by Jordan Jones
“Mr. Wellpock,” I said, extending my hand. “Nice to see you again, though I’m sure these circumstances could be better.”
“He was here last night, John,” he said.
“The Sparrow?”
“It’s over,” he said. “I can’t run this place anymore. Two of my residents are dead. They were good guys, too. They had it hard in life, but they were working and trying to better themselves.” The elderly man sat down on the curb and tried to clear his throat.
“Take it easy,” I said. “Tell me what you saw.”
Wellpock massaged his throat until it cleared and said, “I came in this morning to do the checks…you know, to make sure they didn’t have girls over or anything like that. I was going to take them to church with me once they were all ready. I missed Conner…he’s in the car.”
His eyes welled up and he buried his head in his hands, and I offered my hand half-heartedly on his shoulder. I wasn’t great with consoling.
“He did what anyone told him to do,” he continued. “Conner was an honorable man trying to get through this rough life of his. I was trying to help him.”
“When did you get here today?” Harlow asked. She was seated next to him and her voice inflections were more empathetic than mine.
“Like, what time?” he asked. “About seven o’clock this morning. I saw Conner’s car, but didn’t know he was still in it. I walked through the front door and knew something was wrong right away. Titus’ door was already open and I looked in and saw him hunched over his bookshelf. The blood…it was all over.”
“It’s OK,” Harlow said in an attempt to comfort him. “If you don’t want to talk about it, we can revisit this later.”
“Trotter,” LT Anderson called from the car. He didn’t respond when I looked up, but shook his head.
Conner was bloodied and laid back in his seat, revealing several stab wounds.
“Any one of these could’ve been fatal, but the marks are wild,” Benjamin said. “The Spar — I mean, Brooks couldn’t see what he was doing; these stab wounds are erratic. No aiming…different depths of wounds, but all fatal. This happened last night, late.”
An officer stepped out of the house holding his mouth and kneeled in the front yard. The rush of air from the house filled the front yard and soon our nostrils filled with the stench of iron.
We approached the house and stepped in. The floors were unkempt and the kitchen in the back was filled with trash and unclaimed food boxes. The body of Titus was leaning against the bookshelf with wounds to his back.
“I haven’t even been in here yet,” Benjamin said from behind us. “But, it’s safe to say he tried getting away.”
“We have one in the back yard!” An officer called from the kitchen.
Mr. Wellpock was already back there as we walked through the house. He was hunched over crying and officers were trying to shield him from the body.
“Oh God…” he cried. “That’s Joseph. That’s his watch.”
The body was unrecognizable facedown, but the blood under him gave the impression that we did not want to see what was on the other side.
“There should be a couple more upstairs,” Wellpock instructed. “Jack and Drew. They roomed together. I was too scared to check it out, but they didn’t answer when I called.”
Upstairs, the bodies of two men were lying on the floor with their hands tied behind their backs. I couldn’t see the cause of death, but Benjamin examined them.
“Gunshots,” he said. “Looks like just one apiece. He would’ve probably stood about where you are now. Got both of them right in the head.”
“What is that?” I pointed to the far side wall, on the other side of the beds. “There’s something smeared.”
We walked closer and made out what it said:
Look inside the dresser. It might be important.
“That one?” Harlow pointed by the door. There was a short, three-drawer dresser and without warning, LT Anderson opened it.
We all jumped back a little bit, but he had no reaction.
“Benjamin, we’re going to need your guys to bag this,” he said.
Inside the dresser was my Glock 19 and something taped around the grip.
“Is that another letter?” I asked. Benjamin unfolded it and two members of his team bagged the gun.
I held it up for all to see.
Hello, Detective.
I am The Sparrow.
I’ve fought this for several years, but now that I see what I’m able to see…it’s gotten easier to become what I am. You have failed twelve times now, detective. You have failed twelve times to stop me and although you know my identity, you’re no closer to catching me now than you were when I sliced William Henson on his kitchen floor over three months ago.
You are failure.
You drink too much.
You are a coward and I’m ashamed to say I ever respected you.
Those who are deemed “vile” are done so with a purpose in mind. When one of them dies, hundreds of innocent lives are saved.
I should’ve killed you in your car when I had the chance. I don’t have regrets like the masses, but inconveniences.
I won’t use a weapon against you, Detective. I want to use my bare hands so I can feel your life drain from your body, much like Detective Morelli, though I used less of my hands and more of my will to kill him.
It’s hard to tell if he’s been found yet, but he about got the best of me. A feisty marine that guy, but his heart was also against him.
Lying before you now is what I like to call a “Vile Purge.” Several of the vile dead in one evening. This work only took me about thirty minutes and I walked out of here without so much as a threat from a neighbor.
This had to happen.
You know this.
I know this.
They all have to die. The gates have been opened for me to bring the dream to life. I want to thank you for your incompetencies and I look forward to our next face - to - face meeting.
Until next time,
Sparrow
Chapter Fifty-Seven
The yellow car was a nice distraction from the white Impala; it was flashier, and looked more out of the ordinary.
Brooks wanted something that stood out, because the less he tried to blend in, the more he, in fact, did blend in. He did feel an ounce of guilt, though, when he jumped in the car that was parked next to Mr. Wellpock’s halfway house. The Impala was hidden down the street blocking the entrance to a secluded ally Brooks was sure citizens rarely used.
He was good.
The yellow Volkswagen beetle hummed down the interstate facing north against the wind, though it wasn’t as powerful as it was in the early morning hours.
One headlight was out and he realized his cover was likely blown immediately. He wanted to reach Voncroft Nursing Home in the outskirts of Voncroft, Maine.
The dream was alive and well. His calling was soon to be fulfilled…to the brim perhaps, though he couldn’t be sure.
He’d found that killing pedophiles and other sex offenders brought him extreme catharsis and it was impossible to match with anything that didn’t involve causing the deaths of the vilest.
If he was able to bring the dream to life and still felt the need to exterminate any and all sexual deviants in his path, so be it.
Madison was certainly on board.
She sat staring straight ahead in the passenger seat, not worrying about her surrounding zooming by outside the window.
Brooks had wondered what she was like while she was alive. He was afraid to ask, but his thoughts about her comforted him.
Her bedroom was filled with artwork, page after page depicting fantasy scenes, scenes in which he knew she meant for him to take the place of.
Especially the phoenix.
His ember was gone and he’d lost all control. The phoenix was dead.
He was The Sparrow and it was what he was meant to be.
It was what he chose to be.
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Trying to hide something so significant for Lincolnshire…or all of Maine seemed resistant to his calling. The vile were to die and he was the one to do it.
He’d seen the public’s outcry on TV. They wanted him to remain untethered and unleash his fury on the city.
They cheered him on.
Madison appeared indifferent, but perhaps she knew what was next.
The sign above read:
Voncroft Nursing Home
Where Lifelong Journeys Continue
Brooks slowed to a crawl as the tiny car crept up the long driveway to the massive brick building. Several of the nursing home’s residents were outside with various staff members.
Most wore sweaters although it was unseasonably warm. His eyes darted around until he spotted him.
A gruff looking man was seated by himself on a wooded picnic table, scratching behind his ears. Brooks stopped the car and got out.
He could feel Madison right behind him.
The grass in the yard was due to mow, but the elderly frolicking about didn’t seem to mind. A staff member helped a few elderly women throw pieces of bread into a small lagoon where geese rushed to snatch.
The man at the table was facing away, and although Brooks had yet to see his face, he knew him very well. The man coughed as Brooks walked closer.
Brooks sat at the table in broad daylight, blood still stained on his button up shirt and hands. Everyone around was too busy to notice.
The old man didn’t turn around but sensed him.
“It took you a while to find me,” Garret said. Brooks said nothing, but stared at the back of his father’s head. His breathing was calm, but he felt his blood pressure rise. “I was wondering if you were going to find me.”
“I found you long ago,” Brooks responded.
Garret coughed again and held a cigarette up to his mouth. He pulled out the oxygen from his nostrils and set it aside. He searched for his lighter, but had no such luck.
Brooks offered one and lit the cigarette for him.
“Doctors say I have lung cancer…pretty late stage,” Garret said. “Said I’d prolong my life a little bit by stopping this stuff. I’m not trying to prolong anything at this point. It’s here and it’s staying until I’m dead.”
Brooks nodded and gave a quick grin. He wasn’t sure what to say. He knew his father’s health was declining quickly, but didn’t know exactly why.
He’d spent the past few years driving by and watching him sit at that picnic table. It was a calming experience for Brooks seeing his father alive from the shadows. The man looked as if he was suffering in his own body, though not only physically.
Garret was welcoming death.
He gave Brooks a glance and saw all the blood and turned back around without the slightest reaction.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” Garret asked facing towards the elderly women again. One nearly fell into the lagoon, but the orderly grabbed her just in time and pulled her back to safety.
Brooks said nothing.
“Your mother used to call your sister a little sparrow,” he continued. “She always thought she glided across the yard with such grace. Jo—,”
“Don’t say her name,” Brooks said, his voice monotone with a hint of uncontrollable rage.
“Your mother found the good in everyone, especially your sister.”
“Jody was only good,” Brooks answered. “She personified the word good. You did everything you could to take that away from her; from all of them. You and Uncle Samuel took those poor girls to that shed and did what you did.”
“We were young and stupid,” Garret said raising his hands in defense. “We both went to prison for it and I learned my lesson. Sammy didn’t. He kept making mistakes and it finally caught up to him.”
“There’s no coming back from what you’ve done,” Brooks reminded him. “If there was, I’d have a lot of explaining to do.”
“Well, you just might then, because I haven’t had any of those urges in years.” Garret leaned back against the table, trying to catch his breath.
Brooks laid out several pictures on top.
“I need you to see these,” he said. “I’ve had some of the vile I’ve killed look at who they hurt. Here are yours. Eight girls in all. Two of which have killed themselves. Four are doing fine, and two others are in state-run mental institutions.”
Garret faced the other way.
“I need you to turn and look at these or I will skin you alive in front of your bingo pals,” Brooks said, his eyes turning black.
Garret reluctantly turned around and immediately regretted it. The pictures were ones Garrett and Samuel took of the girls in the shed. He hadn’t seen them since the sinister acts were inflicted.
Brooks liked that it bothered him.
“I’m done, son,” Garret said, turning back to facing the lagoon. “I can’t see it anymore.”
The pictures were face-up on the table and Brooks looked to Madison, who had a sly smile across her face. Nothing could stop him.
“If you are somehow reunited with Jody…I sincerely hope you apologize for what you’ve done,” Brooks said, then buried his buck knife into the side of his father’s neck.
Garrett struggled to catch his breath and grabbed the handle, trying to pry it out.
Brooks stood up and calmly walked back to the car, this time people noticed him bloodied and walking away. He heard several screams and shouting.
He sat back inside the yellow Volkswagen Beetle and fastened his seatbelt, adjusted his rearview mirror, and put the car in reverse.
“How do you feel,” Madison asked from the back seat; her voice was as sweat as an angel.
Brooks gripped the steering wheel tightly.
“Unsatisfied,” he said.
Madison knew that would be his answer, so they both smiled.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
“Ahhh….Roisman, should be number fourteen,” said the small, round man with an ill-fitted jacket.
The storage facility was massive and had white aluminum siding with orange garage doors at the entrance of each unit.
“Here he goes with Roisman again,” Harlow said under her breath. “It’s like a ghost at this point.”
The man unlocked the unit and threw open the garage door and turned to us.
“I’ll need to run a copy of that warrant to give to the boss. He usually doesn’t care who comes poking through here, warrant or not, but better safe than sorry.” I handed it to him and shoved my hand back in my pocket. “All right then,” he continued. “I’ll let you two get at it.”
There were items strewn to both sides of the unit, with a narrow pathway through the middle. I started down the path and turned on the light that dangled in the center of the ceiling.
“This is just stuff,” Harlow said, insinuating it was valueless.
“This ‘stuff’ belongs to a serial killer,” I reminded her. “Let’s have a look around.”
I opened a large wooden trunk and picked up a few picture frames. One of which was a family portrait where they were all dressed up in stale Christmas sweaters and faces draped with forced smiles.
I turned it around:
Ingram Family Christmas 1992
Garret age: 44
Marcie: 33
Jody: 11
Brooks: 8
“This picture was taken a few decades back,” I said holding it up for Harlow. “The author of the letters is Marcie Ingram. She started receiving chemotherapy around this time. The medical records showed she would’ve died only four months later.”
“It must’ve been aggressive,” she said taking a closer look. “She was so beautiful.”
Yes she was.
It’s cliché to say that a smile was ‘infectious,’ but that’s exactly what it was. Seeing her face light up, even in all its facade, radiated positivity and beauty.
Harlow looked at the other members of the family, caressing the picture with her fingertips.
“This b
astard must be Garret Ingram, the one who abused all those girls.” She took a deep breath and understood my silence for agreement. “He spent a lot of time in prison for that. I read in your file that he’s up north at a nursing home.”
“That’s Jody,” I chimed in, pointing at the young girl with piggy-tails, smiling woefully at the camera. Her expression was painfully plastered on her face as if she had only enough energy to muster the faint smile for a second. “She died sometime after, though we haven’t found the official death certificate yet. I’m sure the FBI has it. I’d like for them to show some transparency like I did.”
“You were forced,” Harlow responded, shoving her hip into me. Her smile faded as her eyes traversed down to the boy. “This is our killer.”
“Looks that way.”
“How does someone so handsome and put together end up slaughtering a dozen people?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t wrap my head around it.”
She wasn’t alone.
The boy’s smile was the only one in the picture that looked genuine, as if he knew what his future held and he was at ease. The calmness posed across his face was that of a child who got an A+ on a tough science test.
But, with Brooks, it was different.
I knew that smile meant a long life of inflicting pain and misery.
“Where did you get this?” Harlow asked. I pointed to the trunk below us.
“I’m going to call this in.” I called Benjamin and he immediately answered. “Torrey, Harlow and I have found a treasure trove of evidence against The Sparrow.”
“John…” Harlow said, standing back up.
“Yes, Benjamin. It’s a storage unit.”
“John,” she said again, her voice growing louder.
“The one out on West Perch Ave.”
“John!” She screeched, getting my attention.
“I gotta go…see you in a few.” I hung up the phone. “What is it?”
She held up a small notebook with some pages tore out. The front cover read: