Date: August 4–5, 2005 (Crowe’s Analysis)

  Location: Seattle (Analysis of London, 1790 Archives)

  On August 4, 2005, Seattle glowed under a warm 75°F, a gentle breeze carrying the briny tang of Puget Sound into Downtown. Glass skyscrapers shimmered, while historic buildings stood as quiet guardians, weaving a tapestry of daily life. The Seattle Public Library on 4th Avenue remained a striking gem, its glass walls and geometric design by Rem Koolhaas drawing researchers and tourists. But vigilance was necessary—the Seattle Police Department reported 240 pickpocketing incidents in the area that year, keeping visitors on guard.

  James Crowe sat in the library’s 5th-floor reading room, surrounded by a meticulous spread of documents, arranged like puzzle pieces awaiting assembly. His workspace was a study in organized chaos: a notebook filled with scribbled notes, a red marker for highlighting, and an empty coffee cup, its rim smudged with fingerprints. A pack of cookies sat nearby, down to its last few, a crumpled wrapper evidence of the hours he’d spent. The 38-year-old private detective was deep into understanding the origins of the Family’s genetic planning. The reading room hummed softly—20-year-old students in jeans flipped through textbooks, a 60-year-old researcher in a tweed jacket pored over newspapers, and a 25-year-old woman in headphones bobbed to music, occasionally glancing at Crowe with curiosity.

  Sarah Wilson approached with another box labeled “London, 1790s,” her dark hair in a neat ponytail, her thin-framed glasses askew. “Mr. Crowe, this is your eighth day in a row,” she said, her voice soft but concerned. “Do you eat anything besides cookies? And you’ve left crumbs again.”

  Crowe looked up, pale but determined, grinning as he brushed the crumbs aside. “Sorry, Sarah, I got carried away. Cookies are my secret ingredient for cracking mysteries. I’ll eat when I’ve solved a case.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes, a faint smile on her lips. “You’re hopeless. But if you need more coffee, I can grab some.”

  “Thanks, Sarah,” Crowe said with a wink.

  Sarah shook her head and walked away, leaving Crowe to dive into the records. He untied the box and examined London magistrate reports from 1790, seeking the origins of the Family’s genetic planning. A report detailed “illegal adoptions” at a Whitechapel orphanage, where 38-year-old Margaret Lane, a self-described “heredity planner,” was arrested on suspicion of child trafficking. Margaret confessed she worked for the Brotherhood of Starlight, tasked with “finding and evaluating children for the family.” The Brotherhood adopted abandoned infants meeting strict criteria: physical health, no visible defects, and early signs of “giftedness.” They employed “mind specialists” to test infants’ reactions to sound, light, and touch, even analyzing their cries for “emotional stability.” These children were designated for “future marriages” to “preserve the family’s strength and avoid the curse of closeness.” The 1790 investigators dismissed her testimony as madness and released her, but Crowe saw this as the genesis of the Family’s systematic genetic planning.

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  Using his “360 Method,” Crowe reconstructed the scene in 1790 London. He pictured Whitechapel’s grimy streets, horse-drawn carts clattering, vendors shouting. The orphanage was a crumbling brick building, its air thick with damp and rotting wood, children wailing in cramped rooms. Margaret Lane, in a tattered dress, her gray hair in a bun, stood in a corner with 40-year-old Thomas Black, a “mind specialist” in a frock coat, his gaze cold. Thomas shook a rattle before a 2-year-old girl with blue eyes, noting her quick reaction, jotting: “Healthy, quick response, gifted—suitable.” Margaret took the girl under the guise of “adoption,” handing her to a “temporary family” for a future marriage.

  Crowe focused on overlooked details: Margaret’s list of 10 children adopted over two years included descriptions like “Boy, 3 years, sturdy, quick in movement,” and “Girl, 2 years, fine features, calm.” The Brotherhood prioritized health, giftedness, and appearance—children had to be “beautiful” for future matches. A letter from a “senior planner” in Paris, 50-year-old Pierre Dumont, instructed Margaret: “By 1795, we need 3 boys and 2 girls, under 5 years, for marriages with the third generation’s children.” The letter mentioned a “potential test” assessing reactions, emotional stability, and “genetic traits” like eye color and facial structure. Crowe deduced these “mind specialists” were early psychologists, their methods revolutionary for the 18th century.

  Using his “financial trail” method, Crowe examined the orphanage’s records, finding the Brotherhood paid for “adoptions”—bribes disguised as “donations.” A 1795 London report showed the five children adopted in 1790 later married into the Brotherhood, like the blue-eyed girl who married a 25-year-old Family member in 1810, bearing three children who joined the organization. The Family began genetic planning in the 1790s to combat inbreeding, creating the “heredity planner” role and employing “mind specialists” to select healthy, gifted, and attractive children for future marriages, ensuring genetic diversity.

  “Well, looks like I just uncovered their first step in genetic planning,” Crowe muttered with a self-deprecating smirk, sipping his now-cold coffee. “They’re not just criminals—they’re pioneers of psychology.”

  Kyle entered the reading room, holding a book on London history. “Still here, detective?” he asked warmly. “You look like you’ve dug up something fascinating.”

  “Let’s just say I figured out how this organization started planning its marriages,” Crowe replied with a faint smile. “Want to hear about their methods in the 1790s?”

  Kyle sat across from him, eyes lighting up. “Absolutely—that sounds like a movie plot.”

  Crowe gave a concise rundown, showing Kyle the report and notes. Kyle shook his head in awe. “That’s incredible. But if they started this in the 1790s, doesn’t that mean they’re still doing it?”

  “That’s exactly what I want to find out,” Crowe replied, his tone grave. “If I can track down one of these ‘adopted’ members today, I might learn more about their current structure.”

  In 2005, Seattle thrived: the Bumbershoot Festival loomed, and Death Cab for Cutie gained popularity with Plans. But for Crowe, those were background notes—more mysteries awaited.