“Shirley put together some of the info we have about Bundy in your folders with links to a good deal more, as well as the profilers’ rundown on Bundy’s daughter. Get back to me with anything you think would be helpful.

“There’s no way Bundy’s daughter can remain in Philadelphia unless she does a thorough makeover. And she’s got a scratch on her face to hide. Liz Rogers thought she scratched her good, but she was nearly unconscious at the time.”

Jack asked, “You really think she’ll get back into skirts?”

Lucy said, “Why not? She’s a killer, and that’s what she does, so how is she going to do it without being caught and executed like Daddy was? I’m thinking maybe she’ll go female but keep the arty look.”

Coop was tapping his pen on the conference table. “It seems to me if she’s following in her daddy’s bloody ways, she must have killed before age thirty-three.”

Savich said, “I know the profilers think she may have started late because her mother didn’t tell her the identity of her father until she was older. Let’s hope so, but we don’t know that.”

Ollie said, “She could have killed and buried the bodies deep. But then, why is she coming out into the open now? Was there a specific trigger, like it appears there was with Bundy? Was she leading a fairly normal life until a few months ago?”

Everyone chewed this over.

Jack said, “I wonder if she visits her victims’ graves, like Bundy did?”

“That’s not all Bundy did to his dead victims,” Lucy said, and shuddered.

Savich said, “Good points. Now, MAX is working on photos. We’ll meet back here in a couple of hours.”

Ten minutes later, Savich’s cell blasted out George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone.”

“Ben Raven here, Savich. Remember your hairy shoot-out at Shop ’n Go last week? I’ve got some news for you.”

“You put nail screws to the guy in the hospital, Ben, made him talk?”

“Nope, not yet. When you shot him in the shoulder, the bullet did more damage than expected. He’s still in pretty bad shape. His name is Thomas Wenkel, and the Chevy Impala is registered to him, not to the woman, an Elsa Heinz.

“I called you because last night someone shot your Mr. Patil at the Shop ’n Go during what looks like another robbery. No witnesses, not a soul around, no one even heard the shot. Evidently he’d just turned off the lights and was locking the back door when someone simply walked up to him and shot him in the back. His wallet was missing, and the bank-deposit money bag was gone. A beat cop in Georgetown had been doing drive-bys past Shop ’n Go after the robbery attempt last week. The officer saw the store was closed, but he saw Mr. Patil’s car was still there, and investigated.

“Mr. Patil is seventy-five years old, Savich, weighs maybe one hundred thirty pounds on a fat day. It’s hard to believe, but he survived three hours of surgery. It’s still no sure thing he’ll survive, and the doctors don’t want to commit. His condition’s listed as critical.”

Savich said, “And you’re wondering why a robber would shoot an old man in the back when all he’d have to do is maybe tap his jaw with his fist and take the bank-deposit bag.”

“Makes me wonder.”

“I’m trying to remember Thomas Wenkel’s exact behavior when he had the gun aimed at Mr. Patil that Tuesday night. Was he there to kill him, and just faked robbing the store? Hard to say. Of course, there was the woman—Elsa Heinz—waiting in the car. She sure came in fast, ready to kill everyone in sight. What do you have on her, Ben?”

“Elsa isn’t what you’d call a nice person. She’d been in and out of jail all of her adult life—robbery, hijacking, all sorts of scams. I haven’t found out how she and Wenkel got together.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it, Ben. Do you mind if I speak to Mr. Patil when he’s cogent? Speak to his kids and his wife?”

“He might not make it, Savich, but if he does, have at it. I can use all the help I can get on this.”

“I have this feeling Mr. Patil will pull through. I’ll keep in touch, Ben.”

“We can compare notes later.”

“You’ve got a guard on Mr. Patil?”

“Yes, I got it approved for a couple of days, at least. Officer Horne’s a young guy but smart, I’ve been told. He’ll keep the old man safe.”

Savich hoped very much that Mr. Patil, a nice man with photos of all his grandchildren and great-grandchildren stuffing his wallet, would be ringing up beer sales again sometime soon.