The Bloody Smile of Midnight

By Michael Jerry Tupa

Evil does not discriminate, terror is no respecter of persons and hate is often masked by a joyless smile. Such is the dark destiny that has covered the formerly happy town of Piedi d'Argento like a fog of sorrow and fear. As the body count grows, the town invests its hopes in the local police department to stop the killing and force the dark-hearted killer into the spotlight of justice. But, for the investigating team of Mike Orsak and Rusty Smith, the clues appear as scarce as footprints on the ocean. They persist, they grind, they guess, they wage a desperate search -- and they even pray. But, the blind trail includes a series of cut-backs, hairpin curves along slippery edges -- and even deadly detours. Their quest also nurtures self-awareness of their own personal demons and flawed vision. Finally, the path to the solution becomes clearer. But, the end of their quest is still shrouded in the unknown. Time is running out for them to uncover the answer -- and, once they do, will the secret of the slaughter die with them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Jerry Tupa
• Release date: Mar 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370278565

Michael Jerry Tupa

A native Californian, I've resided in seven different states -- spread out from California to South Carolina -- as well as in Italy and stint in Japan (U.S. Marines).For more than 30 years I've worked as a newspaper journalist -- mostl of that time as a sports writer, although I also garnered significant experience as a police/courts beat reporter.More than three dozen of my poems have appeared in several different literary journals; I've also self-published four volumes of poetry/short stories. Some of my most cherished honors/accomplishments/opportunities is being the sports editor of a sports section twice named by the Oklahoma Press Association as the sports section of the year in our circulation division, receiving an honorable discharge from the Marines following four years of active duty, earning a Bachelor of Arts degree from Weber State, living nearly two years in Italy (church service) among the Italians and learning the language, interviewing a Native American U.S. Olympic champion, receiving the Joseph Orengo Annual Award for sportsmanship and sports contributions in Oroville, Calif.I've also won my age division (25-29) at a 5K run road race in Memphis, Tenn.; shook Ronald Reagan's hand in 1990; interviewed numerous pro and high-level college athletes, including at least two former Heisman Trophy winners (Archie Griffin and Jason White); written a full-length history of American Legion Baseball in Bartlesville, Okla.; and enjoyed numerous other once-in-a-lifetime opportunities to interview some of sports' most significant personalities from the past half-century.

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The Bloody Smile of Midnight

By Michael Jerry Tupa

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2018 Michael Jerry Tupa

Smashwords Edition, License notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Note:

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, buisness, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual Persons, Living or Dead, or actual Events is purely coincidental, other than passing references to historic films and well-known entertainment stars.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 — Another sleepless night

Chapter 2 — Eyes sparkling in the spinning waves of light

Chapter 3 — Swallowed up in a nightmare

Chapter 4 — A specter that tickled the underbelly of his emotions

Chapter 5 — Specter of a living nightmare waited in the periphery

Chapter 6 — Tomorrow was still a long ways off

Chapter 7 — I ain't no blasted Sherlock Holmes!

Chapter 8 — Gnawed away by the undeniable decay of doubts

Chapter 9 — What if he's not our guy?

Chapter 10 — A robot made of sinew

Chapter 11 — They found a body

Chapter 12 — She watch them … disappear from sight

Chapter 13 — Frozen in an almost zombie-like trance

Chapter 14 — There ain't no happy ever after

Chapter 15 — Warrior who had finally brought down the monster

Chapter 16 — Large lump in his throat that he had to chew on

Chapter 17 — Actually the remains of three people

Chapter 18 — A frenzied gasp

Chapter 19 — The familiar face of a friend

Chapter 20 — I don't know when I'll be coming back

About the author

Chapter 1

Another sleepless night

Yeah, junior, take tomorrow morning off. I told you that this afternoon, Mike Orsak said, trying to mask the irritation in his voice.

The kid can’t help it, Mike thought, while stifling a yawn. He’s just a clueless nerd, a wanna-be Dick Tracy, a squeaky-voiced frog with dreams of Joe Friday grandeur.

Okay, Detective Orsak, the voice said on the other end.

Look, kid, er… Rusty. I’ve told you a million times not to call me detective. What do you want?

Uh, yeah, Detective, my wife, well, you know, she’s expecting pretty soon, but she still wants to have you over for Sunday dinner.

I’d rather kiss a scorpion, Mike groaned in his mind.

Yeah, well I’ll let you know tomorrow, huh? It’s getting kind of late and I...

We’d really like to have you, but, I guess I’d better go, Rusty Smith said.

Yeah, Mike said, sticking his phone on the receiver and flexing his tired arms in a bodybuilder type pose.

Good, he thought. He was looking forward to a late-night session with Dark Victory.

Mike sensed it would be another sleepless night.

A few miles away — it might have been on another continent, as far as Mike was concerned — restless waves clawed their fingertips into Star Lake’s tender shoreline but the pond dragged them unwillingly back into the water.

A darting night bird’s silhouette shattered the silver-tinted mirror of the moon-lit lake, while dozens of boats gently rocked themselves to sleep, dreaming the dreams, I suppose, that only boats dream — of calm waves, mild sunlight and light passengers.

On the opposite end of the watery expanse a nightmare clouded the calmness of the clear night

It was on that stretch of the shoreline that, sometime after sunset, the lake willingly surrendered its most loathsome secret, leaving it half-buried in the clutching mud.

Waves assaulted the spot again and again, but refused to bring it back to its watery grave — almost as if an unseen force, which demanded the pitiful object be discovered by human eyes, controlled them.

Meanwhile, a creeping mass of gray clouds slowly extinguished the stars and smothered the moon, causing the lake to be blanketed by a slow-rising mist that strove to mask the lake’s inculpable shame.

Fifteen miles away, meanwhile, most the residents of Piedi d’Argento snored through the idyllic peace of drowsy dreams, unable to imagine the real-life horror that soon would plunge the community into a nightmare.

In other houses, flickering lights rimmed curtains and shades as night owls melted into their easy chairs and, with bleary eyes, viewed an old Andy Griffith episode or the third film in an all-night Bette Davis movie marathon.

At the All Night R’ We convenience store located along Third Street — between the Armstrong Bowling Alley and the Methodist church — pock-faced, 20-year old Silver High School graduate Jeremy Jerry rested both elbows on the counter, and waged a fierce battle to keep his eyes open until the workers from the graveyard shift at the Aldo Mining Refinery invaded the store like a swarm of flies drawn to a honey waterfall.

Piedi d’Argento was a nice place to live. It was a family place.

The sign at the north city limits stated plainly Piedi d’Argento was The Silver City of Friendship.

It always had been.

On the other side of town during this night of deep shadows and eerie stillness, Mike fought forlornly to keep his eyes closed.

Man, he half-screamed and pounded his pillow — as if it were the cruel culprit of his insomnia — with no one to hear but his cat, Chestnut, and the handful of house spiders, which remained silent in their dusty corner webs.

I’ve got to get some sleep. Man. Oh, man! he repeated with a tortured shout of frustration. Chestnut wiggled her head slightly and tucked it back under her shoulder.

Sleep hadn’t come easy in recent weeks for Mike, who a recent friendly article in the Piedi d’Argento Chronicle had referred to as the most successful investigator at the Piedi d’Argento police department. ... A clue-busting Sherlock Holmes, Nevada style.

Sherlock Holmes? I ain’t no friggin’ Sherlock Holmes, he thought as he rolled over for the thousandth time. I couldn’t find a crying baby in a maternity ward.

But, it wasn’t only the pressures of the job that gnawed on Mike’s mind like a two-pound termite.

Several times each day, fugitive memories of his children’s faces, their voices and the sparkle in their eyes clouded his thoughts.

They had been gone for two years, living in Florida with their mom and her new husband. Mike called his youngsters just enough to meet the demands of proper fatherhood.

And, proper was very, very important.

But, as of late, Mike felt lonely.

He didn’t know why.

He never minded having his kids and wife around. They were like the ragweed that ravaged his lawn — one could either become obsessed or just accept the inconvenience with pleasant tolerance.

Very proper, indeed.

After his wife took the kids to Florida, Mike felt — for a long time — a strain of guilty relief. He welcomed the church-pew silence at home, the freedom to keep his own hours without having to bend to someone else’s needs, the ability to concentrate only on his job.

But, during the past few weeks, he felt like a man who suddenly wakes up on the top of a mountain and wants someone to whom he can say Good morning — only to hear echoes of his own voice.

The worst feeling of all was he couldn’t remember the details of daily life when his family had been around.

It made the missing worse.

Turning over to his other side, Mike started at glaring red lights of his alarm clock. Only four hours until wake-up time.

Two hours wasted.

He twisted his body around and angrily puffed up his pillow again.

He hadn’t gone to bed until 1:30 a.m., his heart troubled by the scene of Bette Davis lying on her bed and accepting gracefully the final verdict of premature death.

Mike almost cried.

Bette should have told her husband, he mused. He had a right to know.

Mike opened one eye to glare at the offending clock.

It was 3:37 a.m.

He clenched shut his eyes, took a breath and tried to think of palm trees, Hawaiian beaches and blueberry skies, close enough to reach up and tickle the underbelly of a cloud and watch it wriggle. He thought about a lollipop sun he could spear with a stick and lick it to its gooey center.

But, sleep still eluded him like a racecar barreling down a straightaway and then curving back into consciousness.

Next to Mike’s bed sat a dented popcorn tin someone had given him two Christmases past — after his wife had left. Some dispatcher — whose name he had forgotten — presented him with the can after she had drawn his name for a gift at a holiday party.

A creased print of a snowman, embodied with stick arms and a licorice smile — decorated the empty can.

At one time, it had contained aluminum bags of cheese-flavored, butter-flavored and caramel popcorn, which Mike had eaten, by the handful, during the next two years, ignoring the staleness.

Fugitive popcorn crumbs still littered the carpet around his bed. But, what did it matter?

In the northwest corner of his room rested proof of his good intentions — the vacuum cleaner he had pulled out two years earlier. It was now covered with dust.

No one ever came to house to visit. No one stopped by at Christmas to drop off a plate of cookies. The backend of a preacher hadn't warmed his couch cushions in at least five years.

There was no reason to clean up for his kids — they lived in Florida.

Mike figured he would get around someday to cleaning his house. He just didn't know why.

Meanwhile, the popcorn tin served as a lopsided nightstand for his alarm clock, keys and wireless phone.

Why spend money on a store-bought bed table? The can-served the same purpose — and it was free.

Mike never met a bargain he didn’t like. Cans of cheap chili and store brand soup crowded his kitchen cupboard; a jumble of unwashed bowls, pans, utensils, plates and empty cans littered the counter around his sink.

He would get around to washing them — tomorrow.

Cleaning his dishes was a holiday affair — he washed them on Thanksgiving, Christmas, Valentine's Day, and every other year on Memorial Day. Meanwhile, a little spritz of water — and an occasional soaking of a food-crusted bowl or pan — gave him all the dishware he needed the rest of the time.

Nearby, the top of his bathroom door served as a tie rack and an poster of Santa Claus’ smiling face stared at him from the inside of his bedroom door. Come the second week of December, or so, Mike would hang the poster on the outside of his front door.

Despite trying to conjure up visions of sugarplums and sweet babes, Mike was in the mood for neither.

In a vain effort to drift off into blessed unconsciousness, Mike visualized himself exploring uncharted territory along the Amazon and calculating a way to put removal wheels on the expedition’s canoes, which would help in moving them along the shoreline around impassable rapids.

But, as usual, his vision evaporated until he found himself in the belly of a one-man submarine, alone near the bottom of a sea canyon, reaching his hand out and touching the bottom of the ocean.

As usual, he felt himself alone again — and he experienced a new emotion. Emotional drowning or terror. He couldn’t decide which.

At some point, during his colorful adventures and empty, lonely reverie, Mike finally defeated his brain in a best two-out-of-three wrestling match; his exhausted mind morphed into a fitful, burning sleep.

But, repose wouldn’t last long.

Meanwhile, a few blocks away, bloody fingers plunged a shovel through the soft, grassy soil of a neighbor’s backyard. No tears fell from the moon-shaped eyes of the giggling midnight digger, who had just buried what was left of one of his best friends.

Chapter 2

Eyes sparkling in the spinning waves of light

No matter how many times an individual’s heard it before — whether he be a policeman, a doctor or locksmith — there’s something brain-rattling about phone screaming in the middle of the night.

On the first ring, Mike thought he was dreaming. He grunted, buried himself deeper under a comfy cover — feeling the new warmth massage his shoulders — and ignored the sound.

But, by the phone’s third blast — which shattered his sleep like an angry thunderbolt — Mike’s eyelids flipped open and jerked his body around, feeling a twinge of pain shoot through his neck.

He knew there was no reason to get mad — it was all part of the job.

As he groped for the phone, it rang a fourth time.

Groggily seized the receiver with his right hand, Mike’s bleary eyes focused on the irritating red numbers on his clock — 3:38 a.m.

Yeah, he muttered into the phone. Hello? This is Detective Orsak.

His eyes rolled as sound as he heard the sound blasting from the other side, prompting him to pull the phone a few inches from his ear.

This is Rusty, Lt. Orsak.

Mike swore silently when he heard the voice of his junior partner.

The words — delivered in a slightly nerdy, nasally, Jimmy Olsen-like voice — or at least as Mike imagined Jimmy Olsen would sound — poured through his ear drum like battery acid.

Maybe the found a new pimple and he has to tell me all about it, Mike thought.

Yeah, Rusty, he growled. What do you want? Speak! And, I told you about a hundred times, don’t call me lieutenant.

Sorry, sir.

Rusty Smith, Piedi d’Argento’s rookie police detective — Mike couldn’t decided whether he was more pelican than hawk— spewed his words in a more excitable stream than usual. Yeah, well, uh, Mike, Someone called me, who was listening to police radio and heard the county sheriff’s office was investigating a dead body up at Star Lake, and...

And?

Mike’s interruption prompted Rusty to pause and gather his thoughts.

Well, Lieut..., er, Mike, I was thinking about that missing kid, remember? I was wondering if, you know?

Mike’s mind flashed to the color photo of local elementary school student Sam, and he felt electric adrenaline — and a black wave of greasy terror — surge instantly through his spine and flood the base of his brain.

I’ll be up there in less than 20 minutes, Mike said, his voice snapping like a cobra bite.

I’ll see you there, Lieut...er, sir..., er Mike, Rusty said.

The phone went dead. A vibrant flood of pity and disgust coursed through Mike’s bloodstream, washed away his exhaustion and revived his consciousness.

He knew this feeling by experience.

He hated it.

Energized by an infusion of tingling duty, Mike swung his right leg over the edge of the bed and, with both arms behind him, pushed his hands off the mattress and bolted to his feet. His right knee ached. Searing pain tingled from foot to hip.

Mike bent over and reached down. He rubbed his thigh, feeling the scar on the side of his knee where the surgeon’s scalpel had penetrated to remove half a mangled bullet.

That had been five years ago. Mike had kept the fragment as a souvenir, carrying it home in a shirt pocket and tossing it in his jumbled sock drawer.

There the bullet remained, slowly pushed back during the years.

It had long since worked its way to the back edge of the drawer, but now and then — when he had to settle for a holey pair of socks — his hand found it again. Someday, Mike figured to put the ragged shard in a jar, or something, and put it on his desk at work as a conversation piece.

There was no hurry.

Mike had learned to co-exist with his painful knee. It was better than a wife; it griped in mute silence. He could live with that. One night a week, when he wasn’t working late, Mike played pick-up basketball on open