Caging the Cuckoo

I was standing on my front of the porch when the two police cars rolled up to the curb. In a flash  two uniformed officers bolted out of their cars and hurried up my front steps. The younger of the pair named Wagner complete with the looks of somebody sent over from Central Casting for a Nazi picture descended upon me with a glint in his eye.
“What, what is this?” I stuttered.
“We have a warrant for your arrest,” said the blonde goose-stepper. The warrant was folded and tucked inside his shirt, unprotected by the usual prophylactic protection of a T-shirt.
“May I see it?”
The officer pulled it out with a flourish and handed it to me. Of the roughly 94 communicable diseases that one human can pass to another I wondered which one might be contained herein on the warrant. I tried to unfold it and give it a quick 'these papers on in order' look but as is wont with with 3rd derivative nazis all such courtesies are out the window. Gone are the days when Paul Henried was given the time to look over an arrest warrant from Major Strasser in Casablanca. Now it's just a teasing flash followed by a vandal grab.
He jammed the warrant back into his shirt and reached for my left wrist. I showed no resistance.   Wrong move. That only pisses them off more. He cuffed my left wrist with prejudice while simultaneously his partner, an older more rotund cop struck my right arm with the clear intent of knocking my cell phone out of my hand. My cellphone bounced off the porch of the Victorian house face up and still connected to my cousin.
My right hand was yanked back and cuffed. All I needed was some trussing string, I thought, and I'd be set for Thanksgiving.
“Could you be a gent and pick up my phone and put it in my pocket,” I asked. Politeness being always a problem with Nazis - if you're too polite you get the jackboot and not polite enough, the same.
“Don't worry,” said the fat cop who gave me the arm chop. “You'll get it back soon enough at the hospital.”   He slipped the phone into the side pocket of his jacket.
“Hospital!?” I cried. The word spun my brain around.
“We're taking you there under an Emergency Detention order.”
“Indiana code 7-11-24-7,” piped the other.
Wagner stopped in his tracks momentarily. “That doesn't sound right.”
“What do you mean?”
“The code is something else. I think you're mixing it up with that convenience store
ditty on TV.”
The other officer shot him a blank stare.
“That 7-11 tune,” he said, “we're 7-11 open 24 7.” “The statute is something like 3-5-8-13.”
“That can't be right."
  Those are gambling numbers used by that psycho who lives in the woods. Some say he's a genius.
The other cop shook his head with uncertainty.
“That long haired dude on the bike always in camo? He's no genius... just a burned out druggie.”
“Makes a living off the lottery. He's got a system based on those numbers... Fiorucci numbers I think he called them. Said Powerball's numbers aren't truly random.”
“Sounds like bullshit to me,” replied the younger officer. Holding my left cuffed arm with his right he manages to extract the warrant from its man cave and unfold it between his fingers of his left.
“Sez here he's arrested under IC 12-24-30-1.”
“Ok, so I'm not very good at math,” he replied peevishly. “What are you going to do about it... shoot me.” He turned to me and shot me a wolfish grin, “betcha'd like that now.”
No, I had taken no position on that thought, but in terms of service to the overall humanity such
such an act would be considered a plus.
The song and dance of the arrest made me miss the tell. In hindsight, how did I miss such an obvious tell?    The moment I laid eyes on both officers' sartorial crispness I should have known dear old Dad had more than a hand in my arrest, his perchlorytene – not unlike Satan's sulfurous effluvial -  fingerprinting the entire beastly affair.