Hello, Little Sparrow by Jordan Jones (ebook audio reader txt) 📗

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