Three deceased. All originally from different parts of the city or outta town, before last night.
The only two who are connected are the shooter of the first, my ‘lucky’ ticket guy from last night. The known to police shooter on the slab next to his a few hours later.
Door number three’s a homeless guy, no fixed address, and all of them with one million reasons to want that ticket.
“But the ticket isn't the motive, Harry,” Frank sighs, covering up the man with no face.
No dead eyes staring back though. Just a mess. Almost looking fake once all the gore has been washed away.
Almost easy to forget he was a guy with problems, hopes, and dreams just a few hours ago.
But I know, I know… I can’t save ‘em all.
“So what’s the link?” I ask aloud, more to myself rather than Frank, whose own brows lift with the same question.
“That’s part of what I need to know, Harry. And fast,” he says, glancing at his wristwatch.
With a final frown at the peaks and valleys of the recently departed under white morgue linen, he ushers me over to a desk.
A new landscape, where the players move and talk.
Hitting play on some video files he has open on a laptop.
“The ticket’s one thing… Maybe your field Harry.” He shrugs. “Whatever the link there is, if any, I got nothing,” he says with irritation, pointing a fat finger at some of the squares of recorded activity on the screen.
“You bought number one the ticket,” he says after clearing his throat, as if he’s presenting a lecture. “A ticket we’ve since learned is indeed a prize winner. Forensics cross referenced the sold ticket number back to the lottery commission… It’s a big ‘un,” he remarks with raised brows.
“Thorough….,” I murmur. Impressed someone had the good sense to check a detail that could easily be overlooked.
Less than impressed, I didn't keep the ticket myself.
But it sure makes a cracking motive for murder.
“Number two shoots his face off and walks away with the ticket and around thirty bucks from the register,” he adds, pausing to study my response.
“Okay,” I murmur. Figuring if the shooter swipes money from the register, he hasn’t checked the ticket. If you’ve got a million, what’s thirty in cash?
Enough to get you outta dodge…
“Forensics and the tape show the gun most likely went off unintended… Nervous trigger finger, sweat from the heat, whatever….”
I’m giving him my get-to-the-point look by now.
“So number two flees, ticket in hand. And still running after ten blocks before he ditches the gun which they’ve recovered and matched. Then he goes and does what he shouldn’t,” he says with disappointment, pointing at another loop of CCTV footage.
I strain a little to focus, but yeah. I see it.
Running in front of a moving train will do that to ya.
“Why did he run so far?” I ask. “Anyone chasing him?”
Again Frank studies me as if I’m gonna fucking glow all the answers on my forehead like a magic eight ball.
But he isn’t done and frowns at me so he can go on.
“Contestant number three, our John doe here… He’s spotted here… And… Here, finding number two, who’s now a raspberry pancake next to the tracks, and helping himself to guess what?” he asks, creasing the side of his mouth.
“A winning scratch ticket and around thirty bucks,” I remark dryly.