Hello, Little Sparrow

by Jordan Jones

  “I need to thank you for breaking through this,” I said. “We have an ID on him now. We have the car he’s driving. He’s running and scared now. You have great intuition and I’m glad you followed it.”

  His eyes were a void as he looked back at me. Not an ounce of compassion was found within them, even if I searched for years.

  “I’m going to kill this guy,” he said. He turned and left.

  I stepped back into the kitchen and looked at the newly washed dishes in the sink. They all looked pristine and placed in a row. The cupboards were all wiped down and cleaned thoroughly, though they weren’t likely cleaned to cover his tracks.

  “This place is spotless, other than the mess he made on the wall,” Harlow said in the doorway.

  I nodded, looking at the magnets on the fridge.

  “Detective Trotter?” A voice called from the front of the house. A tall, pale man turned the corner and walked past Harlow and stood before me. “Detective Trotter, I’m Special Agent Clyde Quinn with the FBI. I’ve been instructed to retrieve any and all evidence you have on The Sparrow.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The rain had let up a bit once Brooks was in position across the street. He lit a cigarette and crossed his eyes to watch as the flame consumed the tip of it.

  Cigarettes weren’t his thing, but he swore he was changing; into what, he didn’t quite know.

  He had some idea, though the comparisons of what he was and what he was destined to be were strained to say the least, and with the local, state, and now federal police tracking him, his true meaning seemed light-years away.

  An impossible task.

  In April, the rain was still cold in Maine, but it didn’t reach the bitterness of January. On the day Madison flew like an eagle, the thawing frost quickly refroze.

  Not in April.

  In April, there was no freezing. Nothing to prolong the rotting of a body.

  Brooks didn’t mind the thawing ice and mild temperatures any longer. Much like Isaac James who lay there for weeks before being discovered, the next fly caught in Brooks’ web would be displayed in spectacular fashion.

  Through his right side window, Brooks watched as Detective Morelli held his trench coat over his head and ran inside his house, the lights illuminated the inside of his home, cascading shadows out into the soggy yard.

  “Revenge is afoot,” Madison’s voice boomed from the back seat.

  Brooks didn’t see it necessarily as revenge. His rage could be attributed to Morelli’s actions and threats in Brooks’ home, but it was more than revenge.

  It was principle.

  The Glock 19 was in the passenger seat and Brooks picked it up and stepped out of the car. Another vehicle drove down the street and waved through the dark interior, though Brooks didn’t respond.

  He crossed the road and approached the front door,

  “Is this how you want to do this, Brooks?” Madison asked, standing beside him. “You want to take a cop head on? He’s a marine. He has been in many fights.”

  “I have my gun,” Brooks responded, the chill in the air forcing his trigger finger to stiffen.

  “He’ll disarm you. You’re not equipped to take him on like this.”

  Brooks rang the doorbell and his heart jumped. He hadn’t thought it through again.

  “I can’t help you,” Madison screamed. “You are on your own if you won’t listen!”

  Detective Morelli opened the door just as lightening cracked. The clouds above took over the sun, making it look almost night.

  “Who are you?” Morelli asked, but then looked down and saw the gun. He raised his foot and kicked Brooks backwards. Brooks stumbled to the ground and lost control of the gun. It was lost somewhere in the darkness, but Morelli came at him again.

  “You want some?” Morelli shouted and sent a kick that landed on Brooks’ shoulder, causing him pain he’d never felt before.

  “Come here to my house and threaten me?” Morelli kicked again, connecting with Brooks’ ribs. Brooks let out a wail and a hoarse cough as he fell back to the ground.

  Morelli grabbed Brooks by his back and pulled him up. He then threw Brooks against the brick siding of his house, smashing Brooks’ face in the process.

  Morelli was out of breath and Brooks nearly lost consciousness, though his eyes still peered through the darkened rain at the detective.

  Lightening cracked again as Morelli’s hands fell to his knees; he coughed violently and fell as his knees hit the ground. The blood pumping through Brooks’ wounds were more pronounced than ever, and Brooks was fully awake.

  “Get up,” Madison whispered from the shadows. “He’s down. Get up.”

  Brooks used the house as support and found the strength to stand up. The gun was still lost in the darkness, but Morelli was seemingly incapacitated, almost convulsing on the ground.

  Looking at the shadows, Brooks asked, “Did you do this?”

  Madison said nothing.

  Brooks felt along his face and could feel his jaw hanging open. Though obviously broken, he could still move it around with little pain.

  Adrenaline took over as he slowly dragged Morelli’s flailing body back through the front door and into the living room. He found some military grade five-fifty cord in the garage and tied Morelli to a wooden chair and sat on the living room floor.

  He was soaked and muddy, but most of all…he was angry. Morelli fought so valiantly to stop him.

  It made no sense.

  Brooks was the one doing their job for them. Where they failed, he was succeeding.

  “He doesn’t fit the description of the vile, but he’s worse than them,” Madison said. “He coddles them. He’s a part of the system that cares for them. Feeds them. Protects them. He’s just like them.”

  Brooks took his knife out and studied it. It was the same blade that killed Angela Cooper, Isaac James, and William Henson. The blade was every bit as sharp as it’s ever been.

  “I want him awake,” Brooks said.

  Morelli coughed again and struggled to free himself, though Brooks didn’t even look up in his direction.

  “I think I’m having a heart attack,” he said, his voice more raspy with each syllable.

  “You think?” Brooks asked, still looking at his knife.

  “Please, my medicine is on the sink.”

  Brooks stood up, passed him, and walked to the sink.

  “Warfarin,” he said. “Take one pill three times daily. Looks like you skipped a few doses, Detective.” He opened the pill bottle and turned it upside down into the garbage disposal, turning it on in the process.

  Morelli winced and struggled again to free himself, though he gained little ground. His hands were turning purple with how tightly Brooks tied them.

  He knelt down in front of Morelli as his consciousness began to fade.

  “You came into my house and threatened to kill me,” Brooks said.

  Morelli’s eyes widened, and it occurred to Brooks that he was just figuring out what was going on.

  “It’s you!” he said from his stupor. “You’re the killer! The Sparrow!”

  His eyes widened again, but the life started to drain from them. Brooks’ eyes turned black again as he watched as Morelli’s rage began to falter. He was such an angry man with vengeance on his heart, but Brooks knew what true vengeance looked like. And…it looked an awful lot like an out-of-shape detective tied to a chair dying from a heart attack.

  “You were never going to find me,” Brooks whispered in Morelli’s ear. “I want you to know that. I was always going to find you first.”

  He saw the last gasp of air that left Morelli’s lips and sat there for several minutes examining him. A life full of impulsive hatred, protecting the worst humans, and tracking those who tried making the world a better place.

  No matter how much Brooks tried to justify Morelli’s actions, he couldn’t make sense of it.

  “He died doing what he loved…hating the righteous, and protecting
the vile,” Madison said from the open doorway.

  Brooks nodded and smiled. It made him feel good hearing her validate his actions. She took the struggle out of his hands for this one, and for that, he felt appreciated.

  There was no blood at the scene, and Brooks thought for a second to stage the scene to make it look like Morelli died in his sleep, but Brooks wanted credit for it.

  He enjoyed the scene in front of him. He wasn’t the phoenix any longer. He was OK with what the tabloids were saying about him.

  His sister had the nickname in her first life.

  Brooks would take it over in his second life.

  He was The Sparrow.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The crowds were surfacing close to the steps at City Hall.

  I’d just finished submitting the evidence to the FBI in the Hall of Records; it was the official transfer protocol for a city police detective to go through the proper channels when handing over evidence for a case as big as The Sparrow.

  There was shouting and cursing aimed at the top of the steps.

  The people demanded answers and the police commissioner did his best to oblige, though it wasn’t close to good enough. I walked through the doors with LT Anderson in tow; it was obvious he didn’t want to be the first one out of the confines of the building.

  Cameras flashed and shutters snapped as we exited, LT Anderson slowly closed the door behind him. We stood a good thirty feet behind the sweating commissioner as he stumbled over his words.

  Harlow came from behind me and blew warmth into her hands. Even for April there was still a chill in the air in the mornings.

  “What is going on here?” Harlow asked.

  “They got word,” I answered. LT Anderson nodded as we looked at the poor man.

  “Word of what?”

  LT Anderson let out a sulking sigh and said; “The state has decided to take down the sex offender registry for the time being.”

  “You mean, until The Sparrow is caught,” I quipped.

  “I knew this was a possibility, but didn’t realize there’d be so much of an outcry.” LT Anderson tied his sash around his waist.

  We stood at a safe distance and listened.

  “— And because of the recent events, we have decided to temporarily take down the sex offender registry from the public’s knowledge at this time. We have reason to believe that this killer has gathered information about the victims’ home addresses, their appearance, and upcoming court dates from the registry. As I’ve said before, this is a temporary measure that will be reversed as soon as the one responsible for these slayings is brought to justice. We are in need of help in finding this man. His name has been identified as Brooks Harris Ingram and he was an employee at Fasten Biofuels as a horticulturalist. There are pictures strewn up around town and we need your help in gathering information about his whereabouts. For the next few minutes, I will take questions…”

  A concerned father asked about the sex offender on his block that he had been keeping tabs on, but the Commissioner obviously didn’t know any information about him. The father then asked if the police could “back off a little bit,” and “let The Sparrow thin them out.”

  A mother asked why it was so wrong that The Sparrow was ‘cleaning the streets of this filth’ when it should’ve been the police department’s job all along.

  A teenager asked the Commissioner when the registry would be open again because, “It makes me think there are people out there watching me. People who should be on the registry that I don’t know. It brings me comfort in knowing there’s someone out there doing something about this.”

  The Commissioner gave answers to help quell the public’s view on The Sparrow, but it was becoming clear that they were on the side of a killer.

  It was an unusual set of circumstances to say the least, and it was difficult for the police and public officials to understand. The Sparrow had gotten the attention of the people of Lincolnshire, and they were cheering him on. They wanted us to fail.

  I choked on my coffee when the Commissioner ended the press briefing and walked back up the steps to the main entrance. Local patrol officers kept the public from following.

  He looked at LT Anderson and motioned his head in the direction of the building.

  “Have fun,” I whispered under my breath.

  Harlow tugged my arm and said, “We have to go now, before all these lunatics find out we’re cops.”

  ***

  The office was crowded with new IT techs putting up a makeshift FBI headquarters amongst our desks. Special Agent Quinn had his fancy Bluetooth earpiece in and was testing it with someone on the other side. His partner, Agent Harper Bradley, made herself at home at Abraham’s old desk.

  I wasn’t in the mood to do anything about it, so I let it be.

  She had papers strewn all around, and folders neatly placed in a filing cabinet.

  “Sheesh,” Harlow said to me discreetly. “For cops who are here to make short work of this investigation, they sure seem like they’re gonna be here a while.”

  “They’re really digging in, huh?” I responded, looking at Quinn’s pristine desk. He already had a few folders open to various pictures depicting the murders. Crime scene photos that I had taken. He had Henson’s stab wound to the gut, and the picture Benjamin took of Geoff Burnley’s head nearly blasted off with a shotgun.

  My evidence.

  They rooted around hundreds of pages worth of detailed notes Abraham, Harlow, and I had taken. Benjamin had forensic notes taken from each scene as well.

  “Everything we’ve worked for,” I said. “We found his house…his murders…his employer. They’re coming in to take it all away.”

  “We can still aid in the investigation, John,” Harlow insisted. “It might be in their hands now, but we can still contribute.”

  My phone buzzed on my desk and read: Lincolnshire Psychiatric.

  Dad.

  I quickly stood up from my desk and headed outside.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Trotter? My name is Caroline Wilson from Lincolnshire Central Psych.” The woman’s voice was hoarse, but also soothing. “I’m the head nurse here. Your father is in good spirits today. He just received his monthly Haldol injection and appears totally with it today. He wanted to reach out to see how you were doing.”

  My face blushed and I felt a surge of blood rush to my head.

  “Certainly. Thanks.”

  It took a few minutes for the woman to hand my father the phone, but when he did, his signature sigh filled my ears.

  “John?” he shouted into the phone. “John? Are you there?”

  “Yes, Dad,” I responded promptly.

  “John, I just wanted to check in on you to see how you were doing.”

  “I’m doing well, Dad,” I said, nervously patting a pen to my thigh. “We have a lot of work going on here.”

  “I know it!” he exclaimed. “I can tell by the news station that you all have your hands full. You almost caught the guy.”

  “They’re putting it all out there, aren’t they?”

  “You bet, my boy,” he said. “This Sparrow fella…doesn’t seem all there.”

  “What gave it away?” I asked, sarcastically. “The fact he murders people or that he was able to do so under our noses for the past three months.”

  “Oh nonsense, son,” he said. “That kinda thing happens from time to time. Serial killers don’t get the ‘serial’ part if they were caught immediately. This guy is different than the other psychos.”

  I thought for a moment and let him continue without interrupting. Dad had found many killers in his day and I wasn’t about to stop him from inadvertently helping me find mine.

  “He kills pedophiles…that much you knew. But, he has another safe house somewhere. I’d venture to say it’s in the outskirts of town somewhere. Probably a different town. I’ll tell ya son, we found the St. Michael’s street killer after he fortified himself in a barn on his parents’ o
ld property. It ended in a glorious shootout; bullet holes punctured the side of the old wooden barn, pieces of wood shattered all over the place. This guy has a hideout.”

  I thought for a minute. Samuel Ingram was his uncle and was known for being a homeless drug addict.

  But not Garrett. Brooks’ father had a secure income for several years so he must’ve had an address.

  “Dad, thank you for talking me through this. I don’t know where this will lead me, but I’m sure it’ll be somewhere I need to be.”

  We hung up and I turned around. Harlow was standing there, clicking her feet on the ground.

  “You mind telling me what that was about?” She asked with an eyebrow raised.

  “Come on,” I said walking past her. “We have some work to do.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  In the middle of the room, Brooks once again found himself on the floor contemplating. He had hallucinations of the police surrounding his home, kicking in the door, and filling him full of lead.

  Madison stood in the corner of the room, but she wasn’t making eye contact with him. She was a shell of a girl, though she drove Brooks behind the scenes.

  “The door is almost open to your retribution, Brooks,” she said softly from the shadows. Her voice was much smaller now; still easy to make out, but with less intensity.

  “There’s still something large and unseen in the way,” Brooks said, looking up to the ceiling. The outline of his mother’s bed fit perfectly above his head and below his feet. “I will fulfill my retribution in time.”

  “You need to strike, now,” she screeched.

  Brooks searched the room and Madison was gone from the corner, though he still felt her presence.

  “My sights are set to the Fortress that stands before me,” he said. The halfway house on the edge of Lincolnshire was home to several sex-offenders; they had trouble finding housing within the community after releasing from the state prisons, so they housed them together.

  “The Fortress…” Madison answered. “The Fortress is but a dream not impeding your retribution. You need to stop dreaming about them and focus on him.”