Al and I walked over to the bus stop with most of the rest of the Arkham staff that night. No one who could have afforded a car would have driven it in that part of town, so even some of the doctors rode the number nine bus with us.
Al didn't start talking until we got home.
"I got a chance to look at Dr. Crane's files today," she said. "The new drug he put that old lady on was called scorbuticroton."
"So?"
"So there's no such drug, or if it is, it isn't a sedative."
"And how would you know that?"
"Come on. A scorbutic is a person with scurvy, and croton oil is like ipecac. Or maybe Ex-Lax, I don't remember."
"So you think scorbuticroton is a code for something else?"
"Yes, and that's not all," she said, breathless with excitement. "Every other patient I've found with any mention of this drug was either moved to Suicide Watch, heavily confined in the Violent Ward, or transferred to the State Psychiatric Hospital in Metropolis."
"But not dead?"
"I don't know about that," she said. "Corpsey files go to a separate filing system. I don't have access."
"Well, where is it?" I asked reasonably, feeling the tiniest thrill of excitement. It had been years since I had played Nancy Drew, solving the petty crimes committed by the children of the Narrows. Back then I had called myself The World's Greatest Detective. (Years later, when Batman took on that title along with his many others, I felt mildly let down.)
"Is little miss nose-in-a-book interested in a little sleuthing?"
"Hey, serious girls can solve mysteries, too. I mean, someone has to be the brains of the operation. I don't want to see the results if you try to go all Scooby Doo and get shot in the face by Old Man Bolton."
"Jinkies!" Al said brightly. "The files are in an old office inside Dr. Crane's. I mean, past it—well, you can only get to it by going through Dr. Crane's office. You know. And of course he has the only key. But don't worry, gang. I have a plan."
I was afraid to ask her what it was.
--
The next day was business as usual. I spent hours bleaching stains out of straitjackets, all of them blood this time. Al followed Dr. Crane and watched him like a hawk. There were no more prescriptions, she told me, of the scurvy purgy.
Near the end of the shift, I absentmindedly dragged my cart of soiled linens into the bathroom with me. It came out quite a bit heavier than when it went in.
Old Bob noticed me struggling with it. No one could ever slip a thing past that man.
"Seems like there's more laundry than patients some days," he said, eyeing the cart with some suspicion.
"Yes, sit. But that's the last of it, thank God."
That sidetracked him into giving me a lecture about taking the Lord's name in vain that lasted until we reached the basement stairs.
"I wish they'd get that elevator fixed," I sighed. "Mr. Bob, these stairs must be murder on your knees."
He mumbled and grumbled for a few minutes, but finally took the hint and stayed upstairs while Frank carried the cart for me.
It was hospital policy for the orderlies to probe the laundry with the pointy end of a broom before leaving it. More than once, a patient had tried to make a break for the ventilation system that led from the boiler room to the street. Of course, most of the pipes had been redirected to the roof years ago, which led to one or two red faces when the escapees took the wrong pipe and got stuck halfway.
When Frank reached for the broom, I stopped him.
He was a sweet guy, good-looking, smarter than people gave him credit for, and I had seen the way he looked at me.
I don't guess I really need to go into the how of it, but I thoroughly distracted Frank from following hospital procedure.
