Coop leaned over. “That was very well done of you. Not only did you save yourself, you’re going to help us nail this guy when we catch him. You’ve given us DNA from the skin you scored off his face with your fingernails. You’re a heroine, Ms. Rogers, a big whopping superstar.”
Liz studied their faces. “Why? This wasn’t a stupid mugging? Hey, you’re FBI, and that means something really heavy is happening here. What?”
Coop said, “The man, Todd, who bought you the drinks and wanted to walk you home, has murdered five women that we know of to date. Have you heard the news stories?”
Liz swallowed, nodded. “But—that was him? Oh, my.”
“But you saved yourself,” Coop said, and patted her hand when it looked like her eyes were going to roll back in her head. “You’re going to be okay.”
After another fifteen minutes of running her through what had happened again, asking questions every way they could phrase them, asking them again, and waving away Dr. Medelin when he came back to the room and frowned at them, they knew her bucket was empty. Lucy said, “We understand you gave an excellent description of this guy to a police artist. We’ll get back to you on that.
“You did really good, Liz. With the lovely DNA you got for us, we’re closer to bringing this monster down.”
“Weird thing is, like I told you, it was my mom who really saved my bacon. She’s so messed up, and now—what’s a daughter to do?”
“Keep bailing her out, I guess,” Lucy said, and smiled down at her.
“Nah,” Coop said. “You owe her something better. It’s time for some tough love. Send her to rehab, tell her it’s that or jail time.”
They left Liz Rogers humming in thought. They passed Dr. Medelin coming out of a patient’s room on a dead run. A nurse, Nancy Conklin according to her name tag, said, “Poor Mark, the E.R. called a code. He’s been on call for twenty-six hours now.”
“I didn’t know doctors still had such grueling schedules,” Lucy said.
“He’s a first-year resident,” and Lucy supposed, that said it all.
“He looks sleep deprived,” Coop said.
Nurse Conklin said, nodding, “Imagine how many patients suffer from that fact. Liz Rogers now, Mark’s been hovering over her even though he knows now she’s going to be okay. I think he’s interested in her, not that he’s got a second to spare away from this place. Sometimes life’s a bummer.”
Coop thought of Medelin’s exhausted face and didn’t hold out much hope for him.
CHAPTER 11
Hoover Building
Thursday afternoon
Savich handed a folder to each agent seated around the CAU conference, and walked back to the head of the table. He looked at each of them in turn, pausing at Lucy and Coop. “I have to say that what you have in front of you is about as unexpected as discovering that smoking cigarettes led to the extinction of the dinosaurs. As you know, Liz Rogers scraped her nails down our Black Beret’s face. We’ve been waiting for the forensic genetics people to finish their DNA testing. They’ve turned around with the fastest prep and analysis time I’ve seen for DNA typing, and we’ve run the results against our national database.” He paused for effect, and every agent at that table sat forward.
“The closest match is Ted Bundy’s DNA.”
Savich saw disbelief, astonishment, shaking heads, and heard snorts, gasps, and comments like “That’s just plain crazy” and “You’re making that up, Savich, to make sure we’re on our toes.”
Savich raised his hands, palms flat. “This isn’t a joke. Incredible as it seems, Ted Bundy’s DNA is the closest match.”
Coop said, “The Ted Bundy? You’re not putting us on?”
Savich smiled. “Yes, it’s the Ted Bundy.”
Coop sat forward in his chair. “But he’s dead, Savich, electrocuted. Late eighties, wasn’t it?”
Ruth said, “Yeah, he was electrocuted in Florida in 1989 for his last murder. He had more than ten years of appeals before they pulled the plug on him.”
Jack Crowne, who studied serial killers, said, “He eventually confessed to more than thirty murders, but no one believes the number was that low. He was forty-two when he was electrocuted. They have his DNA profile?”
Savich said, “They typed him and entered him in the database, in case we found any more of his crime scenes after he died.”
“So how can it be his DNA?” Dane Carver said, and smacked his forehead. “Well, hot diggity, it’s an illegitimate son, right, Savich? Carrying on his daddy’s fine work?”