The right ears don’t match.
There’s always some nut who claims he’s someone famous. My great-great grandmother ran a boarding house and said one of her boarders decided he was dying and confessed to her he was John Wilkes Booth. He gave her a pistol wrapped in a newspaper that had headines of the assasination and she buried it under the house. He recovered and soon moved away. Then there was some guy claiming to be Jesse James so my great-grandfather, a James relative, went to see what that was all about. He came back saying the guy knew a lot about Jesse and the family but it wasn’t him. Then there’s Brushy Bill Roberts who claimed he was Billy the Kid.
“There’s always some nut who claims he’s someone famous.”
Mark Twain mentioned that in Roughing It:
“We crossed the sand hills near the scene of the Indian mail robbery and massacre of 1856, wherein the driver and conductor perished, and also all the passengers but one, it was supposed; but this must have been a mistake, for at different times afterward on the Pacific coast I was personally acquainted with a hundred and thirty-three or four people who were wounded during that massacre, and barely escaped with their lives. There was no doubt of the truth of it—I had it from their own lips. One of these parties told me that he kept coming across arrow-heads in his system for nearly seven years after the massacre; and another of them told me that he was struck so literally full of arrows that after the Indians were gone and he could raise up and examine himself, he could not restrain his tears, for his clothes were completely ruined. “