Hello, Little Sparrow by Jordan Jones (the reading list .TXT) 📕

We both moved back to our desks, and began typing away. I searched for known aliases of Samuel Ingram, but all I found was a nickname “Mash” from prison, though I was unsure what that meant. He had a brother as well named Garrett.

“Harlow, Samuel had a brother named Garrett Ingram. This says they were ‘lifelong accomplices.’”

“Strange. Any chance it’s him?”

I looked up Garrett’s profile and his age came up.

“It says here he’s sixty-seven years old and lives up north in Winterville,” I said. “Easy enough to find. He’s another sex offender who spent twenty-five years in prison. The crimes he committed were gruesome.”

She took a look at my computer screen and covered her mouth.

“Those poor kids,” she said after several minutes. “Just when I think I’ve seen everything.”

I let out a sigh and scrolled down, displaying more sex crimes.

Harlow covered her eyes. “It makes me think twice about catching this guy.”

“Don’t let LT catch you saying that,” I mumbled, grabbing my shoulder. The pain was coming back intense once more, but I wasn’t so sure it wasn’t psychosomatic.

Harlow was busy reading the info on the screen when I leaned back in my seat, sweating profusely even as the furnace kicked off.

These men were something disgusting that no one should ever have to deal with. They were so perverse in their thinking, twenty-five years in prison wasn’t near enough.

Maybe The Sparrow was on to something. Was he trying to make penance for these crimes in some way?

Was it his sick way of giving back to the community?

Abraham’s death was what was keeping me on the case for as long as I could stand it, but part of me also empathized with the deranged killer.

Something clogged my throat and I let out a cough.

“Are you OK?” Harlow asked, not taking her eyes off the screen.

“Something is happening,” I responded.

I was feeling something inside of me that I have needed to feel for a while. If The Sparrow was born from one of these sick men, then he had to be stopped. The rage he must’ve felt at each murder was intense…which was obvious from the scenes, but it was something more.

It was something more brutal.

It was something more sinister.

Chapter Forty-Three

Dr. James Montgomery sat slouched in his chair, unable to move. He huffed tiny breaths out of his nose, as a thick layer of duct tape covered his mouth. His eyes were facing the ground when he opened them, and he was slowly gaining his equilibrium back.

A small pool of blood formed on the floor directly underneath his downward-facing head, with more blood draining from the wound on his forehead.

His eyes quickly darted side to side when he finally came to, searching the darkness around him for answers to the voice, though no one manifested.

Rope was tied around his wrists, but it didn’t feel very snug, so he tried prying apart his hands in an attempt to break free.

“Tisk, tisk, Doctor,” Brooks emerged from the shadows. “That is what’s called five-fifty cord. Military grade. You can pull a midsize car with that thin piece of string.”

Montgomery struggled again to free himself as Brooks came closer. He finally gained the strength to bend his neck back and sit straight up in the wooden chair he recognized from the dining room.

“Are the same questions flowing through your mind, Doctor?” Brooks mocked. “I’ve heard quite a few of them. Go on, let me hear them.”

Montgomery moved his lips, but the duct tape was wrapped securely around them, it was impossible to mutter anything coherent.

“Ah, I get it,” Brooks replied. He placed a vinyl record on the antique record player and placed the stylus on the record. An ambient sound came from the speaker, and then one of Beethoven’s violin concertos began to ring out. “You need more culture to get in the mood.”

Montgomery looked worried. His mind was racing, thinking whom the madman could possibly be. He couldn’t think of anyone.

“I’m going to do something…and if you make me regret it, you will regret it,” Brooks said. “Nod if you understand.”

Montgomery nodded.

“I’m going to take off the tape, and you aren’t going to say a word. Then I’m going to ask for a response.” Brooks knelt down to be eye-level with the doctor. “If you don’t give me a response, I’m going to cut you very deep. It will hurt. And, you will die.”

Montgomery nodded, and in a panic, he nearly let out a whimper. Brooks took off the piece of tape and threw it to the floor. It took all of Montgomery’s energy not to pass out or make a noise. The man had no visible weapons, but he was clearly serious.

“Now then, Dr. James Montgomery, of St. Francis Medical Center,” Brooks started. “My name is Brooks Ingram. No, I’m not some loved one of a wronged patient that is now paralyzed from a botch surgery. I’m not someone who you cut off entering the freeway. I’m no one.” He placed both knees on the ground. “You and I…we don’t matter. People don’t matter. Our actions, however, do matter. And you have committed the worst possible action of all time.”

Brooks looked at him in the eye, his dark eyes pierced through Dr. Montgomery’s core.

“I want a response, now.”

Dr. Montgomery stuttered the first few words, but was able to say, “I-I-I’m sorry if I hurt you in some way.”

“Again, it’s not about me.” Brooks continued. “None of this has ever been about me. It’s about what we do.”

“Can you give me a hint of what I’ve done?” Montgomery said.

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” Brooks turned the doctor around to face a black wall, and turned on the television and DVD player