Hello, Little Sparrow

by Jordan Jones

  Chapter Thirteen

  The garage floor looked impeccable.

  Newly finished with perfectly straight lines that separated each section of the floor. An epoxy finish on the top made it nice and shiny. So new, in fact, that there weren’t any signs of scuff or wear.

  The workbench was a different story. It was nailed haphazardly to the wall, quickly put together, and had no finish. A large, rusty vise was drilled into the top. It looked often used, and the various half-finished projects in the backyard confirmed it.

  Brooks sat in a stiff lawn chair next to the wall leading to the door that went into the house. The green and black patterns were woven through each other to provide maximum comfort.

  But, it didn’t work. Brooks’ butt was falling asleep and he was sick and tired of waiting.

  The garage door screeched open, and Geoff Burnley’s Chevy Impala trudged in. The light to the garage door was out, so everything in the garage was still pitch black.

  Brooks made sure the light bulb was loosened just enough to where it didn’t turn on. He planned on tightening it back up once he was done.

  Geoff exited the car before shouting an expletive or two and answering his phone. “It’s Geoff,” he said.

  The person on the phone was speaking very loudly and Brooks could make out that it was about some work Geoff was supposed to perform and didn’t follow through timely enough. The cursing coming from the other side bothered Brooks more than he wanted it to. People could get their point across without using such terrible language.

  Brooks rubbed his face with the palm of his hands. The smell of Dior Sauvage quickly spread through the garage. As Geoff was getting berated on the phone, he stopped and sniffed a few times. Then resumed talking to the customer.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Wackermann. I’ll get on it first thing in the morning…I just got home…Mrs. Wackermann, it’s almost midnight. I’ll be there first thing in the morning, I promise. How about 8? OK, sounds good. I’m sorry again. I’ll be there. Thanks. Bye.”

  He hung up and called Mrs. Wackermann a few choice words before fetching something else from his car. He turned on the flashlight and mumbled something about ‘cheap dollar-store bulbs,’ before turning the corner to the door that led to the house.

  Brooks purposely moved his right foot to make a scraping sound across the floor and Geoff jumped back, quickly panning the flashlight across the garage.

  The light shown on Brooks sitting in the darkness with a shotgun pointed directly at Geoff.

  Geoff squealed, dropped his flashlight, and fell back against his workbench. “What the hell? Who are you?”

  Brooks was silent, but Geoff could hear him stand up and take a few steps towards him.

  “I’m serious, man! I have a gun.”

  “No you don’t,” Brooks said from the pitch black, his footsteps easing closer. “I found one in your closet, top shelf. I went ahead and disposed of it for you.”

  “Who are you?” Geoff asked, shaken to the core. His phone began to buzz again, and Brooks picked it up.

  “Darlene?” Brooks asked. “You really should do the work people pay you to do.” Brooks then threw the phone against the car, shattering it into dozens of pieces.

  “C’mon, man,” Geoff said, panicked. “Please just leave. I’ll have your work done as soon as I can. I’m backed up.”

  Brooks put the barrel of the shotgun against his cheek, and he could feel the cold metal forcefully against his face. “Oh, it’s much more complicated than that.”

  “I’ll give you your money back. My satisfaction is guaranteed, I swear, man!”

  “Get up and open the door.” Geoff did as he was told and he led Brooks through the laundry room and into the kitchen, and a small dining area. “Take a seat.”

  “I don’t know what you want from me!” Geoff said, starting to feel lightheaded. “I said I’ll finish the work, and I promise I will!”

  “This isn’t about work. I never paid you. I never wanted to you to do anything, and I especially never wanted you to do what you already did.” Brooks placed the shotgun down on the kitchen counter facing Geoff eye level.

  “Then what is this?”

  Brooks turned on the dining room lamp. He knew Geoff was too scared to try anything, so he created distance between himself and the shotgun. Geoff stuttered when he spoke and his words began to run together, making more of a mumbling sound than coherent sentences.

  His hyperventilating was throwing Brooks off, making him more erratic. Brooks slammed his fist against a curio cabinet, knocking it over. Hundreds of glass figurines smashed out of the glass casings and shattered onto the hardwood floor.

  Once Geoff saw this, he tried to calm his breathing down as he was instantly scared for his life.

  Brooks walked around Geoff stopped in front of him. He took out a folded piece of paper and put it on the dining room table behind Geoff. “Go ahead and look at that and tell me what you see.”

  Geoff was reluctant, but knew he had no choice but to turn around.

  The picture of was a five-year-old girl Geoff knew very well. Her name was Breanna Pilson, and she had the brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen.

  Brooks took out another picture and laid it down beside the first one. Geoff didn’t recognize the woman in the second, but it looked like a mug shot and that she was on some heavy substances at the time. She was roughly mid-twenties, but years of abuse caused her to look much older.

  “What are you doing, man?” Tears started dripping from Geoff’s eyes and onto the pictures. He couldn’t keep his eyes off either of them.

  “The first one was the girl you violated,” Brooks said. “The act that sent you to prison for ten years. Does any of this ring a bell?”

  Brooks’ calm demeanor sent chills down Geoff’s spine as he continued crying over pictures. “Yes, of course.”

  Brooks held a knife to the picture of the woman. “Do you recognize this one?”

  Geoff shook his head, unable to find words to escape his lips. His legs shook uncontrollably, tapping his feet on the ground. He was afraid this would further enrage his intruder.

  “The second picture is of Breanna Pilson. It’s the same girl as the first. The second picture was a result of what you did to her.”

  “Oh God…no,” Geoff cried. “I was stupid, man! I was just a kid at the time…Please, mister.”

  “Your online profile on the registry had you pegged at twenty-two at the time,” Brooks said, coldly. “When I was twenty-two, I had just completed my master’s thesis on the effect of permafrost on soil composition. Frequent changes in nitrogen levels and DNA sequencing made life difficult for the few plants that live there. You know, things twenty-two year olds should be doing.”

  Geoff took a gulp and cleared his shaky throat. “Please, I don’t know what I was doing at the time. I was high as a kite; you don’t understand…please…”

  Brooks held up his buck knife to the man’s throat and brought his face up to his ear. His lips could taste the sweat off Geoff’s ears as he whispered, “If you say please one more time, I am going to dig this knife so deep into your neck, you won’t have time to beg.”

  Geoff tried to control his shaking, but it was impossible. He knew his situation was grim, but he had to know if the man with the shotgun was a true psychopath. If he knew this much, maybe he could figure out a way out of it.

  He took a chance and said, “Just go ahead and do what you’re going to do, man. I don’t care. My life is a wreck right now. Now this? Ever since I messed up, nothing has gone my way. You’d be doing me a favor.”

  Brooks took a few steps back near the counter and studied the man.

  “I’m serious,” Geoff said. “I’m probably better off dead, anyway.”

  Brooks cocked his head to the side, intrigued by the sudden change of heart. Geoff was a pathetic waste of a human, yes, but what would Brooks be doing if he ended it all?

  Would Geoff living somehow make penance for his horrible mi
stakes?

  Brooks thought better of it.

  “Glad I could oblige,” Brooks said and pulled the trigger of the shotgun, knocking Geoff to the floor. Blood immediately rushed out of his wounds and onto the hardwood floor. A neighbor’s dog barked in the distance and Brooks’ ears rang.

  He calmly walked out into the garage and used his mag-light to find a staple gun on the workbench. He tested it a few times to make sure it was functional. He then returned to Geoff and pulled out a piece of paper from his notebook and stapled it into his back.

  Brooks then picked up his gun and walked out the side door of the garage and through the alley in which he came. His car was parked three blocks away behind a plaza of clothing and liquor stores.

  He placed his shotgun in the trunk and sat in his car. Thoughts raced through his head as he felt the most cathartic rush of emotion overwhelm him. The tears streaming down his face were the most validating of them all; he knew he was in the right.

  It would be foolish for the police to try and stop him. After all, he was doing the work that they failed to do.

  It just wouldn’t make sense.

  ***

  He dried his tears and took the freeway out to Fasten Biofuels. He felt on top of the world and didn’t want to sleep a wink. His sedan pulled into the empty parking lot and he rushed inside the greenhouse.

  All the technicians had left for the night, leaving him all alone.

  He checked the corn and soybeans to ensure they were ripening up to par with Dr. Leggons’ research. Brooks’ job was to grow the plants as strong as possible, and Dr. Leggons’ job was to develop them into a more usable fuel.

  They were supposed to be a team.

  They weren’t.

  Brooks and Dr. Leggons did not get along, and it had nothing to do with a lack of respect and everything to do with Dr. Leggons’ appearance. He looked nearly identical to Brooks’ father, and Brooks never got along with his father. He thought maybe he could give Dr. Leggons a chance, but that chance quickly went awry when Dr. Leggons told Brooks that he was sick and tired of him leaving his spray bottles outside his workspace.

  The spray bottles were nothing to Brooks, much like the lives of Henson and Burnley. It was the act of enforcing a rule that enraged Brooks. Leggons was his boss, so he had to play the role, though even that was difficult to overcome on some days.

  The spray bottles were left at Brooks’ office door, and Brooks picked them up and put them back where he had them. He took out his phone and snapped several pictures of them so he could look at them later.

  The bottles were out of their place; they could get him in trouble at any time now.

  The different mixtures in them posed a threat to Leggons and his way of doing things. Brooks was the cog in the machine that was held short of making Leggons so great.

  Brooks stopped and grabbed the bottles. He needed to think more rationally.

  His impulsiveness only made it more dangerous every day. No one else could see the other side of Brooks other than himself, his victims, and the ghost of Madison who was, no doubt, directing his every move.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My phone buzzed on the end table with such loud veracity that it fell to the floor.

  I moaned and bent over to pick it up, rubbing my eyes with my palms in the process. LT Anderson was on the other line when I finally found the green button.

  “Yeah, sir,” I answered, trying my best to act fully awake.

  “Trotter,” he said, his speech pressured and nervous. “We need you at 403 Oakwood Drive immediately. We think this guy’s struck again.”

  “What…? Who? The Sparrow?” I was dazed, still trying to make since of what time in the night it was.

  “No…the Cookie Monster. Yes, The Sparrow. Now get up and get down here, pronto.”

  He hung up and I rapidly dressed myself in yesterday’s clothing. The stench of scotch still steaming off my breath.

  Abraham talked me into going out with him again and I had just gotten home an hour before. This was bad timing for The Sparrow to strike.

  I was on the road in only five minutes, and found Oakwood Drive on my GPS. My mind was still blurry from the last involuntary glass the bartender bought us. I made a call to Abraham.

  “Hey,” I said. He picked up the phone and I didn’t give him time to respond. “Get down to Oakwood Drive now.”

  “Wait…what?” His voice was groggy from the other side.

  “The Sparrow struck again,” I said. “Chew some gum and get out of bed. We need to play this off like we weren’t just drinking on a work night.”

  The department had a strict policy to not drink even when off the clock the rest of the day. We could only drink if we weren’t on-call or didn’t work the next day.

  Abraham and I have been enjoying ourselves more than usual the past several months, and work nights certainly didn’t stop us.

  I came to a stop in front of a mailbox marked 403. There were already several squad cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance. I popped in a few mints and straightened up the belt on my trench coat as I exited and quickly ran my hand through my hair in an attempt to look less disheveled.

  The spotlight from one of the squad cars lit up Anderson talking and Harlow taking notes. A press van from the local news station was parked across the street with a woman standing in front of a camera.

  “This is bad, Trotter,” Anderson said under his breath as I approached. My goal was to speak as little as possible and make little eye contact. They were no doubt bloodshot.

  “What do we have?” I asked, surprisingly well.

  “We have a body in the dining room floor. Looked like scattershot right to the back of the head.”

  “A shotgun homicide?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “If it’s the same guy, he’s already changing his M.O.,” I said.

  “He is insane, John,” Anderson responded. “He doesn’t have to have a technique. He just has to finish the job.”

  We both knew that was a lie, but I didn’t test him. I wasn’t thinking clearly and didn’t want to get caught up in a squabble while I saw two of everything.

  “Through the garage there,” LT said, pointing in the direction of an older model Chevy Impala. There was a chair out of place to the right of the car, facing the door that led inside.

  “And, where’s Abraham?” LT spouted from the front yard.

  “On his way, sir,” I said, focused on the chair. Two uniformed officers walked out of the door and down the steps next to a workbench. One obviously shaken and the other trying to calm him down.

  I stepped through the door into the laundry room, then kitchen. Benjamin was already there taking pictures of the newly deceased body. I was no forensic expert, but the smell of new blood was certainly different than that of old blood.

  The body lay on the floor in a near-fetal position with his hands clasped together. The back of his head was nearly blown off, and Benjamin was there to document it.

  “What am I looking at right now?” I asked Benjamin, who was in a kneeling position. A few other officers searched the house, making much more noise than they intended.

  “Looks like he was sitting at this dining room table and someone stood behind him…I’d say about four feet away, and pulled the trigger. The blood spatter indicates crazy amount of force. This shotgun was likely modified. It wasn’t made for hunting, that’s for sure.”

  The man wore work boots and jeans that were a few sizes too large for someone his stature. Counting his head, I would’ve guessed he stood five foot seven, and weighed in around a hundred and thirty pounds.

  “Do we have an ID?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Harlow said from behind me. “His name is Geoff Burnley. He left his wallet in his car. The neighbors heard the gunshot and called us right away. They say a man exited the house and headed down the alley.”

  “I hope you already had someone go that way?” I asked.

  “Yeah, they radioed ba
ck saying there were only a few businesses there. Nothing that looked out of place.”

  “There is this,” Benjamin said, still hunched over the body. “I didn’t want to take it off until you got here.”

  I looked closely and it was another piece of paper.

  His calling card.

  “This is a serial killer,” I said. “Did you tell LT yet?”

  “He’s aware it’s here, but none of us know what it says,” Harlow said.

  I slowly ripped the paper away from the staple, trying to preserve as much as I could. It was another letter with the same format and everything.

  “This was likely taken from the same notebook. Same discoloration.”

  I read the letter aloud to all within earshot:

  Hello, Little Sparrow,

  I have once again found myself peeking through the window at you galloping about. My knees are beginning to fail me, but I must be strong for you. There are only so many hours in the day, and I can only enjoy so few. There are many things that cross my mind when I think about your future without me here. Without my guidance and warm, safe cuddles. I know what awaits you when I’m gone, and, sadly enough, there is little I can do about it. I grow weak and he grows strong. My mind, though, has not abandoned me yet, but I can begin to feel the wheels of time turning the hands of the clock and its conclusion will be my eventual demise.

  I can no longer hide my frailty from you any longer. I want to be your refuge throughout the rest of your life, but sadly, that will never be so. The earth quakes beneath his ungodly footsteps and I regret the day I ever met that man. I want him to fall on his own sword. An ending of his own doing. How can we make that happen?

  I am unaware, Little Sparrow, of any possible, conceivable way to stop him at this point. He will do, as he wants whenever he wants to whomever he wants. This must stop…now. When you finally read this, will you please visit me in your heart? I promise you, I will always be there until we are, once again, reunited. Alas, I must follow the doctors’ orders and rest. Until next time…