Chapter Text
On no particular day in May, for no particular reason, the Dynamic Duo crashed through the window of Jonathan Crane’s study. Blackout curtains were ripped from their rods and glass sprayed across the worn carpet as they landed on their feet, armed with batarang and bare fist, catching the infamous Scarecrow doing . . . nothing.
Literally nothing. Sitting in his lab hunched over a typewriter, wearing a white button-up shirt and slacks from his teaching days. He hadn't had any plans worth dressing up for, and the Arkham staff burned his favorite costume during his last visit.
Before Jonathan could finish blinking the sun from his eyes, batcuffs were slapped onto his wrists, his chair kicked out from under him, and a hand pinned him to the floor.
“What in the hell?”
“Don’t resist, Crane,” Batman growled from deep in his throat, “Robin. Take him outside.”
“Right!” Robin agreed. Grabbing Crane by the elbow, Robin tried hauling the man up. When that didn’t work, Robin allowed himself to be used as leverage as Crane awkwardly stood up with no hands.
“You’ve no reason to arrest me!” Crane argued as Robin pushed him out the door, “I’m out on parole. Haven’t even touched my toxins. OUCH!”
“We’ll see about that!” Robin declared grandly, ignoring that he’d pushed Crane into the doorframe. “So don’t resist!”
Crane argued the whole way out of his apartment and down the stairs, but ultimately climbed into the backseat of the Batmobile under threat of being tased. Together the pair sat in the Batmobile, Crane fuming and Robin triumphant, waiting for Batman to join them.
Inside the apartment, Batman conducted a quick sweep for obvious clues. If Crane had anything hidden, Batman wanted to find it before another villain caught wind of his arrest and decided to investigate themself. Crane, he knew, jealously guarded his research, especially after Joker had stolen a sample. From what Batman had been told by Arkham staff, the pair were still feuding.
The only item of interest Batman found in Crane’s study was a page of notes torn from a journal and an incomplete memo in the typewriter.
His research, Batman thought darkly. Tucking the two papers into his belt, the Caped Crusader swept out the broken window with a flourish of his cape.
. . .
The Arkham staff were confused when Batman and Robin brought Crane back.
“He was released on parole,” they argued. “And Arkham has a limited number of beds.”
Ignoring their protests, the pair dropped Crane at their feet and left the way they came. As they left, the nurses sighed, helped Crane to his feet, dusted him off, and called a cab to take him home. There was no reason to keep him.
. . .
“What do you think Scarecrow was up to?” Robin asked when they were back in the Batcave, jumping out of the Batmobile passenger seat with a flip.
“I don’t know,” Batman admitted, “But I’m sure it has something to do with this.” He held up the notes he’d tucked into his belt.
“Holy smokes.”
Batman nodded seriously, “Agreed, Robin. He must have been transcribing something before being disrupted.”
“What does it say?” Robin asked eagerly, handing off the backrest of the Batcomputer chair when Batman sat and began to read the note.
“Dear Diary,” Batman read aloud, “I had that dream again. I fear my suspicions have been confirmed. Scarecrow will . . . Damnit it.” Batman dropped the note on the Batcomputer’s console.
“What?” Robin picked up the note himself.
“It ends there,” Batman confirmed while Robin read the note aloud again.
“Dear Diary, I had that dream again. I fear my suspicions have been confirmed. Scarecrow was not.” The note, once again, ended abruptly. This time a long silence followed before Bruce pulled off his cowl with a sigh.
“What does this mean?” He wondered under his breath, stroking his chin as he studied paper. Crane’s handwritten note was completely illegible, a scribbled mass of cursive and abbreviations that put all other doctors to shame. “A dream,” Bruce repeated aloud. The bats nesting above them offered no revelations.
The elevator leading from mansion to cave dingged behind them.
“Master Bruce, Master Jason,” Alfred greeted, stepping off the elevator while holding a tray of tea with practiced ease, “Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?”
“Yes, Alfred. We’ll be up in a moment. There’s nothing else we can do tonight.”
Jason suddenly snapped his fingers, “Alfred. That’s it!”
“Pardon me?”
“What’s it?” Bruce demanded. Jason held up the handwritten note.
“Crane’s handwriting! Who else in the world could tell us what it says?” Jason said excitedly. Alfred and Bruce looked at him blankly until Jason declared, “Grace the Arkham secretary!”
“You’re right, Robin!” Bruce exclaimed, “First thing tomorrow, we’ll go to Arkham to speak to Grace.”
. . .
Like she had every day for the last thirty-five years, Grace Workman arrived at the Arkham offices at exactly 8:55am. Stepping around Batman and Robin, Grace ignored the pair until she’d taken her seat, adjusted her skirt, booted up her Intel DX2 computer, and clocked-in.
A tall, thin woman in her fifties, Grace had been stenographer and secretary for the Arkham psychiatrists since before Batman first donned his cape. As far as anyone could tell, she was the only employee left from those days.
Batman was certain she knew everything; every patient, secret passage, and buried body. She’d survived dozens of riots, breakouts, and take-overs, including the infamous Party of ‘08. With her Mona Lisa smile, Grace never complained, never explained, and never asked more questions than she should.
Finally, at 09:00:15am, Grace the Secretary looked up over the rims of her reading glasses.
“All our psychiatrists are occupied at the moment. Would you like to leave a message or make an appointment?”
All of the psychiatrists were not occupied. In fact, Dr. Carlyle had just arrived with a cup of Starbucks. Besides, if Batman and Robin wanted to speak to a psychiatrist directly, they would break into their office or home directly. Instead, there they stood.
Batman had broken into Grace’s home only once in his career; after Jonathan Crane was outed as the Scarecrow. The following day, Bruce Wayne was informed that Ms. Workman would not be contacted outside the office again.
“This was taken from Jonathan Crane’s home last night. Can you read it?” Batman proffered the written note. During her time at Arkham, Grace had worked with no fewer than 157 psychiatrists, including Jonathan Crane. She didn’t seem particularly surprised by the demand. If anything, she seemed bored.
After a pause so long Robin began shifting awkwardly, Grace sighed and deftly plucked the note from Batman’s hand. Adjusting her reading glasses up her hooked nose, she skimmed the first few lines of the note before translating:
“‘Dear Diary. I had that homosexual dream again.’”
Robin made a surprised squeaking noise. Grace continued reading with no visible reaction.
“‘I fear these dreams confirm my suspicions. Scarecrow staunchly refuses to partake in any form of conversation, leaving me to speculate the implications alone. In this particular dream, the subject initially appeared fully clothed, including his gloves. Everything was rew [red], the color of his hair. I could fell [feel] his breath on my face before he . . .’ Hm.”
“Oh dear.” Blinking in abject surprise, Grace removed her glasses, shook her head once, and carefully laid the note on her desk.
“Why did you stop?” Robin demanded, planting his hands on the desk to lean forward into her space.
“It would be inappropriate of me to read the personal fantasies of a coworker.” Grace informed them dryly, “Especially in front of a child.” She opened the bottom drawer of her desk. “It appears Dr. Crane is working through some personal matters.” Picking up the note, she reached down and fed it to the paper shredder kept in the desk drawer.
With a mechanical whir, the paper disappeared into confetti before either vigilante could stop her.