"Isabel, sit down, please." - I said and she did, white-jointed hands clenched and venous. I decided not to confront her illogic but rather to leverage it to expose the absurdity of her assertions. "Why would these body-snatchers go to all this trouble?" "Don't be silly!" - She snapped - "Money, of course! They are after my fortune! These look-alikes are planning to murder me and abscond with my considerable fortune. They are all in my will, you see, and they know it! But they can't wait their turn, they are anxious to lay their dirty paws on my checkbook! They are afraid that I will change my mind!" "You sound like you are referring to your true relatives." - I pointed out. She recoiled: "These criminals that took over my family, I want them gone! I want my husband back and my son!' "Then why don't you simply alter your will and let them know about it? Announce the changes in a family gathering! That way they will lose all interest in you and move on to their next victim! That way, all incentives to murder you will be removed, you see." She glanced at me dumbfounded: "That's a wonderful idea, dear! You are so clever, you are so astute when you put your mind to it! Thank you! You can't imagine what a relief it is to strike upon the solution to such an impossible situation!" She sprang from the creaky armchair and extended her hand to fondle my cheek: "Thank you, honey. You made me proud." I felt like a million dollars. /*2. The Syndrome*/ Milton's eyeglasses glinted unsettlingly as he took in my crumpled clothes and unruly hair: "So, you traveled all night, by yourself, in a hired car, to ask me this? She must mean all the world to you!" He hasn't changed: cherubic, lecherous, bald, and clad in fading dungarees and Sellotaped, stapled sandals. Milton smelled of coffee grounds and incense. He laid a hirsute hand on my shoulder and I retreated inadvertently and then apologized. He smiled mischievously: "You are tired. Let's go to my office. You can refresh yourself there and I will tell you everything you ever wanted to know about the Capgras Syndrome and never dared to ask." "Capgras Syndrome???" "Coffee first!" - Milton pronounced and wheeled me forward. ***** Ensconced in an ancient armchair, steamy libation in hand, I listened intently, absorbing every word that came out of the mouth of arguably the world's greatest expert on delusions. "It's nothing new." - Said Milton, chewing on an ancient, ashen clay pipe - "It was first described by two French psychiatrists in 1923. Elderly people believe that their relatives have been replaced by malicious, conspiring doubles. They lock themselves in, buy guns, change their wills, complain to the authorities. If not checked with antipsychotic medication, they become violent. Quite a few cases of murder, resisting arrest, that sort of thing." "What goes wrong with these people?" Milton shrugged and tapped the empty implement on a much-tortured edge of his desk: