"The problem is, Mr. Tillman, I know information you don't. Information that I'm afraid I can't give you at this time, but suffice to say one Richard Castle is going to extend your hours of play."

And the mask is slipping on, a terrifyingly fitting mask for Crane--something to ugly for what Crane really was. He cleared his throat, folding his hands together, lacing them gently. The pen and paperwork were long forgotten.

"short bursts of mania are common in soldiers, and often hallucinations follow. Most have focused on Jungian archetypes, which in layman's terms, means things children would find scary. Age regression, as it were. In this case," He spreads his hands out.

"A Scarecrow."

He presses a button in the suitcase--a short burst of gas fills the air and Crane stays perfectly still. The fear toxin won't affect someone in a gas mask but to someone handcuffed and helpless, it would.

This is the part he likes.

He's rigid with anticipation, watching carefully, eyes scanning underneath the scarecrow mask. This is the part he lives on, thrives on, considers a great success. Once it hits, he leans forward in the mask.

"Boo."