Hook, line, and Author.

“Dispatch, show us on scene. 10-97.” Officer Greg Coole said into his dashboard radio, the red and blue lights atop his cruiser illuminating the mist around him; In the passenger seat next to him was a fidgety stick of a man by the name Jordan Westmore.

“Sir?”

“What is it, Westy?” 

“I was just curious…” A line that was spoken often according to the sigh that slipped through Officer Coole’s lips. “I was just curious why we pulled up with only the lights, shouldn’t we have ran the siren?”

“When we got the call for a wellness check what did Dispatch tell us, Westy?”

“Code two?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” 

“Code two, sir.” He affirmed. 

“A Code Two, my little bootling, is our code for urgent and without sirens. The lights get us there fast and the siren let’s people know we’re there. It’s an intimidation thing.”

“So do we not want him to know we’re here? Isn’t this a wellness check?” 

The senior officer sighed again, more heavily this time, he popped the door to his cruiser and stepped out onto the pale smooth stone of the driveway. 

“Well he didn’t call it on himself so we can probably guess he’s doing something he shouldn’t be, come on now, enough questions. I want you to take the lead on this.”

The passenger door opened slowly as the lankier man entered the fog himself.

“Are you sure, sir?” 

“That sounded like a question, Westmore. Enough.” 

“Yes, sir.” Westmore replied in a sulk.

The men stepped away from the grill of their cruiser, the columns of light coming from their headlights perfectly visible in the haze. Slowly Officer Westmore led the approach, it was impossible not to notice the nerves on the young man, part of me wondered what draws a man like that into this line of work. As the shape of the large home became visible the Senior Officer let loose a low whistle. 

“Lots of trash by the door.” Officer Coole commented looking down over a pile of opened and discarded packages. Kneeling by them he read the label in the light afforded to him by his cruiser. “Spare The Rod Fishing Depot?” He mumbled to himself. During this, the eyes of Westmore were focused solely on what was in front of him. A rectangle of darkness played against the pale fog. Very slowly he reached for his flashlight, forcing a sweaty thumb over the button.

Click.

The noise drew Coole’s attention and his own hand went down to his belt as he rose; while Westmore had gone for a flashlight Coole’s hand hesitated ever so slightly above the grip of his weapon. Between both of them it was hardly a question of who would be an issue, without his superior the Westmore boy would crumble. I was certain.

“Dispatch, we got an open door on the property, keep an ambulance on stand-by and I’ll follow up.” 

“No back-up?” Westmore asked, the very edges of his voice tinged with uncertainty. Coole shook his head. 

“No. Check out the door frame, it has no sign of any forced entry and it looks like he got a security system since the last time. These cameras are new.”

“So you’ve been out here before?”

“We have somewhat of a history with this guy.”

“We do?” Westwood asked with a thoughtful expression.

“We meaning the department, boot, he’s just an author but we’ve had some interesting run-ins with him.”

Westmore cautiously waved his flashlight into the house, the beam revealing a large oil painting hanging in the foyer. His voice wavered as he asked, 

“What kind of calls do you get for an author?” Clearly, he was stalling. 

“ ‘Bout a month before you started we had to come in with the fire department. Apparently he had his heart set on a story about someone surviving in the wilderness, so he figured the best research would be to camp out in his backyard.”

“That doesn’t sound too crazy.” Westmore commented, his form relaxing a little. 

“His idea of camping was a bit different to ours. He was out there stark naked and starting fires every night with a stick and some twine.”

“Naked?”

“He planned on weaving clothes out of plant fibers or something, it doesn’t matter, apparently meeting ‘the civilized’ ruined his little Cast Away moment. He cursed us out and told us to stop answering calls up here if it was going to disturb his work.”

“Holy shit.” 

“Yup. That was the last time too, so he’s on schedule.”

Both men turned and looked into the open door of the house, silence sat between them for a few seconds and eventually Coole gave Westmore a solid smack on the back. 

“Alright, get in there.”

“What?” 

“Do you need me to put it in writing for you, boot? You. Are. Leading. This. One. That means you make entry, you remember your lines right?” 

Reluctantly, Westmore nodded. 

“Yes, sir.” 

He took a breath in preparation and stepped forward, finally crossing the threshold. 

“Mister Webb? This is the Police Department.” He called out anxiously, his shoulders and legs hunched like any sound would send him running. He looked back but a glare from Coole turned him right back. “We’re here to check on you, sir! Someone is really worried about you.” 

Both men held just a few steps inside and turned their heads, ears perked for even the slightest sound of a response. But nothing spoke back.

“Henry!?” Coole’s voice echoed through the open foyer and faded into the high ceiling. His own voice now rejected, he turned his nose up and inhaled deeply. 

“Sir?” Westmoore asked quietly, a hand to the face was his response as Coole focused on his sniffling and snuffling. Eventually he ceased his olfactory investigation and turned to his trainee. 

“Not getting any whiff of a body, if anything happened to him then it could have been recent. Call said his lights hadn’t been on for a couple days at least though, nobody coming in or out either.”

“Maybe he just left for a vacation or something and whoever called it in missed him heading out?” Westmoore pondered. 

Coole just grunted in response, his hand now resting on the rough plastic of his sidearm.

“It could be some kind of ‘research’ like maybe he’s writing a story about the Amish?” His tone was joking but I could see on his face how rattled he was.

“Yeah, he’s a regular Daniel Day Lewis..” Coole muttered to himself, his hand moving away from the weapon and to his flashlight. Two beams now probed and scanned the walls and ceiling as they walked deeper inside. The echo from their footsteps was the only companion to their inner monologue as they checked the first floor, kitchen, living room, and bathroom. They only briefly paused in the dining room as Westmore shined a light over a large tarp spread across the ceiling above the dining table.

“Is that a tarp?” 

“Aiming for detective, Westy?” Coole chided. 

“I know it’s a tarp, sir. I just mean…what is it doing here?”

“Been a rainy couple of weeks, could be some water damage. Looks like carpenter nails keeping it in, probably in the middle of fixing it.”

Westmore’s mouth twisted into a look of skeptical acceptance, eventually his search turned towards the rest of the first floor. Officer Coole was confident and thorough in his search, whereas Westmore hesitated on every door opening and un-turned corner. He would be perfect.

Thunk.

One little noise from above had drawn so much attention. The beams of their flashlights danced across the ceiling in an illuminating venn-diagram. Coole wasted no time heading back for the foyer bringing a shaken Westmore alongside, their twin beams found the tall narrow staircase leading to the second story and the men stood at the bottom of it. Westmore shot Coole a question with his eyes and had it answered similarly, with a grimace he took the first step and began his ascent. 

“Henry?” Coole called out from behind Westmore, startling the poor boy as evidenced by his flashlight violently bobbing across the wall. “If you’re hurt just call out, make any kinda noise and I’ll find you.”

They held but no sound came except for the creaking of the final step as they both stood atop the landing and scanned the walls slowly. 

“What the hell? I guess this explains the lights?” Westmore said quietly as he approached a window and extended a hand. 

A thick layer of newspaper, book pages, and glue covered every inch. His fingers retracted slightly when he made contact, almost as if he didn’t think it would be real. Coole’s face remained stoic as he pulled a radio from his belt. 

“Dispatch, possible altered mental status, send out the ambulance just to be safe.” He spoke confidently into the radio but the puff of his chest dropped a few inches when all it gave him back was static. He stood there like a buffoon as he shook the device violently, mashing buttons and cranking dials all for the same result. Nothing. He opened his mouth to speak but another sound through the still silence stole the air from his lungs.

Thunk.

 The two men went still, frozen in darkness, both of them exchanging looks but no words. The first one to speak up was a surprise.

“Henry?” Westmore called out, more of a request than an inquiry. “Henry, if you’re hurt make that noise again we can help you.” 

Coole’s eyes were narrowed and his gut must have been turning, years of intuition telling him something wasn’t right. 

Thunk.

Westmore looked to Coole, his face now devoid of the same uncertainty.

“Hold on, Mr. Webb!” 

He started off but Coole grabbed him by his shirt. 

“Where are you goin, boot?” 

“He’s calling for us, he must have had an accident or something.”

“How can you be sure?” 

“Sir? He’s an author, if he’s slapping paper over his windows something has to be wrong.”

“Exactly. Now if the thing he has wrong is in his head then..” 

“Then he could be a threat to us.” 

“Take lead, but be careful. We don’t know what kind of state he’s in.” 

Westmore nodded dutifully and pulled his sidearm from its holster, his hand seemed to sway and bounce as if it was unused to the weight. Coole followed closely behind as they both approached the study. A tall thin door with a golden knob stood between them and the source of the noises that had captured their attention. Coole stepped to the side and placed a hand on the knob, they shared another look and a nod, quickly turning and throwing the door open Westmore entered the room with his gun angled down and his flashlight scanning left to right. The walls were lined with bookshelves that spilled their contents at points, lying across the bottom of the shelves was an antique wooden ladder. Piles of books, papers, and print-outs littered the floor. The soft glow of a computer screen bathed the room in a delicate blue, next to the keyboard sat a pile of papers haphazardly held together with binder clips.

“Clear.” Westmore called softly to Coole. 

“Good entry.” He commented as he slid into the room behind him. His eyes instantly locked on the screen. His arm extended and he directed one of his thick fingers to it. “Security.” 

As Coole examined the screen, which had a multitude of CCTV feeds playing live footage, he began showing that same confused expression I had grown so used to seeing on his subordinate. Another expression flashed across his face, curiosity. He pulled on the chain of a desk lamp as Westmore got to work scanning the clutter that filled the space. 

“Lot of books.” He commented dryly. 

“Uh-huh.” Coole replied absently as he perused the stack of papers.

A few things had caught the eyes of Westmore, a few black and white photos of a hotel, guides on fisherman’s knots, and an entire stack of books with markers jutting out at various points. 

“Where the hell is he?” He wondered aloud. 

“Westy, check this out.” Coole called out.

Westmore walked across the old hardwood and gave the collection of papers a look. 

“Something he’s writing?” 

“Something like that. Skim it.” 

“The Tennessee Drifter, strong title, bit cliche but..”

“Did I ask you to fucking critique the thing? Skim over it.”

“Sorry, sir.” Westmore replied promptly, his eyes flicking across the page. “So his next novel is a crime novel?” 

“Uh huh. Writing from the perspective of a killer. Read the chapter headings.”

“Alright..” His fingers flipped the page and he read briefly. “What am I supposed to be seeing?” 

“Christ, Westy. Chapter 24, second from the bottom.” 

“The Arrest.” Westmore echoed. 

“Thinking caps, boot. He installs new cameras, his house is a freak show, the caller refused to give a name. Henry is using us to see how the police in his shitty book should act.” Coole says shaking his head, the dim light of the room barely hiding his red face as it calls out into the hall. “Henry, you sick son of a bitch. Calling in a false report is illegal.” 

“Ouch!” Westmore yelped, dropping the stack of papers to the desktop and backing away. His finger wrapped tightly in his free hand. 

“Paper cut, boot? Maybe if we push it we can bring him in on assaulting an officer.” 

“Not a paper cut.” Westmore replied, shaking his hand. “Fishing hook, it’s poking through some of the back pages. I wanted to jump ahead.” 

“Now that is an assault charge.” Coole replied, picking up the pile of papers delicately and thumbing through them until he saw the glint of a fish hook’s point. “There’s no way..” He muttered as he moved his finger around to the back and felt the thin fishing line connected to it.

“Sir?” 

“He booby trapped the pages.” He muttered while stepping away from the desk, his fingers caressing the invisible strand of fishing line. Slowly he followed it toward a distant corner where a slotted closet lay before an antique rug. “You really did it this time, Henry. You’re coming with us down to the station and we’re having a very long conversation.” Speaking as he followed the guidance of the line distracted him. Kept him from noticing the edge of the carpet ever so slightly furled up revealing a skinny bundle of splinters.

“Coole, sir. Maybe you shouldn’t-” 

“Quiet, Westy. You did good with entry but let me handle the actual police wo-” His words were cut off suddenly. The moment his foot touched the rug and it bore the brunt of his weight his fate was sealed. Letting out a shocked cry he plummeted through the floor in a tangle of fabric and fishing line.

“Holy shit, sir!?” Westmore called out rushing to the edge of the hole and looking down on the pile of man that was Officer Coole. As the papers hung limply below the hole, Coole’s body was spread across a familiar dark tarp and his breathing was shallow and sporadic. This was my moment. 

I gently pulled the line of the second reel of wire I had and watched in silent anticipation as Westmore’s eyes locked on the slatted closet door’s gradual reveal. Every inch that creaky hinged closet opened was another step he moved backwards, slowly but surely approaching the bookshelves he had just been browsing minutes before. As he got closer I slowly untucked my legs, letting my feet firmly plant against the wall. I had always been a smaller man so my hiding place atop my bookshelves was tight but doable with my ladder, its smooth heavy wood made for an excellent lure. I watched with held breath as he held his gun in trembling hands, its barrel shaking gently in the direction of the closet. One final jerk and the door flew open, Westmore cried out letting off two rounds into drywall as he fired blindly into the space. As he fired I pushed against the wall with all the strength my legs could muster, my heart thundered in my chest, and almost without realizing I let out a wild cry of my own. As Westmore turned around with pure terror in his eyes, watching me descend upon him, I smiled. This is what my story was missing. Now I know.

This is how a victim acts.