment,
and Reeser's showed no such scars.
Others theorize that Reeser was murdered
and that her killer reduced her body to cinders
with a blow torch.
But the much-beloved Reeser had no known enemies.
And her apartment bore no signs of a break-in.
But by far the most intriguing hypothesis
centers on a seemingly rare and storied phenomenon.
Many believed that Mrs. Reeser died
of spontaneous human combustion,
where the body becomes its own igniter.
WILDMAN: A chemical reaction believed to originate within the body,
spontaneous combustion is said
to generate a staggering heat that incinerates the victim.
But many find this theory lacking.
KOVACSEV: The idea of human combustion
in the academic or scientific community
is viewed with great skepticism.
WILDMAN: Still, the exact cause
of Mary Reeser's demise remains unknown.
The incident occurred almost 62 years ago.
And it continues to be a mystery to this day.
WILDMAN: And at the St. Petersburg Museum of History,
this dossier illuminates the tale
of a woman who went up in flames
for extraordinarily obscure reasons.
Known as the Rubber Capital of the World,
Akron, Ohio is the birthplace of the tire industry.
But it also houses an institution
dedicated to the study of another resilient tool,
the human mind.
At the Center for the History of Psychology,
visitors can explore scientific objects
such as a phrenology bust
once used for mapping brain functions
and a 1930s simulator to train fighter pilots for war.
But there's one artifact in the collection
which speaks to a much darker facet of the human condition.
The artifact is probably about three feet long.
It weighs no more than 10 pounds.
Silver in color.
Nothing spectacular about it, just to look at.
WILDMAN: According to Assistant Director Cathy Faye,
this rather unassuming object represents a shocking truth.
It tells us a lot about the human experience
and makes us all think a little bit
about how we would behave in certain situations.
WILDMAN: What was this box designed to do?
And what does it reveal about humankind's capacity for evil?
1961 -- New Haven, Connecticut.
A 41-year-old man named Joseph Dimow
is intrigued by an ad in a local paper.
Yale University's psychology department
is looking for volunteers
for an experiment about memory and learning.
Participants are offered $4 for an hour of their time.
And Dimow jumps at the opportunity.
FAYE: When Dimow arrived at Yale,
he was greeted by somebody by the name of Mr. Williams.
WILDMAN: Mr. Williams explains
that he will be administering the test
and that another volunteer
will be stationed in a separate room.
Then, Williams assigns the men two distinct roles.
FAYE: Dimow was assigned to play the teacher,
while the other man was assigned to be the learner.
WILDMAN: Mr. Williams informs Dimow
that he is to read a series of word pairs to the learner
over an intercom.
If the learner fails to remember a pair,
Dimow is given a macabre responsibility.
Dimow's task was to apply punishment.
WILDMAN: He is instructed to administer an electric shock
using this generator box, now on display
at the Center for the History of Psychology.
The buttons represent varying degrees of voltage.
At one end of the box is slight shock,
all the way up to moderate shock, strong stock,
intense shock, right up until you get to triple-X,
with no words written beneath it.
WILDMAN: As the experiment begins,
the learner remembers several word pairs correctly.
But he soon makes his first mistake.
After he made the first error, Dimow hit the button
intended to release a 15-volt shock.
WILDMAN: The punishment seems mild.
But this is only the beginning.
Every time the learner made an error,
Dimow was instructed to increase the punishment by 15 volts.
WILDMAN: With each wrong answer, Dimow ups the severity,
causing what seems to be
a distressing amount of pain to the learner.
[ Buzzing ]
[ Screaming ]
FAYE: As Dimow went further up the scale,
he began to fear for the learner's health.
[ Buzzing ]
[ Screaming ]
After a particularly intense shock,
the learner screamed out in agony
and said that he did not want to continue the experiment.
WILDMAN: A worried Dimow tells Mr. Williams
he can't keep hurting the man.
But the experimenter pressures Dimow to go on.
He said to Dimow, "It is essential that you continue."
WILDMAN: Despite Williams' persistence, Dimow is adamant.
FAYE: Dimow was, in fact, worried that if we went up further,
that he could kill the learner.
WILDMAN: Dimow withdraws from the experiment
and is perplexed by the harrowing experience.
So, is there more to this sadistic study
than meets the eye?
It's 1961 in New Haven, Connecticut.
Scientists from Yale University's
department of psychology
are conducting an experiment on learning and memory.
When a participant incorrectly answers a question,
another subject is instructed to administer a punishment,
potentially lethal electric shocks.
So, what is the purpose behind this sadistic experiment?
In 1963, an article is published
in the Journal of Abnormal and Social Psychology,
divulging the true nature of the experiments.
As well as Joseph Dimow, 39 other volunteers
between the ages of 20 and 50 took part.
Some of the tests were filmed.
What was revealed was that the only true naive subject
in this whole experiment was, in fact, the teacher.
The learner and the experimenter were both actors.
WILDMAN: And while Dimow and the others
thought they were administering potentially lethal shocks,
this was not the case.
FAYE: The shock box was a prop.
It was not functional in any way.
WILDMAN: So, who was behind this experiment?
And what was his goal?
FAYE: The mastermind of these experiments was, in fact,
a social psychologist named Stanley Milgram.
WILDMAN: And it seems his inspiration for the study
was the trial of one of history's greatest monsters.
FAYE: At the same time, Adolf Eichmann was on trial
for Nazi war crimes.
WILDMAN: A lieutenant colonel under Adolf Hitler,
Eichmann faces numerous charges
as one of the chief organizers of the Holocaust.
His defense, essentially, was that he was not responsible
for the crimes that he had committed.
He was told by higher-up officials to commit these acts.
And he did so under their authority.
WILDMAN: Professor Milgram was fascinated by Eichmann's defense
and designed a study in order to understand
the extremes regular people will go to
when pressured by authority.
And his results are shocking.
While Joseph Dimow abandoned the experiment,
a majority of the participants heeded authority
and inflicted what they thought was the maximum amount of pain.
Hitting 70 volts.
[ Buzzing ]
[ Screaming ]
65% of participants were willing to go
all the way up to the triple-X shock level.
WILDMAN: Milgram's work becomes a landmark study in psychology,
but also raises serious ethical issues.
Many people argued that the participants were put
under undue psychological distress
for the sake of science.
WILDMAN: In 1974, Congress introduces regulations
to safeguard participants in clinical research.
Despite the controversy,
Milgram's experiment has a huge impact
on the way we think about human behavior.
And today, this box
at the Center for the History of Psychology
serves as a reminder of a groundbreaking study
that shocked the world.
Lubec, Maine.
This tiny fishing village sits on the eastern-most point
of the contiguous United States
and was once the sardine-canning capital of the world.
And right on the shoreline is
a restored turn-of-the-century general store
which is now home to the Lubec Historical Society.
This collection features functional relics
like vintage hand tools, a giant fishing net
and typical kitchen supplies from the early 20th century.
But just outside the museum is one oversized article
with no apparent practical purpose.
It's a large iron pot weighing about 100 pounds
with platinum rods that go down into the pot.
WILDMAN: As Lubec Historical Society member Cecil Moores can attest,
a machine like this once held the promise
of unimaginable wealth.
MOORES: This piece of equipment was at the center
of a bizarre hunt for hidden riches.
WILDMAN: What mysterious function
did this device perform?
And how did it transform a quiet coastal village
into a boom town?
1897 -- Lubec, Maine.
A ship bearing two strangers
arrives in this tranquil harbor town.
Thirty-one-year-old Baptist minister Prescott Jernegan
and his friend Charles Fisher
bring with them astonishing news for the community.
MOORES: They state that there are millions of dollars in gold
flowing through the Lubec Narrows every day.
WILDMAN: The presence of trace metals
such as gold in seawater is widely known.
But concentration levels are so small
that no one has found a profitable way to remove it.
But Jernegan alleges that he has a device
which can extract the precious commodity.
And he calls it the gold accumulator.
Jernegan says that the device relies
on a proprietary mix of chemicals
placed in the bottom of a basin,
which is electrified by a pair of platinum rods.
MOORES: As the seawater passes through the accumulator,
gold is extracted from the seawater
and accumulates in the bottom of the bowl.
WILDMAN: But the people are skeptical
of the strangers' claims.
So, Jernegan offers to give a demonstration.
With the accumulator attached to a long rope,
he gently lowers it into the bay water
and then asks everyone to return the following day.
MOORES: When they did come back,
Jernegan pulled up his accumulator.
WILDMAN: And what the townspeople see
absolutely astonishes them,
specks of gold.
MOORES: The people were like, this is amazing.
This invention really works.
WILDMAN: Jernegan estimates that just one accumulator can extract
nearly half a gram of gold over a 24-hour period
and that this venture could brings hundreds
of high-paying jobs to the small town.
Investors throughout the northeast scramble
to buy a stake in Jernegan and Fisher's new corporation,
the Electrolytic Marine Salts Company.
MOORES: Jernegan had sold 350,000 shares
at a dollar a share in three days.
In 1897, that's a tremendous amount of money.
MOORES: They find an old grist mill right on the coast
and hire dozens of local workers.
And soon, they are building accumulators
and collecting gold on a massive scale.
MOORES: Over the course of the next year,
the factory's up to 200, 250 accumulators,
each making $239 a day,
which is about $6,500 in today's currency.
WILDMAN: And as the company thrives,
so do the people of Lubec.
But is there more to this production line alchemy
than meets the eye?
It's 1897 in Lubec, Maine.
Entrepreneur Prescott Jernegan
has developed a revolutionary device
that he says can extract gold from seawater.
And he's convinced investors
to shell out thousands of dollars
for a share in the spoils.
But little do they know
the lustrous returns are about to dry up.
Over the next year,
production at the Electrolytic Marine Salts company factory
mysteriously slows down.
And anxious investors turn to Jernegan and Fisher for answers.
MOORES: They claim with the amount of rainfall this spring,
there's too much freshwater
flowing through the accumulators.
They're not producing the gold that they should.
WILDMAN: Investors are relieved it's just a minor setback.
However, when weather conditions improve,
production doesn't pick up.
And suddenly, the accumulators stop collecting any gold at all.
Everyone is looking for an explanation.
WILDMAN: But as the demand for answers rises,
Jernegan and Fisher skip town.
And in July 1898, the factory closes.
Seven hundred men lose their jobs.
Several months later, reporters receive
a startling piece of news from Jernegan.
Jernegan confesses that he and Fisher have fled abroad
with an estimated $300,000.
WILDMAN: And he reveals in the press
that the real secret behind the accumulators
was an experienced diver,
his business partner, Charles Fisher.
Jernegan purchased gold.
Then, Fisher secretly planted it in submerged accumulators
to be collected later by unsuspecting workers.
This gold was then shown to investors,
who sunk money into the company.
This money, Fisher would in turn use to buy more gold
to salt the accumulator.
WILDMAN: But their scheme ran into problems.
Jernegan explains that they were expanding too quickly.
They couldn't buy enough gold
to salt all the accumulators they had.
That's when they decided to flee with the money.
WILDMAN: Jernegan and Fisher's deception leaves countless investors
holding hundreds of thousands of shares of worthless stock.
Incredibly, this scheming duo
never faced justice for the fraud,
hiding out in various other countries.
However, a guilty conscience causes Jernegan
to send back $75,000 as compensation
to some of his victims.
And today, this simulated accumulator
at the Lubec Historical Society
is a physical reminder of the two daring fraudsters
who turned this small town
into the center of a make-believe gold rush.
Los Angeles, California is known as a playground
of the rich and famous.
But just a century and a half ago,
it was regarded as the toughest and most lawless city
west of Santa Fe.
Overlooking this once rough-and-tumble town
stands the Autry.
Established by movie cowboy and music icon, Gene Autry,
the museum is dedicated
to preserving the history of the American West.
On display are a pair of antique bison chairs
made from mahogany and rosewood,
a cash register from 19th century saloon
and a sculpture of a Native American
firing an arrow to the sky to bring rain.
But, according to curator Jeffrey Richardson,
among these intricately-crafted pieces
is one object that is comparatively plain.
RICHARDSON: The artifact is made primarily of steel and wood.
It has a nice rich, brown patina.
And when it was originally produced,
it was nothing spectacular.
WILDMAN: Despite its ordinary appearance,
this shotgun belonged to a rather unique character.
RICHARDSON: He was quite dapper.
He was quite refined.
But yet, he was an outlaw.
He was a criminal.
WILDMAN: Who wielded this weapon?
And how did he earn one of the most unusual reputations
in the Wild West?
July 26th, 1875.
Eighty miles south of Sacramento, California,
a stagecoach operated by Wells Fargo
transports a group of passengers
and a lockbox containing bank notes and gold.
But unexpectedly, the stagecoach comes to a halt.
And a man wearing a flour sack and wielding a shotgun
makes a very specific demand.
He wanted all the gold and the money
that was in the Wells Fargo lockbox.
WILDMAN: The terrified passengers
quickly surrender the contents of the box.
One woman, fearing she'll be robbed next,
offers her personal cash to the armed outlaw.
But the bandit's reaction leaves everyone baffled.
RICHARDSON: The robber very graciously said,
"Ma'am, I'm not here for your money.
I'm here for the money of Wells Fargo."
WILDMAN: The task of investigating the bizarrely chivalrous heist
falls on Wells Fargo detective James Hume.
But his examination of the crime is fruitless.
RICHARDSON: What Hume ultimately came to find out
was that there was very little to go on
from this initial robbery.
WILDMAN: Soon, there's news of another robbery
about 100 miles north of the first,
and then a third by the Oregon border.
With each heist, the story's the same.
RICHARDSON: The same character,
the same flour mask with the eyes cut out,
had treated everyone that he dealt with respect,
was very kind, was very gentle.
WILDMAN: In robbery after robbery,
the masked man wields this shotgun,
the same one on display at the Autry in Los Angeles.
But when Hume gets called
to the scene of the fourth hold-up,
he makes a strange discovery.
On a nearby tree stump, he finds a note written in verse.
RICHARDSON: It was actually a poem
that somewhat was gloating,
somewhat taking aim at Wells Fargo,
to let them know that there was this individual
who was doing this.
WILDMAN: The poem is signed "Black Bart."
Over the next seven years,
this brazen but polite criminal robs 23 more stagecoaches,
never harming a soul, and amassing a sizable fortune.
So, who is the gentleman bandit?
And how will Wells Fargo manage to catch
this strangely gallant felon?
It's 1883 in northern California.
Investigators are on the hunt
for an infamous and unconventional robber
known as Black Bart.
Each time the thief strikes, his victims are bemused
by his impeccable manners and courtly demeanor.
So, who is this gentleman bandit?
And will he ever be properly brought to justice?
On November 3rd, 1883, a masked man stops another stagecoach.
And his polite manner leaves the driver with no doubt --
It is none other than the infamous Black Bart.
But this time,
a passenger decides to take a stand and opens fire.
[ Gunshot ]
Black Bart flees, but not before making a crucial mistake.
In a moment of panic, he dropped his suitcase.
WILDMAN: When Wells Fargo's James Hume
gets his hands on the suitcase, he finds the key
to unlocking the mystery of the gentleman bandit.
RICHARDSON: One of the pieces in his suitcase
is a handkerchief that has a laundry stamping on it.
WILDMAN: Hume tracks the stamp
to a well-known laundry in San Francisco,
where the proprietor says it belongs to a regular customer,
a successful mining executive by the name of Charles Boles.
Hume and his team use this information
to set up a meeting with the man,
albeit under false pretenses.
Hume and others, in effect,
trick Black Bart into coming to their office
to discuss some mining business.
WILDMAN: But when the two sit down to talk,
Hume wastes no time in getting down
to a different kind of business.
RICHARDSON: It soon becomes clear to Charles Boles
that they are there to ask many questions
related to several stagecoach robberies
that have taken place over the last few years.
WILDMAN: Under intense pressure, Boles breaks down and confesses.
He is Black Bart.
Boles admits
that despite his successes in the mining business,
he often lived beyond his means.
RICHARDSON: He liked fancy clothes.
He liked nice restaurants.
He liked being associated with the finer things in life.
When he had enough money, he didn't commit crimes.
But when that money started to run low,
he would go out and commit another robbery.
RICHARDSON: But the bandit explains
he always followed a strict moral code.
To protect those he robbed, he never even loaded his gun.
When his case goes to trial,
Boles is sentenced to six years in prison.
And today, this shotgun sits at the Autry,
once wielded by the gentleman bandit,
one of the most famous and polite outlaws
in California history.
Founded in 1812
at the confluence of the Scioto and Olentangy Rivers,
Columbus, Ohio, is now home to the Ohio State Buckeyes.
And no place captures the city's love of sports better
than Martin's Baseball Museum.
This small institution is a personal labor of love
for baseball historian Tracy Martin.
His collection includes vintage uniforms,
brown rawhide balls
and knobbed baseball bats made from ax handles.
But one artifact here bears scant resemblance
to anything we know from the game today.
MARTIN: It's brown in color.
It's a wrinkly piece of leather.
And it's about 6 inches long.
And it dates back to the 1870s.
WILDMAN: This unassuming piece of equipment
enabled a new competitive technique
that eventually transformed the sport.
MARTIN: This was one of the most revolutionary innovations
in sports history.
And it changed the game of baseball forever.
WILDMAN: How is this early baseball mitt
linked to a historic turning point
in America's national pastime?
Brooklyn, New York -- the summer of 1863.
Teenager Arthur Cummings is the pitcher
for his neighborhood baseball club.
While he shows talent as a hurler,
in the early days of the game, the pitcher is considered
the least important position on the field.
At the time, pitchers lobbed the ball underhanded
while their catchers crouched 20 feet behind the plate,
fielding balls with their bare hands.
Well, in 1863, baseball was still in its infancy.
The pitcher's role was to put the ball
where the batter wanted it.
And if he wasn't doing that, the umpire would instruct him,
"Sir, please place the ball
where the striker would like the baseball."
WILDMAN: But Arthur Cummings believes
there's more to being a pitcher
than just serving up hits for the batters.
The young Arthur really thinks
that the current way of pitching is kind of boring.
So, he really wants to challenge the pitching practices.
WILDMAN: The young pitcher begins dreaming up ways
to cause the opposition to swing and miss.
One day, while tossing clam shells
at the beach with his friends, inspiration strikes.
He noticed that when he threw the clam shells into the water,
that right before they hit the water,
they would curve slightly.
And a light bulb went off in his head.
And he just wondered if he could possibly do that
with a baseball.
WILDMAN: Cummings becomes obsessed with the idea
of throwing a pitch that curves in midflight.
MARTIN: He would try to hold the ball different ways.
He would put his fingers
on different sides of the stitching.
He would twist his wrist when he threw the ball.
WILDMAN: For years, Cummings hones his secret technique.
MARTIN: He knew that there was a time coming
where he would be able to try this pitch
that he had been practicing for so long.
WILDMAN: In 1867, Arthur's club, the Brooklyn Excelsiors,
faces off against a powerful team from Harvard University.
As the end of the game draws near,
Archie Bush, the league's best hitter,
steps into the batter's box.
With two strikes against the slugger,
Cummings decides it's time to unleash his experimental pitch.
MARTIN: So, he rears back, delivers the ball.
And at the last moment, he twists his wrist perfectly.
And all of a sudden, the pitch drops off out of the way.
Bush swings and misses, strike three.
He's out.
He can't figure out what happened.
WILDMAN: It seems Cummings has mastered the elusive pitch.
But there's a problem.
The spinning ball takes an erratic bounce,
skipping away from the catcher
and allowing the Harvard man on third base
to score the winning run.
And much to Cummings' despair,
it's a problem that dogs him in game after game.
The pitch works great to get the batters to strike out.
But there's a huge problem here.
It also deceives the catcher.
WILDMAN: So, what will it take for Arthur Cummings
to turn his magical pitch
into a new, viable weapon in the game of baseball?
It's 1868, Brooklyn, New York.
After years of practice,
Arthur Cummings has perfected a pitch
that he thinks could revolutionize
the fledgling sport of baseball.
It's called the curve.
But when his catcher can't corral it,
it seems Cummings' invention is destined to strike out.
So, what will it take to make the curveball a hit?
By the summer of 1868,
Arthur Cummings is pitching with a new team,
the Brooklyn Stars.
He also has a new catcher,
a hard-nosed Civil War vet named Nat Hicks.
The pair sets about solving the great curveball dilemma.
The problem stems from the catcher's distance
behind home plate.
With a traditional underhanded pitch,
the ball bounces straight to the catcher,
20 feet behind the batter.
But when the curve takes its first bounce,
the tight rotation of the ball causes it to bound away,
sending the catcher scrambling.
So, Hicks proposes a solution.
And he tells Cummings,
"Maybe I'll move closer to the plate behind the batter."
And he tells Cummings, "I'll catch it on the fly."
WILDMAN: Hicks' plan works.
The new positioning allows Hicks to catch the ball
before it strikes the ground.
And it's not long
before the pair takes the baseball world by storm.
MARTIN: This new system has made them an unstoppable duo.
Cummings and Hicks together wins four championships in a row
for the Brooklyn Stars.
WILDMAN: But the new style takes its toll on Nat Hicks.
Game after game, his hands are bruised and bloodied
from catching the hard ball.
MARTIN: He starts to experience multiple injuries.
So, he comes up with the idea
of taking a pair of workman's gloves
and cutting the fingers off
so that he can have protection for his hands
while he fields the curveball.
WILDMAN: The end result is a glove like this one,
now on display at Martin's Baseball Museum.
The glove allows Hicks to absorb the constant impacts
behind the plate.
And this new piece of equipment soon finds its way
to baseball diamonds everywhere.
MARTIN: This was the precursor
of the modern glove that we know today in baseball.
WILDMAN: And today, this primitive piece of baseball equipment
in Tracy Martin's collection in Columbus, Ohio
reminds us of the revolutionary pitch
that changed America's game forever.
Established by the French as a fur trading post in 1634,
Green Bay, Wisconsin is one of the oldest permanent settlements
in the United States.
Today, this region's past is celebrated
at the Neville Public Museum of Brown County.
On display is an enormous model of a mastodon,
Native American bead work
and an ornate 1890s Holsman automobile.
But among these items of grandeur
is an artifact with a deceptively simple appearance
that belies its historic significance.
PFOTENHAUER: It's rectangular, made out of silk,
about 17 inches by 14 inches,
and has a beautiful brocade of flowers on the edges.
WILDMAN: According to curator Louis Pfotenhauer,
this humble handkerchief tells a fascinating tale
of one of Wisconsin's most intriguing characters.
This relic was used as rock solid evidence
of one man's aristocratic lineage.
WILDMAN: To whom did this handkerchief belong?
And what's the story behind his royal claim to fame?
1793, France.
Paris is in a bloody state of chaos.
After years of resistance,
working class revolutionaries have overthrown the monarchy.
King Louis the XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette
are arrested, tried for treason, and beheaded.
And it seems not even their eight-year-old son,
Louis-Charles, is immune to the tumult.
It is believed that the heir to the throne, or Dauphin,
is arrested and locked away in the Temple Prison.
But as the smoke settles,
loyalists to the throne begin to whisper
that the heir has been rescued from this cruel fate.
PFOTENHAUER: The royalists believed
that an imposter had been placed in Louis-Charles' place,
that he had been secreted away
and sent overseas for safekeeping.
WILDMAN: Revolutionaries vehemently deny this claim.
And two years later, the announce
that Louis-Charles has died of tuberculosis in prison.
Fall 1851 -- Wisconsin.
An Episcopal priest named John H. Hanson,
traveling by train to New York,
strikes up a conversation with a fellow passenger.
PFOTENHAUER: The clergyman met another traveler,
Native American missionary Eleazer Williams.
WILDMAN: As their trip continues,
Williams reveals something shocking,
that he is, in fact, the heir to the French throne,
Louis-Charles.
He explains that he discovered his remarkable heritage
just a few years earlier
when he was visited on a steamboat
by a representative of the French monarch,
prince de Joinville.
The royal revealed that at the age of eight,
Williams was placed in the care of a Native American family,
far from the murderous gaze of the revolutionaries.
Williams explains that he was stunned by the revelation
but informed the prince that he had no interest
in pursuing his claim to the throne.
Hanson finds the tale unconvincing
and asks Williams
how he remained ignorant of his lineage for so long.
Williams explains that a boyhood head injury
had left him with only a few fleeting memories
from his youth.
Once they reach New York, the two men part ways.
But Hanson is intrigued by Williams' tale
and is determined to find out if it's true.
And soon, he tracks down
the very captain of the steamboat
where the prince de Joinville and Williams supposedly met.
PFOTENHAUER: The ship captain confirmed
that Williams and the prince did indeed meet on his vessel
and that they had a long conversation.
WILDMAN: Hanson then consults
with associates of the royal family
and discovers that Williams bears
a striking resemblance to the Dauphin
and possesses the same distinguishing marks.
PFOTENHAUER: Both had scars on their wrists and knees.
There were also vaccination marks on the arms.
WILDMAN: After a two-year investigation, Hanson is convinced
that Williams is indeed the Dauphin of France,
and in 1853, publishes a magazine article
bolstering the claim.
With Hanson's very public support,
Williams' life is radically transformed.
PFOTENHAUER: Williams was a popular party guest by the wealthy.
We was wined and dined in exchange for sharing his story.
WILDMAN: As proof of his heritage,
he shows off a fine silk handkerchief,
now on display at the Neville Public Museum,
which he says the prince de Joinville sent him
as a gift of good will.
So, is this man truly the long-lost Dauphin?
It's 1853 in Wisconsin.
A man named Eleazer Williams claims to be the son
of King Louis the XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette.
But the prince is said to have died
in a Parisian prison as a child.
So, is this man Williams really who he says he is?
Not everyone is so certain.
PFOTENHAUER: There were many skeptics
who believed Williams was a fraud
and had concocted this story just for fame and glory.
WILDMAN: Williams maintains that he is in fact the lost Dauphin.
But in 1858, he dies, taking the truth with him to the grave.
It's not until 2000 that the technology exists
to put this controversy to rest for good.
Researches discover a macabre relic,
the preserved heart of the boy who died in Temple Prison.
And they compare its DNA
to that from a sample of Marie Antoinette's hair,
which had been stored in a locket.
PFOTENHAUER: The test results were stunning.
It was a familial match proving
that the lost Dauphin died in prison,
and that the heart belonged to the lost Dauphin.
WILDMAN: It seems Williams' account was nothing more than a hoax.
But what of the meeting of the prince de Joinville?
Some speculate that it was simply a chance encounter
that inspired Williams to concoct his royal farce.
Today, this handkerchief,
now on display at the Neville Public Museum of Brown County,
is a reminder of the enduring legend of the lost prince
and a man who tried to make it his own.
From an incendiary death to a shocking experiment,
a gentlemanly bandit
to a revolutionary baseball pitch.
I'm Don Wildman,
and these are the mysteries at the museum.