Two nights later, Crane walked alone through the run-down, ghetto portion of Gotham City known as the Narrows, as always carrying his briefcase in one hand. It was a cold night and he kept the collar of the trenchcoat he wore flipped up, partially to conceal his face. Rain fell in a thin mist, making it seem as though it weren't falling at all but rather just hanging in the air. Beyond the mouth of the alley he stood in, Crane could hear the ever-present noise of the city; shouting people, cars driving by, and the occasional gunshot.
He knew the Narrows well; it was home to Arkham Asylum, where he worked as a therapist for the criminally insane, aside from his day job as a college professor. It wouldn't take him long to find what he was looking for and he paused in the alley to wipe the moisture from his glasses. Just as he predicted, a ragged looking man with a scraggly beard and a very shabby hooded sweatshirt stepped up to him from out of the shadows. He appeared like a specter in a child's nightmare but Crane didn't so much as flinch. "Hello there," the doctor greeted him in a low but still pleasant voice.
The bum narrowed his eyes at Crane, furrowing his brow. "There somethin' yer lookin' fer?" he asked, moving slowly toward him. Obviously Crane's cheerful demeanor was unexpected, as was his fancy suit. It wouldn't be a surprise if he looked rather suspicious to the fellow.
"As a matter of fact, yes," Crane answered brightly, voice still low. "I'm looking to score some Acid."
The bum looked at him incredulously. "You a cop?"
Crane shook his head, drops a water dripping from his damp hair. "Not at all. I'm just looking to have a good time." Reaching into his trenchcoat, he pulled out an envelope. "And I'm more than willing to pay for it, of course." He held out his hand. The bum eyed it a moment, glancing between the envelope and Crane's vibrant blue stare.
"How much you lookin' to get?" the bum asked, scratching his beard.
The doctor titled his head to one side and stated, "How much of the pure stuff can I get for two hundred thousand?" The bum's eyes went wide. "It's for some friends," he explained. "Very important, influential friends."
The bum grinned, showing broken yellow teeth that turned Crane's stomach. "Yer in luck then. I can getcha two hundred kilos of pure powder."
"When?"
The bum took the envelope from Crane's hand. Stuffing it into a pocket of his sweatshirt, he replied, "Take me about an hour to get it all together. Be here then." With that, the bum scampered off down the alley, leaving Crane standing in the rain.
"When an agoraphobic attack occurs, there are several biochemical and autonomic changes that accompany it," Dr. Crane tiredly explained to his class the next day. "These physical changes include increased heart rate and elevated blood pressure." As he droned on about agoraphobia, he went over the next steps that had to be taken in the back of his mind. He had to somehow sneak into the chemistry lab and make off with as much sodium lactate as he could. He had gotten all the LSD he needed the night before and could begin synthetically producing it himself. He'd spent the rest of the night setting up a laboratory in his basement where he liquefied the lysergic acid diethylamide in preparation for its combination with the sodium lactate. He'd been up all night and was now paying for it as he looked and felt like the walking dead. His hair was tousled and dark rings hung beneath his eyes as he lectured his students.
Blessedly, his savior came in the form of the end of period bell. As the class shuffled about in their haste to leave, Crane stepped over to his desk and took an empty sip from the coffee thermos he'd brought to work with him. Sitting down, he removed his glasses and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, fighting the encroaching exhaustion. He was faintly aware of someone standing before the desk. "Yes?" he asked, looking up and seeing Phoebe Watson biting her lower lip nervously.
"Are you all right, Dr. Crane?" she asked, a worried look on her attractive face. Her straw-blonde hair hung down just above her shoulders and her grey eyes told Crane that her concern was genuine.
"Just a little tired is all," he answered, smiling up at her. Sitting up straight, he asked, "Is there something you wanted, Phoebe?"
"Just wanted to see if you were okay. You didn't seem as enthused during your lesson today."
"Well it's not like anyone appreciates what I have to teach, Miss Watson," he commented dryly.
"I appreciate it, doctor. I think it's all so fascinating." She paused, biting her lip again. "I… I heard about what Greg did… with the scarecrow's head…"
"It's nothing," he replied amiably. "Just a childish prank. But you should run along to you're next class." Much as he appreciated the girl's concern, he needed to get to the chemistry lab.
"Okay. I hope you feel better, Dr. Crane." With that, she turned and hurried out of the room.
Silly girl, Crane thought as he watched her go. For a moment he entertained the notion that she may possibly be infatuated with him. He was by no means old, after all. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact; he looked barely into his twenties. Enough of this, he chided himself. It was time to get to work.
Taking the thermos by the handle, he strolled casually down the hall toward the science department, his footsteps echoing off the high ceiling as he went. Finally he stood just outside the Gotham University chemistry lab. Stealing a glance in every conceivable direction, he ensured that not a sole was in sight as he crept through the door, the words "Chemistry Lab" stenciled on the fogged glass window. Silently, he sneaked through the darkened room, stalking between the lab tables like a cat, clutching the empty thermos protectively in both hands. Without a sound, he made his way across the black-and-white checkered tile floor to the back of the room, to the cabinet where all the chemicals were stored in gallon-sized plastic jugs. His heart thumped faster against his ribs as he neared it. Reaching out with one thin hand, he turned the handle and the door swung easily open on well-oiled hinges. Extracting a jug labeled C3H5O3Na, he unscrewed the lid of the thermos and began filling it with the odorless, pale yellow liquid.
Suddenly there was a noise from outside. Crane spun around, eyes going wide as dinner plates. Hastily he screwed the cap back onto the thermos and replaced the chemical jug in the cabinet. Softly, he padded back toward the front of the room, heart racing. Then the door knob squeaked as it began to turn. Oh crap! Crane's mind raced. The implications of him being caught in the chemistry lab with the lights off and a thermos full of sodium lactate were just a tad suspicious. Looking about desperately for some place to hide, he settled for the lab table nearest him. Diving behind the thick slab just in time, he crawled into the small, cramped bottom cabinet as the lights clicked on and a set of footsteps could be heard on the tiled floor. As he shoved lab equipment aside, Crane heard something else, a set of squeaking wheels. "What is it about janitors interrupting my work?" he hissed to himself silently. As it was, he had no choice but to hunker down and wait for this blue-collar simpleton to finish.
An hour later, Crane awoke. He hadn't even realized he'd dozed off and found that he'd lost all feeling in his legs and his neck had gone incredibly stiff. Opening the small cabinet door a crack, he peered out into the darkened room. Not a sound greeted his ears and he hurriedly spilled out onto the floor. Standing up, he brushed off his suit and ran a hand through his messy hair. Snatching up the thermos, he beat a hasty retreat, thanking his lucky stars that the doors in the school locked from the outside only.
Crane's basement was old and musty, with cobwebs smothering the ceiling and corners. The doctor half expected to see the Phantom of the Opera every time he came down there. In the center of the main room sat a table covered in beakers, test tubes, vials, and other miscellaneous lab equipment. From the ceiling hung a single naked bulb, casting it's bright white light over everything, banishing most of the shadows but enhancing others. In the far corner was a bookcase, brimming with psychology texts and beside the stairs was a heavy safe. An open doorway led off into another room of the basement that he'd so far left empty. In his own opinion, Crane felt he did rather well at transforming his basement into Frankenstein's Castle.
Setting the thermos down on the table, he turned and removed his suit jacket. Underneath, he wore a navy blue wool sweater with polyester patches on the elbows. Kneeling down before the safe, he turned the dial several times until he'd entered the combination and pulled the heavy door open. Reaching inside, he pulled out a flask of the lysergic acid diethylamide and set it on the table next to the thermos. He'd managed to get it half full of sodium lactate before he'd been interrupted, but it was enough to create a test dose. He hoped.
But I need a test subject, he thought idly to himself, rubbing his chin conscientiously. Arkham is full of people nobody would miss… but those crazies are no good for testing, I need someone relatively normal. Inmates are better suited to receiving the finished product. A thought struck him, a sudden, simple, guilty thought. One of his students. One who would have no objections to aiding him in a few "experiments". He knew the perfect candidate and he almost hated himself for it. He glanced over at a hook on the wall where the scarecrow mask hung, grinning evilly at him. For some reason, he didn't remember hanging it there.
Almost…