by Jordan Jones
He shaved, forming a goatee out of his beard, which he wore proudly around his house. No more disheveled appearances. Brooks would be a commoner.
It would be the only way he kept his innocence in a city that thinks what he did was more heinous than what all the city’s two hundred and forty-seven sex offenders have done.
No sense could be made from that. There were four more not long ago, though Brooks made quick work of them. A serial killer is what they called him.
Six victims and counting.
Two were quite inadvertent, though he did drive several miles just to end his cousin’s life; he had no choice in the matter. She sided with the vile. She had seen what they were capable of and stood by their side, offering them penance for virtually nothing in return.
Brooks offered them sacrifice and a means to do so.
The police detective that intervened shook Brooks to the core. He was up all night trying to rationalize everything. The detective was there doing his job, but he was also trying to stop Brooks. Trying to stop Brooks was equivalent to inviting a vile person into your home…and that definitely didn’t make sense.
The only thing that made sense was Brooks’ reaction to the man as he barged in the door. That, coupled with Brooks indiscriminately firing in his direction, only strengthened Brooks’ argument that the detective deserved what he got.
His mind went in circles with this justification, and as he pressed the ‘off’ button on his coffee maker, he finally felt at ease about everything.
This will all work out.
He imagined his three children arguing while chasing each other around the kitchen table, though Brooks knew his kitchen was much too small to make the dream seem as realistic as he wanted it to be. His imaginary wife bashfully smiled and shook her head at the munchkins.
“They know better than that,” Brooks said to her. She nodded in return and continued with the dishes. Brooks bent over the clean up the spilt coffee before Bowser got to it. He’d always imagined having a playful lab puppy that could match the kids’ excitement and energy.
Bowser just felt right.
The feeling of anguish flooding his brain and tension straddled his arms. The reality was far different than the desired life he painted for himself, and he could feel it. He could feel the walls crumbling down around him.
He’d ended the life of two men the night prior, but felt another chink of armor fall. Madison was angry, of course, but she understood…to a degree. She didn’t want the officer to die. It couldn’t be undone and Brooks was nervous she’d make him turn around and pick another unfortunate name off his list.
She was still silent, watching from her corner, as Brooks played house with an invisible family.
The Shrine!
Brooks lost track of hours and needed to gather the objects and papers strewn about his office and bring them home, but if his proxy-card pinged the doors on the weekend that will surely raise suspicion.
He’d have to wait until Monday and just play it cool until then.
The doorbell rang and Brooks stood at the kitchen table wondering if it was reality or imaginary. He willed it to be imaginary, but knew in his heart that the bell rang in his ears. He turned down the scanner and opened the door. Waiting too long would only cause suspicion.
Brooks quickly opened the door.
“Hello, Mr. Ingram. I’m Detective Draper and this is my partner, Detective Morelli. We’re with Brimsburg Police Department in Somerset County. May we come in?”
Brooks’ face grew pale white, though his demeanor did not change. His palms were covered in sweat as he fished for the door handle.
“After you,” he said, stepping out of the doorway. “Second door on the left is my living room. Would you like coffee, or?”
“No…no thank you,” said the taller man wearing glasses. His face was covered in scars, and Brooks thought it was probably attributed to a war in a faraway land. The other man was a shorter, Italian man with olive skin. Neither looked like they wanted to make the two-hour drive from Brimsburg and go back home empty handed.
Draper had a seat, but Morelli stood firm against the fireplace, leaning his elbow up against the mantel. It was obviously an intimidation tactic.
“Mr. Ingram, when was the last time you saw your cousin, Angela Thomas?”
Brooks narrowed his brows as if to act slightly surprised by the question. “I visited her in prison about a couple weeks ago…up in southern Somerset County. Forgot the name of the place.”
“Maine State Penitentiary,” Draper said. “Easy enough to forget, I guess. Anyway, four days ago, she was found stabbed to death outside of a rehabilitation facility in Brimsburg only a few days after her release. Do you know anything about that?”
Brooks grabbed his own face in shock and terror. He’d acted before and was trying not to overact in front of the detectives, who were trained to sniff out lies. “My God…stabbed?”
“Yes, sir,” Draper said. “Witnesses said a mystery person pulled her outside during an exercise class and she was found with at least five stab wounds to her chest and neck area.”
“Who do you think did it?” Brooks asked. “Do you have any leads?”
Morelli wasn’t buying it and said, “We were hoping you could tell us.” Draper gave him a disapproving glare and returned to meet Brooks’ eyes.
“We went to the prison to ask some questions and they said you two were screaming at each other and you were kicked out. The visit ended early.”
“That’s true,” Brooks answered. “She told me she didn’t want anything to do with me when she got out even though I put money on her books the entire time she was in. I told her I was cutting her off and she started yelling, so I yelled back. I admit, it was disruptive, but I wanted her out of my life, believe me. I didn’t want her dead, though.”
The two detectives exchanged looks, and Draper asked: “Do you know a Tommy Roisman?”
“I’m afraid not,” Brooks answered. It kept everything in him not to smile.
“We think it’s an alias, but we can’t be sure. Someone going by that name was seen there that day and seemed to be a shady character. The guy at the front desk didn’t have much of a description and half the damn cameras weren’t working either. We got a partial of him walking in, but the pictures are grainy.”
Draper handed the picture to Brooks and he looked it over. The picture was from far down the hall and Brooks made up about four pixels, making an ID impossible. Brooks couldn’t believe he was getting a behind-the-scenes look at his own investigation…in his own living room.
“Kinda difficult to make anything out. Are you sure that’s a person?”
“That’s an employment kiosk,” Morelli interjected. “Of course it’s a person. They get up and walk back out the door they came in.”
“I’m sorry, but it looks like a black blob. Is this the guy that did it?”
“We don’t really know,” Draper said. “That’s really all we can tell you. We were hoping you’d tell us something we didn’t know. Was there anyone else she was close with? This was a pretty personal murder. Maybe she wronged someone — owed them something?”
She did owe someone something. She owed society everything. She had inside knowledge of how a monster operates and dismissed it as if nothing had happened. She didn’t struggle like she should have. Her fears weren’t centered on those who did her harm. She should’ve been right there with Brooks as he killed Philip, cowering on the floor.
“She had a lot of different boyfriends growing up,” Brooks answered. “I do know that. She was into meth pretty bad — I think that’s why she was locked up. Maybe she didn’t pay up before she was incarcerated and they came after the fact?”
“Maybe…” Draper said, unconvinced. “They waited for three years for her to leave prison; why couldn’t they wait three more months until she was out of rehab to kill her in seclusion?”
Because, when the feelings become too overwhelming, there’s not much el
se I can do to appease them, Brooks thought.
Brooks shrugged, unable to give the officer an answer.
“We’ll have to look into this Tommy Roisman to see if he’s real. We’ll check with any known boyfriends before she was locked up. Maybe a drug dealer or two. Maybe it was a hit, but hitmen usually don’t take this risky of an approach.”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen. I wish I could be of more help, I really do.”
“Something will come up,” Morelli said, eyeing Brooks from the mantel. “It always does.”
The men left and pulled out of the driveway.
Brooks felt that uneasy feeling back in the pit of his stomach. He dared to not deal with an ounce of remorse, because that would be his downfall. The officer lie dead in the city morgue with a bullet wound to the neck. His cousin never rebelled against Brooks’ ethics other than falling in line with society.
Society shared the fault along with the vile.
Brooks wondered how many people were left that lived virtuous lives, because he only saw virtue in his imaginary family members and Madison.
Though she did not speak, he knew her thoughts at all times. She made it that way. She trusted him, and when he was uneasy about following through with a task, she would take his hand and guide him through it. That’s how Madison was virtuous.
Brooks sat back down at the kitchen table and read a newspaper from five years earlier. He acted as if he was getting up-to-date information on the world. The children had calmed down and were coloring on the floor, the dog acting as a distraction for everyone. The wife finished the dishes and washed her hands. She gave Brooks a kiss on the cheek and he didn’t even look up from the paper.
She mentioned something about the children washing up before heading off to school and Brooks would have to quickly finish his coffee before heading off to work as an account executive at a multi-national fortune 500 company specializing in something extremely creative.
Brooks got up and went to the door, waving to the children as they climbed on the bus. The bus pulled off with two honks, he kissed his wife, and then she watched him get in the car. The engine roared and he backed out of the drive and pulled off.
It was a great life to live, untethered by the constant stress of having to keep the vile dead, but the plants alive.
His feet sat parallel on the floor of his living room as he stared where Morelli was at the mantel and felt a brightly lit piece of him fall from his head and smash onto the floor, covering it with dull, grey dust.
***
The sedan pulled into the large parking lot at Fasten Biofuels on the outskirts of town. Brooks’ head throbbed as he replayed every possible scenario in his head all morning long. He made the short drive to his employer with no plan, but wanted to leave with the papers and drawings in his office.
Waiting until Monday was risky, so Brooks changed his mind.
The detectives came and went much like the vile in his life. There would be no way in other than using his proxy; making it obvious he’d been in the building on a weekend.
Then he saw it.
A cleaning company with their logo obnoxiously plastered on the side of their van was pulled up close to the front door of the greenhouse.
The crew was busy inside buffing and waxing the floors. The glass made it easy for Brooks, or anyone, to see what was going on inside.
Brooks walked up to the door after parking far enough away not to cause any suspicion. He brought with him two storage boxes. He knocked on the glass door and a middle-aged woman looked up half-startled.
She turned off the big bulky floor buffer and took out her earbuds.
Brooks flashed his identification and her facial expression relaxed a bit. She unlocked the door and let him in.
“We don’t get many greenhouse workers in here on the weekends,” she said. “The factory is always buzzing, but no one ever comes in here. Did you forget something?”
“Yes,” Brooks said, trying his best to sound convincing. “I left my phone on my desk.” He motioned to the boxes. “I figured I’d do a little housekeeping while I’m here.”
She told Brooks some joke about how her house is always a mess and Brooks couldn’t care less, though he played the part. She started talking about something else related to making messes and Brooks looked at his door. The red light that typically indicated it was locked was turned off.
It wasn’t green either.
The electronic locking system was down…or, maybe it didn’t work on the weekends. Brooks fished for his office key that he was told to only use in power failure situations. He ignored the woman and walked over to the door and stuck the key in the keyhole.
The door popped open and he heard the woman’s machine tirelessly crank back on and it hummed along. Brooks shut the door and leaned his back up against it, letting out a relieving sigh. He clicked the lock back in place and turned the light on revealing the shrine left the way he presented it to the world.
He was foolish for thinking it was fine leaving it this way, especially with the foot traffic outside his door on a daily basis.
The boxes were plenty big enough to house all the pictures and newspaper clippings. He worked for several minutes, unpinning papers and placing them into a box, then unpinning more. Some papers were overlapped and he stopped admiring articles about the “deceased Maise kid” that were lost underneath.
The wall in front of the desk was nothing but a pincushion when he was done, but he was fine with it. No one had made their way in there for the past three months but him, and it wouldn’t change any time soon.
He taped up the boxes and stacked one on top of the other as he unlocked the door and stepped out. The cleaners were finishing up for the day as Brooks pushed past them and was out the front door facing the parking lot.
The unnamed technician was walking up to the building when he caught a glimpse of Brooks. His expression offered more questions than answers as he changed his course.
“Hey! Mr. Ingram!” He hollered from across the lot. “What are you doing here?” His face was surprisingly spry although he was at his place of employment on a Saturday mid-morning.
Brooks kept the boxes in his hands as he answered. “I had to…pick up a few things.”
“I gotchya,” the man said. “I’ve seen you around. You’re the plant growing guy, huh?”
“Horticulturalist,” Brooks answered, slightly annoyed.
“Oh, right. You take care of the plants for Dr. Leggons. I get it.” He readjusted his stocking cap. “I’m Bryan. I’m one of the technicians. We just make sure the water is pumping and take care of the maintenance issues. We’ve worked together for a while, but we haven’t really been able to meet.”
Brooks wasn’t a people person and preferred it that way. Given this new life with the police on his tail about multiple murders in multiple jurisdictions, Brooks thought he should open up more with people and not be the clichéd serial killer living alone with no friends.
“Anyway, some friends and I are going to Lucky Charlie’s tonight for some drinks. Mostly work friends. You’d probably recognize some. You should come along.”
Brooks moved his lips to politely decline the offer like he normally would, but remembered the look on Morelli’s face at the mantel. Morelli thought he was a socially isolated loser with no friends. He pegged Brooks as a killer the moment he laid his eyes on him.
Brooks would have to change that perception.
“Sure,” Brooks responded. “I’d love to.”
“Great, man!” Bryan exclaimed, almost genuinely. “We’re going to be there around eight thirty tonight. First round is on me.”
Chapter Thirty-One
My fridge was empty.
Well, it had the rest of a twelve pack I’d drank the night before, but nothing was appetizing. The cold from the fridge washed over me like the surge of emotion coursing through my brain.
It was sharp, yet stale. It was strong enough to wake me up, yet dull enough to force me
into a four-hour depression nap…tearing away any likeness of who I was in the process.
I felt the pain start at my toes, then work it’s way through my abdomen and finally resting at my clavicle. I’d found true meaning in the phrase, “This is gonna hurt.” I’d been hurt before, but not like this.
This wasn’t The Sparrow stabbing me through the shoulder.
It wasn’t Viv leaving me for a real-estate broker in California.
It wasn’t like Katherine taking what she wanted from me for the one-hundredth time.
This was something different. It involved an innocent man trying to do his job. The others…involved people crossing boundaries, where they didn’t quite belong.
DeAngelo was a great man doing what he loved to do. He didn’t like loose ends and he was afraid if he didn’t check on the Maise house one last time that he would miss something.
And he was right.
Unfortunately, it would’ve been a better outcome if he left it be.
I’d lost my better half since my marriage fell apart, and I was forced to witness the aftermath. His body was promptly taken to the morgue from the scene, along with the other another man. LT Anderson told me to take a few days off and we’d “talk about your future with this case,” he had said.
I wasn’t leaving the case like this…not now. An invisible heaviness fell over me and I wanted to curse the world, but what good would that do?
Offer me a moment of solace amidst my chaotic reality?
It wasn’t worth it.
What did seem worth it was meeting the pavement fifteen stories down headfirst. The railing around the balcony looked shorter for some reason…more inviting. As if I would have to indulge in very little thinking before sending myself over.
A millisecond of pain after a lifetime of agony. I could do it. My body would fall faster than the bullet that pierced DeAngelo’s carotid artery, and it would do something much more productive for Lincolnshire. Sure, it’d be news worthy for a few weeks, but then The Sparrow would strike again, and it’d slowly make it’s way to the back page, then I’d eventually be forgotten.