Hello, Little Sparrow Jordan Jones (book series for 10 year olds TXT) 📖

The stains of a struggle and there was a mailbox with the flag up.

I saw it when I pulled off and didn’t think much of it, but thought I’d give it a shot. Maybe something inside could give us a clue about this man’s life, something that we have yet to find.

I pulled up next to the mailbox and opened it up, grabbed a handful of mail, and rolled up the window. There were three bills for various utilities, then a letter from the state of Maine.

Without thinking, I opened it and read through the first page of many while sitting in my car in front of his house.

He was on the sex offender registry and it was time to register for the year. They informed him that if no change of address was necessary, just fill out parts 1A and 1B and send it in. Also, if he’s had any employment changes, to please fill out boxes 6 and 7, respectfully.

That answers the job situation.

It might answer more than that.

The last piece of paper was folded neatly by itself; no envelope needed. It was simple notebook paper placed inside the mailbox with everything else. No address, return address, or designation…just words on a paper.

I opened it up and it read:

Hello, Little Sparrow,

My illness is mine and mine alone. I want you to know that it has nothing to do with you. It was an inevitable part of nature, much like you. It’s like tiny pieces of glass, cutting indiscriminately at my organs, joyously shattering all of my hopes and dreams. Watching you from the kitchen window cascading down your favorite slide, gracefully dancing across the yard, and picking dandelions makes me wonder one thing: how many more times will I be able to see you outside my window, carefree and flying about? Catching insects and playing make believe. I know the storm is brewing, and it is much more than the microbes that are eating me from the inside out. I long for you to read this, but only when you are old enough to understand that I did try to stop it. But, to reason with a monster is to grab the blade-end of a knife. I swear to you, Little Sparrow, I tried to plead and beg. Though I found danger in nearly every corner of our old house, I found solace in simply watching you. Here…from my kitchen window.

I sat there for several minutes after reading it again and again before I realized that it could somehow be connected to Henson’s death. I gently placed the paper with the others in the passenger seat and sat back and sighed. My first instinct was to return to the precinct, but I needed a clear mind before I added anything of use to the investigation.

Madison’s death, however tragic it was, paled in comparison to today’s developments. A twelve-year-old girl jumping to her death soon before her father was to be released from prison.

A father who was proven to be a pervert at least once.

Now, a killer is on the loose and another pervert is dead.

It was making no sense, but it was also the only thing making sense. I couldn’t drop everything now and make the jump like I had planned to. The desire to perform at the best of my duties started to creep back into my veins as I started down the road. Something still held my shoulders back into my seat as I drove, but I pressed on toward the station.

I had the instinct back, but it was still rusty. Anxiety and curiousness boiled back in my blood; it was a feeling I hadn’t felt in many years.

I was ready to find this killer.

Chapter Nine

Benjamin met me at the precinct after I told him I had something he’d be interested in. His initial reaction was surprising: he didn’t have one. He studied the paper several times over, glasses still on the end of his nose and lap coat draped over him.

Without looking away from the paper, he asked, “And this came from his mailbox?”

“Yes,” I answered. He placed his hand back up next to his face.

“Did you touch this with your fingers, or any part of your hands?”

“Yes. I didn’t know what I had.”

“Well, this definitely seems like something a killer would leave.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s his calling card,” he said, flipping it back and forth. “Every serial killer has one. Some of them leave items at the scene. Some take something. This one leaves something.”

“Whoa…wait a minute,” I said. Abraham walked in the precinct lab and saw the looks on our faces. He didn’t say a word. “What makes you think this is a serial killer?”

“Well, I don’t,” Benjamin said. “At least not yet.”

Abraham furrowed his brows. “What’s going on here?”

“I think Torrey has a point here, Abe.” Benjamin hated when I used his first name, but I had to break the tension between us. The past several cases, we’ve been catty, even passive aggressive. I found being at each other’s throats so much only bogs down a case.

“That’s right,” he said, giving me a disapproving look.

“Well?” Abraham asked, annoyed.

“I found a note in Henson’s mailbox — probably left by the killer. It’s mostly just ramblings, but Benji here thinks it could be the calling card of a serial killer. Just that, this guy hasn’t killed multiple people…yet.”

Abraham put on some gloves and took the letter and read it over thoroughly. “Sparrow…”

“What does that mean, Trotter?” Benjamin asked.

“It sounds like a pet name, like something a mother calls a child or something. I don’t think the killer wrote this, but maybe a relative, or mother-like figure. The cursive is extremely neat. Probably a woman’s hand-writing and