The Lottery Trap — Part 1

Short Series — For as long as Richard Decklain has been on the force, the lottery has been a honeypot to catch time travelers. But his next case could bring the entire system crashing down...

Photo by Drew Coffman on Unsplash

TBI Headquarters
9 Hours to Drawing

The air in the old briefing room feels like soup, and that oscillating fan in the corner is really just blowing around the stink of stale coffee. No chance of cracking a window to let in the breeze; damn things 've been stuck shut as long as I've worked here, and that's saying something.

Place is packed with about two dozen of Florida’s finest, all crinkled clothes and thousand-yard stares. All except the Rook nipping at my elbow, bouncing in his seat like a toddler on a sugar rush. Light hasn’t left his eyes yet; he still shows up clean shaven, clean-smelling, in a nice pressed suit. Still looks like the photo on his shiny new name badge: Tommy Craft.

He knows just enough of the ropes to hang himself, but he’s never seen field work.

Course, I’m the sad sack stuck with him the day of the big jackpot.

Kid’s about to say something. Before he can, Captain Mirkwood Waddles in and grabs the lectern like it’s the last tray left at the all-you-can-eat buffet. Even from the back row, I can count the fat marbles of sweat dripping down his shiny dome.

He says: “Alright, the fix is in. DragNet is flagging seven possible perps in our backyard."

"Seven winners in one precinct? What are the odds?" Quips Crowley, another prune of a detective sitting two rows from the front. "Sounds like we should buy a lotto ticket."

Dry laughter ripples through the briefing room.

"Enough cracking wise. Bureau Brass say there's one legitimate winner in the Timeline of Record. One. That's it. Boys in Denver think they have him. If they're right, every player in our precinct is guilty. 'Course, if Denver is wrong, a legitimate threat runs free, and our goose is cooked." He snaps his briefing binder shut, and points to a wall-mounted file holder beside the door. "Grab your assignments on the way out. I want this wrapped up before supper."

Crowley mutters a jab about the Captain's dinnertime habits on the way out. I stifle a tired smile, take a file, and drift out into the bullpen.

"What do we have?" Craft asks.

"Hmm." I lean against my coffee-stained, laminate desk, careful not to topple the growing mountain of past-due paperwork, and flip open the file. "Shit ton of legwork, by the look of it. Perp walks in to buy one ticket, picks their own numbers, and pays cash.”

“Where?”

“Gibsonton.” I shove the file against his chest. “Let’s go.”

Gibsonton Gas 'n Go
7 Hours to Drawing

The store in question is some off-brand gas station you'd probably never stop at past sundown. I drive past a row of out-of-order fuel pumps and park the unmarked sedan out of view of the front door. I lead the way across the cracked pavement, stepping over knee-high parking lot weeds before slipping in the front door.

An entry chime sounds. dee-dum.

The interior is filthy; fluorescents buzz like a hornet's nest, casting a warped glow over cracked, grimy tiles. No one stands behind the register. I ring the tarnished countertop bell and wait, arms folded, as the sound reverberates through the empty store.

Out shuffles a shriveled string bean of a man, wispy white hair like a frazzled q-tip, with bushy brows to match. "Can I help you?"

"Matter of fact, you can. Name's Dick Decklain. Secret Service. My partner and I are looking into a counterfeit ring. Guy we’re looking for would’ve bought a lotto ticket,” I lie. “Anyone pay for a ticket with cash?”

The clerk scoffs. “Yeah, everyone.” He taps a sloppily-written sign hanging from the register: Card Reader Broken! Cash Only.

I look around the empty store, then back at him with a cocked eyebrow. Awkward silences tend to get nervous people yapping.

Craft breaks the silence, leading the clerk a little: “We think he was in here this morning, if that helps.” I glare at him. From his face, I gather he thinks he’s being clever, but he’s ruining my line of questioning.”

“Now you mention, one fella who bought a ticket this morning was acting a bit strange."

"Strange, how?"

"Dunno. A little shaky while he's paying, I suppose."

“Did you get that on video?” Craft points at the camera above the wall of cigarette cartons.

"The quality isn't great. But I imagine you'll get a decent look at his face. If you gentlemen have an email, I can send you a copy."

"That will be very helpful." Craft has a business card ready in hand.

The clerk takes it. "While I get that for you—" He pops open the register drawer, fishes out a few singles, and slides them across the counter. "—I figured you might want to look at the cash I have from him. I don't bother checking singles. I mean, who would?"

As he shuffles off into the back room again, I study the bills more closely. They're perfectly ordinary, like they're fresh out of someone's back pocket after a few too many rides through the laundry. There's even a little bit of lint stuck to the cotton paper. Security threads slither beneath its surface like tiny, dim-glowing snakes, confirming to me that the money is real — it just won't be printed for another decade or so.

To my trained eye, the inconsistencies are glaring. For starters, the portrait on the bill is not of Washington, but of Harmony Comstock, the leader who oversaw the country's transition into Moderated Democracy. Just to the right of her face is a line of text reading, "Series 2035," the last year a United States Mint will print a currency note. Half a decade later, owning them will be criminalized.

"Contraband?" Craft asks.

"Ember in a haystack. You can't imagine the damage this would do..."

Craft snaps open an evidence bag, bringing me back from my ramblings. "Let me handle this, sir." He seals the bills in paradox-proof plastic, just as the clerk re-enters the room.

"You should have that file any second now."

Our phones buzz. Two new files in my inbox.

One's a video clip without a thumbnail. Other's a picture of an olive-skinned man with thick black hair. Grainy, but good enough for DragNet. I forward the picture to our forensic team and pocket my phone. "We'll be in touch."

The second our cruiser doors slam shut, I turn to Craft, struggling to keep a level tone. "Tell me something slick: why do we always use the present tense during interviews?"

"Several reasons," he said, as if reading from a flashcard. "But primarily for the purpose of tripping up suspects, and making them divulge asynchronous information."

"Correct. And yet I recall you having a difficult time avoiding the past tense in there." I jerk my head toward the building.

Realization flits across his face. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, be better. The clerk is just a witness, but a slip up like that when talking to a suspect could break the case. Understand?"

He nods.

TBI Headquarters
4 Hours to Drawing

The rest of the morning bleeds together in a slow slog of plodding police work.

DragNet identifies the man as one Gordon Gale, who recently moved into an apartment up in Seminole Heights, and opened an account just days prior. A priority RED alert tells us that further information about the man existed, but was sealed. A bit more sleuthing confirms Gordon Gale had used his debit card at an ATM across the street from the gas station, just minutes before the ticket was sold.

Good enough for me.

We haul him in for questioning. The slippery sonofabitch denies it all, of course, but we’ve got him dead to rights.

The whole case falls into place easier ‘n Apple pie.

So hours later when Craft comes to me with what he calls “new information,” I’m a little annoyed.

“What the hell is it, kid?"

He casts a shifty-eyed glance in each direction. "Not here."

I roll my eyes, but follow him through the bullpen. He leads me past the floor-to-ceiling seal -- an eagle clutching an hourglass in one talon, and a lottery ball in the other, wreathed by the words, "Custodimus Numerum," — before yanking me by the tie into a utility closet.

"What in blazes—"

"Shh!" The rookie has the nerve, the sheer audacity to press a hand over my mouth. For an instant, I'm too shocked to respond. He takes advantage, and launches into his hushed explanation. "Gabriel Gale is being set up, and I think some of the other detectives know."

Now he has my attention. I must be showing my interest on my face, because he gives a little nod and lowers his hand.

"Time Jumpers all try to run pretty much the same scheme: pop back in time, win the lottery and convert the winnings into antiquities--something small and valuable they can fit in their COOLR, and stash it for a couple centuries.”

I nod. A COOLR — short for Chrono-Obstructing Object Receptacle — is a handy piece of 22nd century tech, and a nightmare for our bureau. Once you close the lid, time inside stops moving. Museums used to use them to preserve really fragile stuff. Once the cost came down, they started replacing fridges, since they can keep food fresh for however long you like.

They're also a massive pain in my ass: if a civvy gets their hands on one, it'll upend the entire future. It'd be like giving a nuke to some medieval warlord. Finding and impounding them is grueling and time-consuming work if you're slow to catch your perp.

"Yeah," I say. "Got no reason to suspect this guy's any different."

"I got to thinking, all of this is almost too convenient: no long-term history or known associates, sets up a fresh account with a major financial institution, and punches the lottery... DragNet can only show us one picture of him, ever...”

"Criminals can get careless."

"He's smart enough to crack time travel, but too dumb to cover his tracks?”

"He may not think he has to. Jumpers don't know the lotto is a trap. It wouldn't work if they did."

“But why pay for the ticket with future money? He had plenty of present-day cash.”

“Like I said, he may have gotten careless.”

Craft shakes his head, smiling. “You’re still not getting it. By the time it’s possible to pop back to the past, paper money is illegal.”

I smack my own forehead. “Gale would’ve had to make a separate time jump to pick up the money—and there’s no earthly reason to do that.”

“Exactly. Why stop to get money he isn’t going to need?”

An uncomfortable gnawing feeling eats at my stomach. "Shit."

“That got me thinking," he presses on: "the guy with the winning ticket isn’t the only one who walks away with money. If your store sells that lucky number, you pocket a cool commission.”

“How much are we talking?”

“Depends on the state. Usually a few hundred thousand."

"Pennies, compared to the jackpot."

"Only if you're thinking small-time," Craft counters. "Imagine an enterprise. Imagine raking in profit on every single draw, ever."

"Nice theory kid, 'cept I can't think of a single store that's sold more than one winning ticket."

"That's where you're wrong." A grin splits his face. "What if I told you the same company has bought out every single winning lottery store a week before it sells the winning ticket... then offloaded it a month later?"

"I'd say that's a helluva coincidence. Then I'd ask how it happened without someone noticing."

"About a dozen layers of shell corporations, tracing back to something called TITAN holdings. They have an address out in Ybor city. Think we should check it out."

"I think you're right."

Part 2

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