Captured

Crane sat in the corner of the brick cell clutching his knees to his chest, his face scratched, eye bruised and black, lip swollen, remnants of blood dried at the corner, a haggard and worn grimace on his face from his failed flight from capture. In sat in La Sante Prison staring at a cockroach scurrying across the cold cement, noticing dried blood, his or the biological reminders of previous occupants, it was difficult to determine. For the last month he had been alienated in solitary confinement, coming out for light every three days for half an hour, showering every two days in open view behind a designated shower cell being doused with powder and sprayed with cold water. Mostly, he slept throughout the day on the poorly padded bed with the supporting steel frame heavily medicated on various tranquilizers, drooling sadly from the side effects of the drugs, eating little, reading infrequently, his social interactions limited to the aluminum plate that was slid into a slot in the steel door with a bologna sandwich and a banana and the corrections officer that administered his shower every couple days. Otherwise, it was just his mind that kept in company, his dark, twisted, brilliantly diabolical mind that sat idle in a cell rotting and wasting away. He had received no notification of any hope for being bailed out, no hearings were scheduled, his outlook for positivity, for being freed, seemed dim and dark and distant. No one knew where he was being held, and due to a legal loophole in the judicial system in France, he could be held indefinitely pending a final investigation into any charges that may be sought. Crane was being detained with no clear hope for release in sight for his alleged involvement in a flurry of mass murders connected with a figure that had only been known in the media as a masked madman, as a figure that had been deemed ‘The Scarecrow.’

He rushed quickly through the terminal to his flight for Paris, France that was leaving in forty-five minutes. He received an emergency notification from a former medical colleague that had been assigned to work in a sanatorium for individuals with long term physical and mental illnesses. He had requested a favor, a medical consult for a young man suffering from paranoid schizophrenia and various delusions, who was connected to a series of serial murders, a span of terror, that plagued Paris for almost three months. Forty individuals, men, women, children, had been brutally murdered and the prosecution wanted the man sentenced to death by firing squad in public. The case had reached a certain level of infamy and notoriety, and Crane had been asked by his former colleague at Harvard, Dr. Stephen Jacobi, to perform a psychiatric evaluation, something that Crane was led to believe would take a day or two at most. Crane reluctantly agreed to the invitation realizing that he was already swamped with work at his private practice and at Arkham Asylum, but out of professional courtesy he agreed to catch the earliest flight to meet with the mentally disturbed man and perform the requested evaluation. As Crane was driving to the airport he decided that he would simply bring his laptop and a few periodicals and books and purchase the rest of his hygiene and sartorial needs when he arrived in Paris. He tried to contact his fiance, Jane, to let her know what was happening, that he would be gone for a few days, that he was sorry for the abruptness of his departure, but he could not obtain a signal for his cell phone. He decided that he would send her an email during his flight then call her once he arrived to explain his absence and let her know that he was safe, that he would return soon, that she had nothing to worry about, and that he loved her. However, this plan was thwarted once he landed and was immediately whisked off in a rush to the sanatorium where the patient was being held.

The flight was long and boring. The in-flight movie failed to capture Crane’s attention, so he did what most exhausted travelers would do when their minds remained unoccupied with something productive and slept. However, once he emerged from his slumber, awoken by a nightmare where he sensed walls closing in on him, where he felt suffocated and abandoned, a dreaded terror overtaking his emotions, foreseeing his own demise in a hazy fog of self-induced error, misjudgment, and miscalculation, his renowned intellect broken by an unforgiving darkness. He awoke to the sound of the pilot’s voice speaking in French. He glanced out the window and noticed the plane descending. He saw the Eiffel Tower off in the distance, and he knew that he had finally arrived. He quickly skirted off the plane and rushed to the parking terminal where Dr. Jacobi would be sitting and waiting for Crane. He walked casually through the airport with his laptop bag hanging snugly from his shoulder, his hands in his pockets mostly looking down at the ground lost in thought, but occasionally glancing up to notice animated faces and histrionic gesticulations excited tourists reveling in the beauty of the city and joyful reunifications with family members, loved ones. Crane, like several other individuals, were lonely outcasts there for business, carrying laptop bags or dragging suit cases, wondering aimlessly in a foreign country bemused, lost, and in a desperate scramble to regain some sense of identity, some anchor into an idea of contentedness that seemed to be squandered in the journey.

As Crane exited the elevator to the parking garage and began to walk to the designated meeting area where he was told to meet his former friend and medical colleague, he noticed a black Audi and a familiar face sitting in the driver’s seat, a shaggy beard having replaced his youthful face, a look of unease, of panic and fear on his face. Crane was worried about his friend, and walked to his car cautiously eventually tapping on the window and smiling slightly as he bent down to peer into the window. Crane opened the door perfunctorily.
“Stephen, hello, it’s good to see you after…so many years it seems,” Crane said as he slid into the passenger’s seat, placing his bag on the floor, and shaking Stephen’s hand enthusiastically.
“Ah, Jonathan, it is so good to see you too my friend. I am so glad you could come. I have… a real mess on my hands right now.” Stephen glanced over at Crane with a look of relief on his face. “I’m just….I’m just glad you’re here.”
Crane nodded revealing a distracted half-smile. “I haven’t had time to let anyone know I was coming here. I fell asleep pretty much as soon as I got on the plane and slept through the flight, so…I have to get to my hotel or wherever I’ll be staying as soon as possible, but first, I guess, we should get to some business. What can you tell me about this…patient?”
“I can tell you that he has been connected to thirty-three brutal and gruesome deaths, that he is a paranoid schizophrenic, and that he believes himself to be the embodiment of a living scarecrow that terrorizes people by using their fears against them.”
Crane heard his colleagues brief description of the psychotic being detained and awaiting trial, his eyes widening at the mention of ‘scarecrow,’ his own dark identity personified in the psychosis of another.
“I can also say that the prosecution believes this is all an elaborate ruse, some sort of story he concocted after reading news of a scarecrow figure taunting Gotham, where you are from.” Dr. Jacobi paused for a moment and glanced over at Crane. “Have you ever heard of him?”
Crane nodded apprehensively, “only what I’ve read in the papers, vague rumors of a masked madman terrorizing Gotham, same modus operandi, same gruesome brutality. Is it possible that this man is the Scarecrow?”
“I doubt it, probably just a paranoid delusion, an elaborately constructed fantasy that aids in feeding his own twisted perception of the world.”

They continued driving onward to the sanatorium, passing though the most populated areas of Paris. Crane observed all the cosmopolitan people shuffling on the streets, wildly excited expressions on their faces, living each day in a romantic city as if it were an extended vacation. Crane wondered what it must be like to live in a city full of vibrancy and optimism where there was a distinct absence of darkness and dread, the ever present despair that plagued the city of Gotham. As they approached the sanatorium, Dr. Jacobi mumbled to Crane, “I really do appreciate you coming. The defense in this case needed another renowned psychiatrist to validate the initial diagnosis. You’re insight is going to be greatly appreciated.” Crane only smirked to himself, listening to his colleagues appraisal of his stature in the psychiatric community. “It’s my pleasure Stephen,” he said almost perfunctorily.

The gates to the facility were made of black heavy steel, reminiscent of the gates of Arkham. Crane felt a sense of relief pulling into a place where he felt most comfortable, where he felt most familiar, where his keen intellect could be put to effective use. Dr. Jacobi flashed his own security badge to the guard and signed in Crane as a guest. They pulled into a parking garage and made their way into the building with Crane noticing hordes of security guards and police officers gathered and randomly dispersed throughout the facility. They walked down the corridors, Crane noticing an eerie silence pervading the halls and the rooms where the mentally ill of Paris, France resided, a stark contrast from the deafening clamor of Gotham. They both entered a room where a young man with hair in his face sat sedated in a straightjacket chained to a steel table, the room padded, white, clean looking, with only the presence of a demented soul tainting the seemingly peaceful room. “I’m going to leave you to him for a little while Dr. Crane. Please, press the buzzard near the door if you need any assistance. I’m sure you’ll need some time to work up an accurate diagnosis.” Crane nodded appreciatively and smiled at his colleague. He watched his friend exit the room then strolled cautiously to the table, placing his laptop bag near the steel chair placed directly across from the patient.
“My name is Dr. Jonathan Crane,” he said almost involuntarily, “I’m here to help you.” Crane stared at the patient who only looked down at the table, silent, indifferent, strange. “Can you tell me why you are here?”
“You are he,” the patient said in a deep garrulous voice. Crane only stared at him silently trying to size him up and understand what he was spewing. “What did you say?” he asked cautiously.
“I know you. You are he that they say. You are the one and I am only an imposter.” Crane continued to stare at the disturbed man, feeling as if his incoherence were only further signs of his psychosis. However, instead of remaining coldly detached, Crane decided to deviate, almost impulsively, from his usual medical approach and play along with the demented man.
“I am him,” he said, “but why don’t you tell me who…I am.”
“Scarecrow,” the man whispered.
“Who?” Crane asked astonished, his eyes widening.
“Scarecrow,” he said again, his voice raising.
“Impossible to know,” he said dismissively.
“Scarecrow,” he began shouting and moving around in the chair trying to free himself from the chains that bound him to the room. He continued shouting ‘Scarecrow’ and staring at Crane with a maddening look in his eyes as if he were taunting Crane, daring him to expose himself, forcing him to confront himself here, in this room, before this madman that could only vaguely surmise his dark identity. Crane attempted to speak calmly to the patient asking him to lower his voice, pleading with him to remain calm, but he had clearly lost control of the environment. The patients delusions and madness had begun to dominate. As a final recourse, Crane decided to reach down into his bag. He removed his mask, which he slowly brought up for the patient to see. “Is…this what you see?” he asked diabolically with a slight sneer. Crane put on his mask and sat there staring at the patient with cold murderous eyes. “I am the Scarecrow,” he said “and soon, you will know true terror.” And just as Crane was beginning to reach into his bag to remove a canister of fear toxin to further torture the psychotic patient, Dr. Jacobi walked in. “I just wanted to check-“ and before he could say anything further he stood there in silent astonishment staring at Crane. “Dr. Crane…what…what seems to be going on here?” Crane glanced up at his colleague and quickly rushed towards him tackling him to the floor. Crane had no idea what had happened in those brisk moments, but when he scrambled to stand up, he noticed a half dozen security guards running towards him telling him not to move. The guards ran after Crane and Crane struggled to defend himself. He subdued a few of the guards, but a buzzard had sounded and as Crane continued to defeat several of the guards more were coming. As Crane raised his fist and cracked a security guard in the jaw, he felt a something crash against the back of his head. He fell to the ground and felt kick after kick to his ribs, stomach, and face. Suddenly, everything went black and Crane awoke cuffed to a hospital bed with a few doctors staring down at him. He glanced up and looked around at the unfamiliar faces. “What….what happened?” he asked innocently when he noticed the door to his room open and a formal looking man in a suit walking towards him. “Is he awake?” the man asked. A doctor nodded silently. “Good,” the man said. “Dr. Crane, my name is Fontaine, Detective Fontaine. I don’t exactly know what happened, but you are being charged with the assault and battery of several security officers and possibly, the murder of thirty-three innocent Parisians.” Crane’s eyes widened and a flood of memories returned. He remembered impulsively removing his mask from his bag then he remembered being overwhelmed by a desire for carnage and the impending battle. He had lost control of himself, he had submitted to his darker impulses in a setting that he felt he could control.

In his cell he sat and brooded wondering why he had lost control. Had he finally suffered a psychotic break? Had the scarecrow within finally dominated every aspect of his existence? As he sat waiting for his defense attorney, all he could think of was this being the end of him, of this seemingly innocent endeavor being his final demise in a seemingly cold and indifferent world. As he sat there in the dank and cold darkness of his cell, he could hear the cell door begin to open. Crane glanced up from his dark corner of destitution and noticed a man in a suit, a well tailored suit unlike that of the detective that informed him of his alleged crimes. “Dr. Crane,” he said, “I am Michel Foucult. I’m your attorney.” Crane sighed slightly in relief hoping that maybe, soon, this madness would finally resolve itself, that Crane might be able to devise a scenario that could explain this madness, that could alleviate this dread, a scenario that might restore his freedom, so he could return to his desperate city, so he could reemerge in Gotham.

********************************************

Crane sat in a secluded room with his defense attorney discussing the madness that had ensued at the sanatorium where he was invited to conduct an independent psychiatric evaluation of an alleged serial killer. "You know how bad this looks?" his defense attorney asked rhetorically. "I'm not sure how to explain it, and...the way you viciously attacked those cards, I mean, please sir, tell me...what happened?"

Crane leaned back in the steel chair that was bolted to the floor. He looked down at his hands that were dirty and caked with soot. He glanced up and stared out the small barred window absently. "I was attempting to perform a radical new form of therapy." Crane frowned not knowing how else to rationalize his impulsive outburst. "I thought that...maybe if I fed into the patients delusions, allowed myself to play along with his beliefs, that I might penetrate his defense mechanisms and break through to his actual psychosis." To Crane, this justification seemed rather paltry and pathetic, but given the radical methodology of his already questionable therapeutic tactics in the past, to the layman this reasoning might be sufficient. "I was simply doing the best I could to fulfill a voluntary commitment." His attorney sighed heavily and scribbled a few notes on his legal pad. "I'll do my best to discuss this with the prosecutor, but it still does not quite explain the erratic outburst and the injuries." "It was all apart of an elaborate role play," Crane said simply. "I assumed that by having him witness a personification of his belief, that he might...reveal himself as the mad serial killer plaguing the streets of Paris. It was a simple reverse psychology tactic gone haywire." Crane's attorney nodded then stood solemnly. "Thank you Dr. Crane. I'm sure this will help in my discussions." "When might I be able to post some kind of bail?" Crane asked desperately hoping that with a bail set, he could bond himself out and return to Gotham leaving the chaos to settle in Paris and believing with a finely tuned discussion this sordid matter could be resolved amicably. "Hopefully...tomorrow Dr. Crane, but again, I must discuss these things with the prosecutor." Crane nodded understandingly, "Well, I appreciate your time," he said simply. "As I do yours Dr. Crane. Please, be patient, all will be resolved soon." And as the attorney left and Crane was escorted back to his cell by a burly guard with minimal understanding of the English language, Crane couldn't help, but regret agreeing to come to Paris and wished that he could soon return to Gotham to resume his own malevolent agenda..

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Crane walked into the courtroom with his defense attorney eagerly in tow. "I spoke to the prosecutor Dr. Crane. I believe I have everything worked out. It seems it was all a misunderstanding, a form of radical role play. Like that movie." Crane arched his eyebrow quizzically, "What movie?" he asked suspiciously.

"You know, that, what is it, Shutter Island movie," his defense attorney recalled happily as if he had remembered an important, but trivial, fact. "Oh," Crane said absently, "I don't really watch television." "I do," his defense attorney said, "I love American television, so ghastly and sensationalistic. You Americans, you know how to make a good show." Crane smirked coldly as they walked into the courtroom. "So, what's going to happen?" he asked nervously. "Nothing...all charges are being dismissed, a complete misunderstanding. The staff at the hospital completely understand what you were trying to accomplish." "Well, that's good," Crane said with a distant sneer knowing truthfully that he was not attempting to accomplish anything, that someone, a crazed serial killer, a psychotic sociopath, saw right through Crane's calm veneer, his cool and collected everyday persona. This killer saw him for what he is, a killer himself. "What's going to happen to my record?" Crane asked helplessly. "All records, anything involving your arrest or incarceration will be completely expunged and all records will be destroyed," his attorney said knowing Crane would be satisfied. "Are you sure?" Crane asked skeptically. "Yes, sir, everything, destroyed, as if it never happened." "That's...good to know," Crane said almost indifferently.

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Crane walked slowly through the door to his apartment peering into the darkness of his abandoned dwelling. He sighed heavily knowing he was alone, but relieved to be back in Gotham, his home, his city, among the desperate denizens and sad scenarios of madness unfolding almost whimsically and inexorably.
Crane flipped on a light and noticed the clutter from furniture and personal items that had been moved around. He took off his black coat and placed it on a chair near the kitchen table. He glanced down and saw a note that read "I don't no what happened to you, but I'm worried and confused and scared. I had to leave. I didn't know what else to do. If you get this, let me know you are safe." He read the note quietly and gingerly placed it on the glass table. He walked around the apartment cogitating his return, deciding his next steps to his gradual re-emergence. Crane would have to stop by his office to see if he had messages and mail or any remaining clients. He would have to go to Arkham to explain his mysteriously profound absence. He would have to reorganize his life and slowly renew his interest in his previous endeavors. He walked into the living room and sat down on his white leather couch placing his head in his hands and sighing. He looked up and glanced out the patio window staring into the city. "I don't know where to begin," he mumbled quietly before leaning back in despair. He decided that he would take one thing at a time, and the first thing to do would be to ensure that he could still generate an income, everything else could wait.