Around two a m. On November twenty eighth, nineteen fifty three, the grand colonnaded lobby of New York's Statler Hotel was quiet as night manager armand pass Story ambled towards the reception desk. The silence came as a relief to pass Story after a hectic few hours dealing with boisterous guests enjoying the Thanksgiving weekend. Now with pretty much everybody having
gone to bed, he could finally relax. Even the Manhattan street outside was deserted as he approached the desk, when the silence was suddenly punctured by the sound of shattering glass, followed a few seconds later by the sense of something outside falling and landing with a crunching thud on the sidewalk. Pastori, his mind fuzzy with panic, immediately sprinted out into the street outside on Seventh Avenue. He found a middle aged man crumpled on the ground, his legs shattered and his
body twisted at an unnatural angle. He was wearing his undershirt and shorts as though he'd just gotten out of bed. Pastore glanced upwards at the vast, darkened facade of the hotel and saw light shining through a broken window thirteen floors up, a dangling curtain flapping in the breeze. Turning back to the man, he saw with horror that he was trying to speak. Incredibly, the man was still alive. Pastore staggered forward and kneeled down beside him, Cradling the
man's head in his hands. He tried hard to understand what he was mumbling in his faint, hoarsey voice, but it was unintelligible. What's your name, he asked the man urgently, but the man did not reply. I'm going to get help. Don't move, he said, getting up quickly, But no sooner had the words left his mouth, he could see that it was too late. The stranger took one last labored in hail, and then stopped breathing. His broken body went limp.
Pastore drew his hand up to his mouth and stepped back, glancing up at the curtains still flapping in the wind above. There was simply no way, he thought that the fall was an accident. Either this poor man jumped from the window himself, or he'd been thrown out of it. When the police arrived moments later, Pastore escorted them to the thirteenth floor. As they walked down the corridor towards Room ten eighteen A, he prayed silently that they'd find the
answers they were looking for behind that locked door. You're listening to Unexplained, and I'm Richard McLean Smith. Frank Olsen never envisaged himself working for the CIA. Born to Swedish immigrants in nineteen ten, he grew up in a small mining town in Wisconsin and was entranced by agriculture and rural life. But he was also an exceptional student, and so instead of becoming a farmer like other young men men in his area at the time, he went to college.
There he studied agronomy, the science of crop production, and eventually earned a PhD in the subject. When World War II broke out, Olson felt called to serve his country, and he became an Army scientist for the US Chemical Corps. Assigned to the Biological Warfare Program, he worked alongside a handful of other scientists on aerosol technologies that could be used against enemy combatants. Though the war ended in nineteen forty five, the Army's efforts to produce biological weapons continued.
Olson stayed on at Fort Detrick in Maryland, where he worked on a number of highly classified experiments involving airborne viruses and toxic bacteria. There was a feeling of urgency about this research, a sense that America was in a
high stakes arms race against an increasingly dangerous enemy. Military and intelligence officials feared that the government of the Soviet Union had already mastered airborne biological warfare, and that they could at any moment launch an invisible attack on the US that would be undetectable until it was too late. In the early days of the Cold War, this paranoia led to the creation of a brand new, highly classified
division at Detrich. The exact nature of the Special Operations Division's work was a mystery to everybody except the select few who worked there, and in nineteen forty nine, Frank Olsen was invited to join them, rising quickly through the ranks, within a year, he'd become chief of the Special Operations Division, or SOD. But despite this rapid ascent, he seemed ill suited to the work. Many of the sod's experiments involved testing poisonous gases on animals, which never sat well with Olson.
At times, he would arrive at work in the morning to find his laboratory littered with dead monkeys. Other colleagues simply shrugged it off, but Olsen found it deeply upsetting. By the early nineteen fifties, Olson was married with three young children. It was about this time that his wife, Alice, began to notice a change in her husband. He seemed to have lost his energy and often came home from Detrich in a dark, reflective mood. It seemed as if
his work was draining the life out of him. In early nineteen fifty three, Olson resigned suddenly as chief of the SOD, claiming that the stress of the job was giving him stomach holsers. Nonetheless, he continued working within the division in a reduced capacity, clearly unwilling to walk away
from his work completely. It was around this time that Olson also joined the CIA, where he began work on covert projects designed to preempt an enemy attack, including one project known as m k Ultra, where now the focus
was on the mind rather than the body. The program was established in response to the conviction among some in the U. S Military that communist forces in the Soviet Union and China had developed a strange brainwashing technique which could be used to extract secrets from captured U S civilians, and so the CIA began to develop a mind control
program all of its own. Of course, Olson couldn't discuss the details of his work with anyone outside of the agency, but it was clear to anyone around him that, for some reason, his work was taking a heavy toll. After a covert trip to Europe in the summer of nineteen fifty three, he came back more withdrawn than ever. In fact, he seemed almost haunted by something. But his wife's urging,
Frank agreed to take some time off. In August of that year, he spent two weeks in the Adirondack Mountains in northeastern New York State, helping his brother in law to reroof a family cabin, but the trip had little effect with Olson's His brother in law convinced that Frank was in the grip of some deep moral crisis. He'd even taken to reading the Bible every night, as if
he were seeking absolution for something. It was a few months later when Olsen received an invitation to an off site agency retreat hosted by Sidney Gottlieb, a senior chemist who headed much of the CIA's most closely guarded research,
including MK ULTRA. Held at a cabin in Deep Creek Lake, a quiet spot nestled in the picturesque mountains of West Maryland, the retreat would be a chance for the CIA's most trusted scientists to enjoy some well earned rest and relaxation ahead of the Thanksgiving break, and discussed their ongoing projects. At least that was the pitch. The true purpose of the meeting was something else entirely. On Wednesday, November eighteenth, Frank drove out to Deep Creek Lake, where he soon
met up with his colleagues. The first evening was uneventful. The group gathered for drinks and dinner and compared notes on their current research. All of the men present worked on highly classified projects and shared the same security clearance. As much as anything, it was a relief simply to be all the way out there where they could speak freely about their work outside of the lab, far from
civilian ears. That convivial atmosphere continued into the next day, and after spending the afternoon fishing and boating on the lake, the men dined together again. Once they'd finished with dessert, As the men lit cigarettes and cigars and settled a little deeper into their chairs. Sydney Gottlieb poured out glasses of quantroll for everyone. Together. They raised their tumblers, clinking them jovially, and made a toast to the future. Within
half an hour, the atmosphere began to shift. Some of the men fell silent or became unsteady on their feet. Are any of you feeling strange? Gottlieb basked. Frank looked down at the ground the room suddenly feeling strange and distant, as the pattern of the rug seemed to be shifting, undulating like a snake twisting around his feet. His thoughts flashed back to the toast. An image of Gottlieb floated across his mind, pouring quant but not taking a drink
for himself. The sound of Gottlieb's voice brought him back to the room. He tried to focus on the words coming out of his mouth. It was something about the quantroe being spiked with LSD by sergic acid diethylamite or LSD, first synthesized in nineteen thirty eight by Swiss chemist Albert Hoffmann, is a fast acting and highly potent psychedelic drug. It works by flattening the function of the brain, where ordinarily separate networks of the brain work independently to control how
we see, move, hear, and comprehend. With LSD, those barriers are broken down. Things we take for granted as being solid and immutable start to dissolve. Depending on the dosage, its effects can range from mild shifts in perception and mood to extremely vivid hallucinations and bizarre thoughts. The experience
can be euphoric or utterly terrifying. It's not clear exactly what causes someone to have a bad trip, but research suggests that the effects of psychedelics depend heavily on a person's social surroundings, their mindset when they take the drug, and their expectations of it. It's known as set and setting. Being unknowingly dosed with LSD at a work gathering was
not a healthy combination. Back at their table in the restaurant, Sydney, Gottlieb told the astonished men that they were all guinea pigs in an experiment designed to test what would happen if an American song scientist was captured and drugged with LSD. Would they be able to resist the drug's effects, or would they betray their country and reveal the CIA's secrets. But it soon became clear to Gottlieb that the experiment
was a failure. After the men recovered from the shock of finding out they'd been drugged, Gottlieb could only look on in frustration as they quickly descended into laughter and marveled at the strange colours and sounds their drugged brains were conjuring up. The details of exactly what happened during the rest of that bizarre, acid fueled night are known
only to the men who were there. The next morning, still feeling the residual effects of the drugs, the men all departed the cabin and drove home to their family in time for the weekend. It can take up to a day for LSD to leave your system, but even once it does, the psychological effects can linger for days, weeks, or even longer. When Frank Olsen returned to his home in Frederick, Maryland, his wife Alice immediately noticed that something was wrong. If he spoke at all, he was monosyllabic
at best, and he had withdrawn further into himself. When she pressed him for details about what had happened. At the cabin, Frank was reluctant to tell her anything. Eventually, he said only that the meeting had not gone well. He'd lost control, he said, and made a terrible mistake. Frank seemed consumed by shame and said his colleagues had laughed at him. A confused Alice tried to get him to tell her what the mistake was, but it was
to no avail. Perhaps if Alice had known about the LSD, she might have thought her husband's mood was simply down to paranoia, a common side effect of a bad trip, but as it was, she was left bewildered and alarmed. Frank didn't seem himself at all. On Monday morning, he headed into work early and went straight to see his boss, Vincent rwit Rewit had been at the retreat too, and
had found his own LSD experience deeply frightening. That morning, he was on edge, so when Frank showed up at his office, his face gaunt and pale, Ruit wasn't surprised, but he didn't anticipate what happened next. Olson became agitated and asked Ruit if he wanted to fire him or
if he should quit. Sensing Olson's suddenly insecurity. Ruitt did his best to try and calm him down, telling him that his work was invaluable and that there was absolutely no reason for him to resign, and eventually Frank relented, but the following morning, he was back in Ruitt's office demanding that he accept his resignation. After calming Olsen down once more, Vincent Rwitt called Sidney Gottlieb to report what
was going on. Olsen clearly had had some kind of mental break on account of the LSD trip, surely thought Gottlieb had planned for something like this. Gottlieb then met with Olson himself, and after concurring with Ruitt's assessment, he and his deputy, Robert Lashbrook, arranged for Olsen to see a doctor in US York City named Harold Abramson. Abramson was chosen because he had deep ties to the CIA
and was also involved in their mind control research. He had equal security clearance, which meant that Olson could speak freely in his presence. There was just one problem. Abramson was not a psychiatrist. He was an allergist whose pioneering research into LSD was currently being funded by the CIA. He had absolute loyalty to the agency, which is why Gottlieb trusted him with such a sensitive matter. During their meeting in Manhattan, Olsen told Abramson that he hadn't felt
like himself ever since being dosed with LSD. He wasn't sleeping well, had lost his ability to concentrate, and was struggling with basic cognitive tasks. Sadly for Olsen, Abramson had no interest in providing him with any psychiatric advice, nor did he have any ability to do so. Instead, he prescribed a sedative and a bottle of bourbon for his sleeping troubles, and assured him that the rest of his symptoms would clear up once he got a good night's rest,
and for the next few days it worked. Frank seemed calmer after seeing Abramsom, much to Gottlieb and Lashbrook's relief, but they wanted to make sure he was absolutely on the right track and recommended another expert that he should see. John Mulholland was not a doctor. He was a magician who'd been enlisted by the CIA some years earlier to write a manual on the art of deception, concealment, and misdirection. Why Olsen was taken to see mul Holland. Is a mystery.
Perhaps the CIA hoped that hypnosis could help to soothe Olson's panic, but whatever Mulholland did, it backfired. Frank was accompanied to his meeting with John Mulholland by his boss, Vincent Ruitt and Sydney Gottlieb's assistant Robert Lashbrook, who both seemed keen not to let him out of their sight. Barely minutes after it started, Olson became distressed and disorientated and didn't seem to understand what was happening. He asked Ruitt, what are they trying to do with me? Are they
checking me for security? That night, once back at his hotel, Frank somehow escaped from his CIA chaperones. He spent the next few hours vacantly wandering the streets of Manhattan, discarding his wallet and ID cards in the process. He seemed calmer by the morning of Thanksgiving Day, November twenty sixth, and was determined to make it home to his family in time for dinner. So Olson, Ruit, and Lashbrook flew back to Washington, d C. And started on the drive
back to Maryland. They were only a few minutes into it, when Olson became agitated again. He yelled to the driver to pull over and told Ruit that he couldn't bear to face his family. He was too ashamed, he said, and too mixed up. He begged Ruit just let me disappear, but Ruit refused to let him out. Olsen then asked Ruitt to turn him into the police instead. They were looking for him anyway, he said, his tone desperate, disturbed, and confused. Ruitt asked the driver to turn the car around.
They needed another session with Harold Abramson. The trio then promptly returned to New York, where they shared a somber Thanksgiving dinner in Midtown. While back in Frederick, Maryland, Alice Olsen and the children ate their Thanksgiving dinner with an empty chair at the table. The following day, Olson, Lashbrook, and Ruit took a taxi to Abramson's weekend home in Long Island. During his second session with Abramson, Olsen complained that some people were out to get him, leading Abramson
to conclude that he was suffering from severe psychosis. After convincing Frank that he needed to be hospitalized, Frank agreed to check himself in voluntarily. Arrangements were made for Frank to be admitted to Chestnut Lodge, a psychiatric hospital in Rockville, Maryland, the following day. Later, he and Lashbrook returned to Manhattan to stay one more night. On November twenty eighth, Lashbrook and Olson checked into the Statler Hotel in Midtown Manhattan.
They were given room ten eighteen, a thirteen floors up. They ate dinner together at the hotel's restaurant. Olson seemed much calmer and even a little relieved by the prospect of being hospitalized. He told Lashbrook about the books he planned to read during his time at Chestnut Lodge. Alice was pleasantly surprised by Olson's relaxed tone when he called her from the room that night. He seemed almost like
his old self. He told her that he was feeling much better and looked forward to seeing her the next day. Chestnut Lodge was a short drive from their home in Frederick, and she planned to visit him as soon as he'd been admitted. Olson and Lashbrook watched TV for about an hour and then went to bed around ten thirty pm. According to Lashbrook's account, he was jolted awake a few hours later by the sound of glass shattering. Disorientated and half asleep, he felt a vicious cold breeze whip through
the room. He fumbled for the bedside lamp, switching it on. He saw that Olson's bed was empty, and that the window was completely smashed and the floor covered in broken glass. It's been speculated that Lashbrook must have gone to the window, he must have seen Olson's body on the sidewalk, but for some reason he didn't rush down to join hotel manager Armand Pastore at his side. Instead, he stayed in the room, picked up the phone and dialed Harold Abramson.
When Abramson picked up, Lashbrook said three words, well he's gone, and Abramson responded, that's too bad. Then Lashbrook hung up the phone. When Statler hotel manager Armond Pastore and the police knocked on the door of ten eighteen A, there was no answer. Pastore opened it using his master key and invited the officers to enter before him. The room was empty and freezing cold from the broken window. The
curtain still fully drawn, belowed in the night air. One of the officers noticed that the bathroom door was closed, but the light inside was on. They pushed open the door. Inside, they found Robert Lashbrook sitting on the closed toilet with his head in his hands, seemingly in a state of shock. He told the police that he'd been woken by the sound of the window breaking, then switched on the light
to find that Olsen had gone. Only when he walked over to the window did he realize what had happened. He identified himself and Olson as government employees without mentioning the CIA, and said that he had no idea why Olsen had jumped. It seemed strange to pass dory. In all of his years in the hotel business, he'd never heard of anybody taking a running jump through a closed
sash window with the curtains still drawn. But the police seemed to take it all at face value, and in his official report, the lead detective described Olson's death as a suicide. A few hours later, in Frederick, Maryland, Eric Olson, Frank's nine year old son, was woken up by his mother. She looked sad and pale. She took Eric downstairs and led him into the living room, where his father's boss, Vincent's Ruit, was waiting on the couch. Ruit told Eric
that there'd been an accident in New York. His father had fallen or jumped to his death from the window of his hotel room. Nine year old Eric Olson's grief was fogged by confusion. Just two days before, he'd been expecting his father home for Thanksgiving. Now he was dead, and no version of the story seemed to make any sense. But being only nine years old, he had no reason to doubt what this respectable grown up man was telling him.
Frank's wife, Alice, was later told that family members shouldn't view the body due to the extent of the injuries that Olson had suffered from his fall. A few days after his death, Frank Hulsen's funeral was held with a closed casket. Alice, unwilling or unable to talk about what had happened, discouraged her children from asking questions about their father's death. Over and over again. She would tell them, you are never going to know what happened in that room.
The Medical Examiner's office listed Frank Olsen's cause of death as multiple fractures, shock, and hemorrhages, but no autopsy was ever performed on Olsen's body. As a result, nobody seemed to take note of the distinctive head wound on his left temple, and how inconsistent it was with the rest of his injuries, both in its position and its severity, the kind of injury caused by a sharp blow to
the head at close range. Had a pathologist seen it, they might well have drawn the conclusion that Frank Olsen had been knocked unconscious before he went through the window, that he'd fought to stay alive and lost, and that when he dasht through it to just let him disappear, he wasn't simply lost in a fog of depression, but was in fact a condemned man begging for his life. You've been listening to Unexplained Season seven, episode one, The Fall Without End, Part one. The second and final part,
will be released next Friday, August fourth. This episode was written by Emma Dibden Unexplained as an Avy Club Productions podcast created by Richard mclin Smith. All other elements of the podcast, including the music, are also produced by me Richard mc clain smith. Unexplained. The book and audiobook, with stories never before featured on the show, is now available to buy worldwide. You can purchase from Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Waterstones,
and other bookstores. Please subscribe to and rate the show wherever you get your podcasts, and feel free to get in touch with any thoughts or ideas regarding the stories you've heard on the show. Perhaps you have an explanation of your own you'd like to share. You can find out more at Unexplained podcast dot com and reach us online through Twitter at Unexplained and pod, and Facebook at Facebook dot com. Forward slash Unexplained Podcast