Days as a Spiritual Mentor in American Comics-Chapter 4430 - 3518: Research on Cats and Dogs (29)

In psychology, there is a principle that doesn't quite qualify as a theorem: those with antisocial personality traits are naturally adept at manipulation.

Contrary to popular belief, people with antisocial personalities aren't devoid of empathy or compassion. On the contrary, many of them are more sensitive to emotions than the average person, and their ability to discern the emotional states of others is remarkably accurate.

However, the darker facets of their personality lead them to wield this inherent instinct as an unfailing weapon to manipulate others and achieve their goals.

At the same time, their ability to feign emotions far surpasses that of ordinary people. With little to no effort, they can mask their emotional state without leaving the faintest trace of inconsistency.

Let me reiterate: Supervillains like the Joker or the Scarecrow are not mentally ill. They don't have episodes nor uncontrollable physical symptoms during breakdowns, like the Riddler might display.

Their brains are not diseased, and their nervous systems function as usual, enabling them to carry out intricate operations at any given moment—this is how they manage to create chaos on such a grand scale.

They're not sick; they're simply profoundly antisocial.

Antisocial personalities can be categorized into two types, although psychology theory has yet to define them clearly. Broadly speaking, they can be divided into two styles: aggressive and indolent.

The Joker is evidently an exemplary case of the aggressive type. His perpetual manic energy doesn't stem from disorders like schizophrenia but rather from the antisocial aspects of his character, which serve as a source of positive reinforcement for him.

It's akin to the mentality of, "Just imagining the chaos I can unleash fills me with fighting spirit."

People with this kind of antisocial personality are relatively easier to spot because they possess an unmistakable "desire for evil."

As soon as there's talk of committing misdeeds, inflicting pain, disrupting order, or creating chaos, they become almost irrepressibly excited, practically wearing "I'm a villain" blatantly on their faces.

When regular individuals encounter such people, the best course of action is to maintain distance. There's no point in reasoning with them, let alone hoping to change them. This evil desire is inherently irreducible and brings them a sense of elation stronger than that from any drug—impossible to quit.

While such individuals already appear extremely dangerous, they comprise only about 5% of people with antisocial personalities—a rare group whom most people will never encounter in daily life.

The larger and more perilous group consists of people with indolent antisocial personalities, like the Scarecrow.

On the surface, such individuals show no aggression and are indistinguishable from ordinary people. Due to their high-functioning antisocial traits, they often come across as intelligent, meticulous, and even charismatic.

They lack the burning desire for evil. More precisely, their desire for evil isn't an active skill and rarely manifests without some kind of trigger.

They only commit malicious acts at crucial moments.

For example, deliberately refusing to help someone in need, withholding critical information, or interfering with key decisions—they merely take a gentle push when someone is already teetering on the edge of a cliff and then look down with a sinister smile.

Although aggressive types are born terrorists, the indolent type often causes greater harm due to their unassuming nature. From a victim count perspective, they hold the upper hand.

When ordinary people encounter such individuals, they might either be drawn to them or fail to detect danger and drop their guard. By the time the indolent antisocial strikes at a pivotal moment, it's already too late.

The elite among them can even conceal their true nature entirely, living their entire lives as if they were no different from ordinary people. Without the right triggers, their masks might never come off.

Scarecrow Jonathan Crane possesses such a skillset. Although his confrontations with Batman appear proactive, deep down, his craving for evil isn't as intense. If the Joker's feelings toward Batman can be described as fiery, then Jonathan's are undeniably colder.

This, in turn, makes him a uniquely troublesome adversary compared to the Joker.

When the Joker commits an act of evil, he must make sure Batman knows about it—he's eager for the entire world to know—and he doesn't hesitate to admit it himself.

This is why, for Batman, subduing the Joker and delivering him to justice is a relatively straightforward task. The Joker might even stride into his reserved cell at Arkham Asylum with a smug grin, chest puffed out.

But Scarecrow is much harder to pin down. He uses all kinds of strategies to evade culpability—employing advanced chemical methods to destroy evidence, staging fake crime scenes, or even incapacitating Batman to prevent the collection of critical evidence.

Apprehending him is one thing; delivering him to court for a fair trial is an entirely different ordeal. For Batman, Scarecrow remains one of his most formidable foes in the detective's realm.

In the Arkham Knight game, for instance, Scarecrow plants bombs filled with fear gas throughout the city. While Batman defuses the threats and saves Gotham once again, the question of how to convict Scarecrow afterward is a vexing one.

Who planted the bombs? Who manufactured the fear gas inside the bombs? In the absence of harm, who should bear responsibility? These are all questions that would arise in court discussions.

But the unfortunate reality is that compiling such a comprehensive chain of evidence requires an unimaginable workload. If even one link in this chain falters, the accusations are likely to fall through.

Even if Batman locates Scarecrow's laboratory, finds his fingerprints on the equipment, or catches him on-site, it might not suffice as a complete evidence chain.

Scarecrow could argue that he lent out the equipment or was kidnapped and forced into the lab. As absurd as this might sound, in a common-law system, these defenses could hold water.

To secure a conviction, one must catch him red-handed—in the act of synthesizing fear gas in his lab. Even surveillance footage might not suffice; eyewitness testimony, preferably from the police, would be required.

Even then, this would only constitute an accusation of manufacturing hazardous chemicals, not of using them to endanger public safety. To level that charge, one must catch him in the act of transporting or releasing the fear gas.

This is why Gotham's criminals are so often caught and released, repeatedly cycling through the judicial system. The charges are hard to pin down, and even stronger cases might result in light sentences, particularly for those claiming mental illness as an escape route.

Scarecrow's unparalleled ability to evade conviction is why he appears time and time again. Despite Batman handing him over to the police, he'd post bail effortlessly and be out committing crimes again the next day.

If the Joker represents victory through quality, then Scarecrow represents quantitative change yielding qualitative impact. It's precisely because Batman has crossed paths with him so many times that he understands him so well.

Jonathan's remarks didn't surprise Batman. He knows that Scarecrow is fundamentally a deeply arrogant person. Even if a cosmic inversion turned Scarecrow into the Justice League's spiritual advisor, his core personality would remain unchanged.

"What do you think the real killer's motive was for framing you?" Batman asked.

Batman was reminding Jonathan—someone wouldn't act without reason. The timing was deliberate, meant to influence Metropolis residents.

Jonathan was briefly perplexed by the question but instinctively knew that now was not the time to show weakness. Without some assertiveness, Batman would seize upon the opening and relentlessly press him.

"Does it matter what their motive is?" Jonathan countered. "Surely it's no concern of yours, Mr. Batman?"

"I'm afraid it is," Batman replied. "I came into this world with my own objectives. The ripple effects of what's happening to you could become my problem. I'm merely defending my own interests."

"I see," Jonathan thought.

He was aware of the Battleworld. Though circumstances prevented his direct participation, he understood its general mechanics. Those otherworldly visitors were here to accumulate points. With rewards at stake, they'd naturally push themselves harder.

Now that he'd incapacitated Gotham University's professors, it seemed he had inadvertently interfered with Batman's point-earning mission. Letting Batman drop this issue entirely was clearly impossible.

In that case, taking the initiative was imperative. Even if he couldn't manipulate Batman's actions directly, he needed to exert enough influence to divert the man's focus. As long as the distraction worked, he would avoid imminent danger.

Jonathan sighed, leaning back in his chair until his face was obscured by shadow. Beneath his prominent brow ridge, his eyes burned with intense focus.

Batman studied him, piecing together his impressions. The psychology professor's evaluation of Jonathan Crane's mental state might not have been accurate. Jonathan didn't resemble a man plagued by insanity—his eyes weren't vacant but rather possessed a peculiar, unyielding concentration.

Jonathan wasn't particularly striking in appearance. Put a pair of glasses on him and drop him among a group of professors and scholars, and he'd be nearly indistinguishable. Yet something about his demeanor—cold, cunning—left an indelible mark.

This universe's version of Jonathan, Batman mused, appeared less insane and markedly less evil. In his moments of silence, he resembled a Thinker statue, radiating wisdom from his stillness.

As for why he was this way—perhaps the weight of 170 years of property taxes was too much to bear. Jonathan had no choice but to give his all to keep his job. Even villains, when racking their brains, could exude a sinister charisma.

"What do you propose to do?" Jonathan asked proactively.

"For starters, I want your opinion. Who do you think the killer is?"

Jonathan had a sudden spark of inspiration. He realized this could be an excellent opportunity—to implicate the people who hadn't been poisoned, specifically Schiller and Victor.

If he was going to stir the pot, he certainly wouldn't leave out his old acquaintances. While he hadn't managed to land them in the hospital, getting Batman to hound them was consolation enough. Evil, after all, devours its own kind.

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Jonathan was gleeful internally but maintained a calm exterior. He raised his eyes to Batman and said, "Poisoning food isn't particularly complicated—any average person could do it. Precisely because the method is so straightforward, it's harder to trace."

"However, if the perpetrator knew they weren't an expert, they might fear overdosing and accidentally killing themselves, so it's likely they wouldn't poison themselves. That should be an important clue."

Batman lowered his gaze slightly. Jonathan's deduction aligned with his own thoughts. The poisoning method suggested the culprit had average chemical skills and might even be an amateur.

If the culprit were untrained and unsure of the precise effects of a given dosage—or lacked confidence in their ability—they might play it safe by avoiding poisoning themselves.

Then again, if they were cunning or brazen, they might ingest a minimal amount of the toxin or even feign poisoning altogether.

Batman's suspicions were consistent with Jonathan's: the perpetrator was likely a faculty member of Gotham University.