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

“What if it’s not a serial killer but a scorned lover?” Abraham said.

“Well, this other bit of info will only complicate things…” I handed over the registry form to Abraham, then to Benjamin.

Benjamin placed both pieces of paper in a Ziploc bag, and took it further into the lab. “I’ll get ahold of you two when we’ve found something. I’ll email you digital copies of both.”

Harlow was at her desk typing furiously when Abraham and I arrived. She barely looked up as I sat down, but made a casual head nod in my general direction.

“I heard you were assigned the homicide in Pinewood,” she said.

“Yes, we both are.”

“Like usual,” Abraham chimed in. He was upset we were tied up in multiple cases at once, when Harlow and Welker are rarely on any tough assignments. They are glorified uniforms, he told me a few years back.

“What’s the scoop?” She asked, spinning her spoon in her coffee. It was late in the evening, but coffee was always on the menu.

“Elderly man stabbed in his kitchen, throat slit in his living room where he bled out. No signs of forced entry. Not much physical evidence in the home other than a size eleven shoe. I found an obscure letter in his mailbox and he’s a registered sex offender.”

“All that in one day, huh?” she sniped.

“Something like that.”

LT Anderson came out of his office and waved for Abraham and me to come over. His five o’clock shadow was poking through, and his eyes appeared that of a much older man with much less to lose. His grey mustache was unkempt.

He was stressed.

“I need to know that this Maise case is going to be closed soon,” his rugged voice boomed at us. “People are freaking out in the community about this murder. I want all your focus on that.”

“Her father is getting out of prison and I have reason — “

“John,” he started. “It’s a twelve year old girl that was depressed. She had the meds to prove it. Now close it out and let her soul rest.”

“Her father might’ve been abusing her, sir.”

“Her father spent time in prison,” he continued. “It’s over. Let the family move on. He’s getting out before long. Let the man live his life.” He pushed past me, swung his coat over his shoulder, and headed through the double doors.

“He looks stressed,” Abraham said.

“He is the one that has to work with the commissioner to give updates to the public,” I said. “People don’t care so much about suicides anymore. They only want info on the homicides.”

“Couple that with the fact this type of thing doesn’t happen around here anymore,” added Welker. He walked by on his way to his desk. It was obvious he was already a product of LT’s rage today.

I grabbed my coat and headed back home. Abraham and I both agreed we needed sleep if we were going to tackle the first homicide perpetrated by a potential serial killer in the past twelve years. Lincolnshire was commendably safe all year around. Alvin Dugger was the only bad apple to grace the community with his sociopathic hatred.

He was also the reason I was promoted to detective twelve years earlier. It felt strange owing my progression to a serial killer, but I had no other merits other than an advanced degree in criminology. Rising to sergeant quickly as a uniform was the product of nepotism. My father was the police captain at the time, and I passed boards without having to sit on them.

No one else got that treatment.

Ever since Dad was placed in Lincolnshire Psychiatric, I felt lost. I had no direction within the department, let alone life. Seeing him doped up on heavy doses of lithium and other psychotropics made me want to drag him out of there, though the last time he was out, he nearly took his own life by falling off his roof.

I pulled into my spot at home and climbed up the fifteen flights of stairs to my apartment. Cigarette smoke seemed to be the new norm.

The balcony didn’t look so appealing anymore, as I found my place in this world, albeit temporarily. Who knows, maybe I’ll step out again once the killer was caught?

The beer went down colder than expected and tasted even better when I plopped down on the couch. My head stretched back and my eyes shut…but I wasn’t tired.

I couldn’t fall asleep like that. Buzzed and fully clothed on the couch. That’s how I used to fall asleep. In this trek to find some meaning for my life, I wasn’t going to resort back to the old ways of living…or not living. Feelings of dread and despair came over me once again. My feet became cinder blocks, keeping me from moving an inch in any direction. The piercing screech of all my failures came crashing into me, filling me with something unexplainable.

It couldn’t be, could it? I found my calling, my direction. I had a new case and a new love for the job. Being a detective is all I ever wanted to be. The clues presented themselves for me to find and decipher.

No one else.

Then, why did I feel so unfulfilled?

Why did it look like the doors to the balcony slid open freely, inviting me to take a stroll two hundred feet down onto the pavement?

“This is nonsense,” I said out loud. I knew no one was around, but I didn’t care who heard it.

Finally, nearly three years after suffering through tragedy of losing my father’s mind, have I found my calling, and it was swept away from me after just one beer. I strove to find something, quickly, to call my direction, but nothing came to mind.

Normal men my age would point to their