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.”