Crane sat on an uncomfortable wooden bench crowded with a dozen other people. He watched in icy fascination at the man called Chuck "Snake" Machiano. As with his black-and-white mug shot, he was not an unattractive man. His chestnut brown hair had grown out, though he still wore it slicked back. He was impeccably dressed in a crisp black Armani suit and sleek gray tie that matched his eyes.
His lawyer leaned in and whispered something in his ear and he lightly laughed. Crane watched him in cold fascination, as a scientist might watch a slimy worm in a Petri dish. Crane already had filled a notepad with his own psychoanalytic observations. "Snake" Machiano was not your typical thug Crane soon surmised. As much as every fiber of Crane wanted to slowly flay and roast him for what he did to his mother, first he'd love to study his mind, dissect it, destroy it – then destroy his body – that would be great fun.
Machiano was well-educated from a respected family in Gotham City, but found Falcone's lure of power and money far too enticing to resist. Machiano had two vices that earned him nicknames in Falcone's inner circles. "Snake" wasn't from his sly nature or charming good looks, although that could be attributed to him. One of his signature trademarks in style were his rattlesnake boots that he wouldn't abandon, regardless of latest Gotham City style and fashion. The second vice, well the second vice was far more sinister, which brought him to the court house today.
Judge Steven Harker hit the gavel and gazed sternly at Machiano, who suddenly abandoned his smirk and folded his hands at attention, like an obedient pupil.
"Charles Machiano, do you have any last words before I read the sentence?"
"No, your honor. I believe the evidence of my innocence speaks for itself. I did not rape Sarah Crane. I would never stoop to such baseness. That is not in my nature, your honor."
Although Crane's face was a statuesque mask, unreadable, his nails dug deep into the handle of his briefcase, wishing it was Machiano's throat.
"Very well then, Mr. Machiano. I will read the sentence."
The other nickname Machiano was given to him was by Falcone – "The Ladies' Man." It was a joke at first, but soon it was used quite gleefully in Falcone's inner circle. After a kill, Machiano often found the night wouldn't be complete without topping it off with a woman. Now Machiano could have many willing women with his good looks, money, power and prestige. No, Machiano, got the most thrill and excitement from unwilling women, which brought him to Crane's mother.
"I, Judge Steven Harker, find Charles Machiano not guilty of charges of assault and sexual assault on Sarah Ann Crane. There is sufficient question leveled by the defense that DNA evidence was contaminated by the prosecution as well as a valid argument that Sarah Crane is not of sound mind enough to give valid testimony on the night in question. Case dismissed."
The gavel fell like a thunder stroke.
Yet another of Falcone's men bought and paid for, Crane thought bitterly.
Crane's mother … she was not the first and she was far from the last as Crane soon learned the further he delved into Machiano's history. Machiano had a long line of victims across Gotham City, but because of Falcone's reign of terror amongst the judges, nobody dared touch Machiano, so the The Ladies' Man continued to have his way.
Crane watched as Machiano smiled, overjoyed, hugged his lawyers, shook hands with some of his colleagues, many of whom were Falcone's men.
"I knew you'd get off Chuck, just knew it," Crane overheard one of them say.
Crane sat immovable as people brushed and shoved around him, trying to get up and leave the courtroom. His face was a mask, his eyes ice, but inside a storm of hatred and loathing beyond human imagining was brewing. Crane left as the courtroom grew empty so as to not draw attention to himself and to maintain a safe distance from Machiano. He watched Machiano closely as he left the courtroom, flanked by his celebrating lawyers and colleagues.
Throughout the long day Crane maintained a safe distance. If there was one thing Crane was good at was not being noticed and not being seen as a threat by anyone. On his notepad he recorded Machiano's mannerisms, his speech patterns, the foods he ate, the places he frequented, what magazines and papers he read. It was imperative he learned everything about this man in gaining insight into the depths and inner workings of his mind. Then, as his notepad was filling up, he snapped it closed.
It is enough. I think I will know where he will strike next, Crane thought. There is still enough time before tonight.
Crane turned his cool blue eyes down the street. He was just a few blocks from the Narrows.
It was painful to return to the darkened apartment, so lonely and empty, so un-homelike without his mother there. Honestly Crane didn't know why he was there. He was searching for something he needed for tonight, but didn't know what. Scarecrow had insisted vehemently that they return here, that it was imperative they return to this apartment before meeting with Machiano.
(Believe me, it will be worth it, whispered Scarecrow.
Now that Crane was there he believed he had made a terrible mistake. Painful memories flooded back on him and a wave of anger rushed so violently upon him he felt he was going to be sick.
How could they do this to her! To me! They let him go! They let him go free! She's imprisoned and he's free! And she's being tortured, driven insane and she's innocent! Innocent!
Crane threw a small table over by the sofa and it fell with a sickening smash on to the floor. The sound startled him from his rage, afraid he had broken something important his mother would miss once she returned.
Thankfully the small table looked structurally intact, just the contents were scattered everywhere. Hastily Crane began gathering the contents that spilled from the overturned drawers. There were the usual items: 10-year old bill stubs, stale candies, a dead moth, three unknown keys and four pens. Then Crane came across something that caught his interest: a man's watch. He turned it over in his hands a few times. It was stainless steel, the face plate was cracked, the hands permanently stopped at 8:47 p.m.
That's odd … it couldn't be my father's could it?
He put it back in the drawer, came across a few more useless items, then a picture frame face down. Slowly he turned it over. The frame was silver with some floral design around the edges and it was badly tarnished. The glass also was so thick with dust he had to brush it off several times before he could even make out the picture. At first glance Crane guessed it was a wedding picture of his grandparents or maybe great-grandparents, though he didn't know either of them, but then he studied the features more carefully.
No, undoubtedly to the left was his mother. The man to the right was what really fascinated him. To Crane it was almost like looking at himself in the past. The young man had soft blue eyes like himself and high cheekbones, though his nose was broader and his chin more prominent. He had inherited his mother's softer features in that respect, but his resemblance to his father was uncanny – and disheartening.
I wonder where you are dad. I wonder why you left. Did you leave because of me?
Crane gripped the picture tightly, fighting back the tears, then turned his attention back toward his mother. He couldn't ever recall his mother looking so young or so happy. He so wished she could be happy again, that she was back home, that he could have stopped everything before that terrible night of the attack.
(You can't, but you can help her now, whispered Scarecrow. You can help her NOW.)
Crane's eyes cooled to icy determination as he slipped the picture back into the drawer and closed it. He now knew what he was looking for in the apartment.
He went to the huge fabric bin in the corner of the room. As he slid off the heavy wooden lid, he saw the fabrics meticulously folded by his mother. Many of them were nice fabrics: cottons, satins, linens and corduroy. These he was not after. He was after the cloth located at the bottom of the huge bin, the heavier fabric that sometimes was used as scrap cloth or rags. He threw the piles of beautiful, luxurious fabric out, oblivious to all the work she had put into organizing the fabric bin.
His fingertips told him when he had found what he was looking for. The fabric felt the way he was feeling on the inside: rough, jagged and raw. He yanked out the fabric and saw what it was – a large piece of burlap canvas.
It's perfect, whispered Scarecrow.
This would not be a time for finesse or beauty. He felt like there was not a shred of beauty or love left inside him. He snapped open the old pink metal sewing case his mother used. Suddenly he smelled a soft lilac perfume, the hand lotion his mother used to wear. He paused for a moment, his eyes closed, picturing his mother's smile, then his jaw tensed and when his eyes opened again they were unyielding ice.
Crane selected not the finest needle, but a large awl, perfect for blunt sewing work through thick fabrics. Immediately his eyes turned to a spool of thick thread lying in the corner of the box next to the gleaming needle rack. It was a familiar shade, a dull beige he had remembered – the color of his old sweater that had been torn by that bully Stan so long ago, the sweater his mother had tried to mend before she fell asleep in exhaustion. It also was the same color of that plain burlap.
Crane grabbed the thread and a large pair of shears. He didn't cut, it more involved tearing. He enjoyed the ripping sound; it made him feel good hearing the sound of the thread coming undone, unraveling what was once cohesive and whole. He tore two ragged holes for the eyes and ripped a large gash for the mouth, which he promptly stitched up with a coarse black thread.
The face of Scarecrow gazed back at him from out of the canvas.
It had been a wonderful day for Snake Machiano. He had enjoyed adelicious meal of shrimp linguini with Falcone at their favorite restaurant La Viva! Falcone had congratulated Machiano on his victory in court, but not without admonishing him to be more careful with the ladies.
"Now don't get me wrong," said Falcone. "I have nothing against a little fun here and there, but be a bit discreet, eh? Don't get caught, eh, Chuck?"
"Don't you worry, Carmine. I will have new ways to shut them up after this, I think."
"Ah, that a boy," Falcone laughed.
Snake Machiano made sure he only had one glass of wine before getting his orders for the night. He wanted to be clear headed before he made the hit. If there was one thing Machiano prided himself in was making the hit efficiently and cleanly. He didn't botch a job ever, not like those gorilla thugs Falcone had a dime a dozen. No, Machiano had the hit down to an art form. He got it done right the first time, every time.
Machiano left the restaurant promptly at 9 p.m. He calibrated his Rolex, smoothed out his Armani suit, then drove his sleek red Ferrari to the west end of Gotham. Machiano didn't worry if he was traveling through upscale Gotham or in the worst side of the Narrows. No one dared touch Machiano or his car ever, because quite simply if you dared touch him or any of his possessions you ended up dead. It was that simple. Everyone knew who Snake Machiano was and who he was connected to.
Machiano rented the empty apartment that was across from his hit target, Falcone's latest enemy: Jeremy Reynolds – a lawyer who would not go on to his payroll. Well, if there was one thing Machiano had learned in his profession, what isn't settled with the buck is just as easily settled with the bullet. End of story. Case closed. We all go home. Everyone is happy – well, except the grieving family of course. Machiano slyly smiled.
The lights in the window across the opposite apartment flicked on. His target was moving into his sights.
Ahh, very good.
Machiano slipped from his silken inner jacket a .45 ACP caliber gun. He loved his gun, more than any woman. It was custom made to his exact specifications: sleek black stainless steel with a fully ingrained walnut handle, skeletonized adjustable trigger, extended magazine release with full-length recoil. Ah, it was a beaut.
Jeremy Reynolds entered his sights in the window. It was an absolutely perfect shot and he was going to take it. Machiano aimed and squeezed the trigger ever so gently, a soft caress he never bestowed upon any woman.
Reynolds jolted from the impact of the bullet and fell backward from his wife's embrace. His wife stood in shock for a moment, then screamed.
All in a day's work, Machiano thought smiling.
"Tonight is my lucky night and you're going to help me celebrate, my dear," whispered Machiano, crushing his lips against a young woman desperately trying to shoving him away.
"No! Please let me go! No!"
Crane watched with a mixture of interest and revulsion at Machiano as Crane stood in the shadows beneath Track 57. Machiano was disgustingly predictable in that sense. From studying his previous record, Crane was able to discover he enjoyed preying on women taking late night trains from work and he usually would prey upon the nearest track from whatever hit assignment he was on. It was just the convenience factor. Machiano was not a complicated man in that sense.
A light flashed above Crane and he looked up. The train was beginning to move out of the station. In a second shadow engulfed Crane again, then light as each car slowly began to move, obscuring and revealing the bright lights in the station above him.
"Hey you! Over there! cried Machiano, slipping out his prized gun from his jacket. "This is not a show! Get lost."
"Oh, God! Please help me! Please," pleaded the girl.
Desperately she tried to escape Machiano grasp, but he grabbed her blouse and tore it.
"He's not going to help you," Machiano spat. "No one helps anyone in this town! The sooner you learn that the better!"
He crushed his lips to hers and she whimpered pitifully. While Machiano's eyes were turned away from Crane, he advanced as the light flickered while the train left the station.
Arrogance breeds vulnerability, thought Crane.
"Let her go," said Crane in a firm, cold voice.
Machiano pulled his lips away from the girl and gazed at Crane, who was still obscured in shadow.
"Hey, buddy. If you want a girl so desperately get your own, or wait until I'm finished with her – I'll warm her up for ya," he said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.
"I'm not here for the girl," said Crane. "I'm here for you."
Crane stepped into the pale spotlight by the stairwell so Machiano could see him and Machiano reacted the way Crane expected he would – he began to laugh hard.
"Is this – is this some kind of joke?You come in here acting all the hero and just look at you! And to think – to think – I was afraid of you! What a joke," cried Machiano. "Just look at him, my sweet! Look at him!"
He grabbed the young woman by the face and shoved her forward. Crane could see in the light she had some cuts and bruises already on her tear-stained face. Some buttons were missing from the top of her torn blouse and she was visibly shaking.
"Please let me go," she cried. "Please."
"Not, until I first have my fun, dear. And believe me I have some big plans for tonight. Tonight is going to be a very special night for the both of us … But first pathetic loser here wants to watch, don't you? Because from the looks of you," said Machiano addressing Crane. "You can't get a woman; you get your kicks watching, don't you, eh? But you see I've learned a secret you pathetic sh-t! I don't ask women, I just take them!"
A creepy grin spread across Crane's lips.
"And that is where you are wrong," said Crane. "Because you can only take so much before someone eventually takes you."
The smug grin disappeared from Machiano in a heartbeat and he aimed his gun directly at Crane's head.
"What did you say to me you pathetic loser sh-t? What did you mean by that?"
The girl in that brief instant twisted from Machiano's grasp and tried to run for it.
"Hey, you're not going anywhere, missy! You're not going anywhere until you –"
While Machiano turned his attention on the fleeing girl, Crane swiftly raised his arm and shot a cloud of gas full into Machiano's face. Machiano had time enough to gaze in wide-eyed shock at the young man before collapsing to his knees, then falling face down on to the filthy, wet ground.
Crane stood over Machiano, gazing at him in amused curiosity. The woman stared, clutching at her torn blouse.
"Is he – is he dead?"
"Oh, no, where would be the fun in that," said Crane. "He will sleep for awhile."
"Thank you – thank you for saving me," cried the girl. "He – he was going to –"
The girl looked on the verge of crying and Crane turned his eyes away from his unconscious victim to the girl. For a moment his cold, predatory eyes softened and he had a desire to hold her and comfort her.
"You're a hero," she finally said.
Crane gazed at the gratitude in her eyes, then at his would-be prey, just waiting for him on the ground. He could turn him into the police, report the assault. A "hero" would do that, but what then? Machiano would go through the court system, be freed again by judges bought off by Falcone.
But in Crane's hands at last he would meet justice.
Crane turned to the girl, his eyes cold, his face masking his emotions within.
"No, I'm no hero," Crane said firmly.
He removed from his suit jacket a burlap mask and slowly slipped it over his head.
"I'm Scarecrow," he whispered.
The girl gazed at him in a mixture of horror and revulsion, and then ran away down the lonely and dark street. Scarecrow smiled within the mask, gazing at his delicious new prey through the ragged eyeholes with a new appreciation.
Time to have a little fun, shall we? Best we get started. I'd hate for you to wake up and be disappointed.
Scarecrow carried off his prey into a dark alley until they were both swallowed up in shadow.