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

An officer yelled from upstairs. “Detectives…we have something up here.” Two other officers reported bloody clothes in the basement, as they covered their mouths with their arms.

Harlow and I stood up and followed the officer who led us to a spare bedroom. On the far wall was a vanity with the mirror taken off, but it was replaced with pictures.

I walked closer in disbelief as I did. Harlow was close behind me.

“What am I looking at, Trotter?” she asked, neither of us taking our eyes off of the photos.

“This looks like some sort of mural,” I responded…my eyes searching up and down. The pictures surrounded a handcrafted painting of a girl holding a skull with both hands dawning angel wings. The painting encompassed every picture in the mural, but mixed in the pictures were several newspaper clippings.

The Paducah Kentucky killing of Samuel Ingram.

There was a picture of Covey Bridge on the day of Madison’s death. I found Abraham and myself among the patrons standing at the railing.

There were personal photos taking of the Maise residence taken on different days at different times of day.

There was a newspaper clipping of Abraham’s obituary, and the obituary of each person he killed.

There were several pictures of unknown family members throughout the mural that looked to be taken in the 90s.

“That’s Angela Cooper,” Morelli pointed at a picture in the midst of the rest. “He did kill her.”

Her eyes were full of life and she had her arm around another person around her age. They both looked in their late teens.

“Possibly a boyfriend,” Harlow said.

“No…” I said. “That’s him. That’s The Sparrow.”

Morelli studied the picture closer.

“That looks like a younger version of the guy who lives here,” he said. “They were cousins. This is them when they were younger.”

I took a step back and looked over the entire thing. “He was living among us this entire time.”

“We knew that,” Harlow said.

“Yeah, but finally coming to terms with this,” I pointed to the mural. “It’s something I never thought possible.”

“Well, it happened and it’s here,” Morelli said coldly. “Now, we need to find and kill this guy.”

I radioed Benjamin and his team to come and comb the area and take down the mural. They made quick work of it and I walked down the stairs. Morelli was walking out the door when I stopped him.

“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