Difficult Run (9 page)

“Thanks, Dad,” she said.

Her mother appeared at the door and said, “Dinner’s ready if you two sleuths are finished.”

As they got up to go inside her father handed the file back to her and said, “Now you go put that away before we eat.”

The fried chicken was as good—actually better—than M.J. remembered.
 
She heaped mashed potatoes and fresh corn on her plate to go with it.

“Honey, have you been eating enough?” her mother asked, watching her devour the meal and take a second helping.

“Yeah, Mom.
 
I just don’t get food this good,” she replied.

They talked about happenings in Ronceverte and her mother seemed to provide a lot of information about M.J.’s classmates who had gotten married, were pregnant or already had children.
 
M.J. knew this was a thinly-disguised suggestion that she should be considering the same thing.

“How is your friend Jake?” her father interjected.
 
M.J. had brought him home one weekend to meet her parents.

“He’s OK,” she said.
 
“We’re still dating and of course we work together.”

“He seems like a very nice boy,” her mother said.

“He is,” M.J. responded and tried to change the subject.
 
“Are a lot more people out of work here?” she asked.

“It sure looks that way,” her father replied. “Of course, there’s not as many people living here as there used to be. I know some of the stores downtown are having a real tough time.”

They ate in silence for a while.
 
M.J. was stuffed, but her mother started clearing the table and said, “I made a fresh apple pie and you father picked up some ice cream.
 
Want some?”

“Sure,” M.J. said, knowing that it would push her over the edge.
 
It was only seven o’clock and she was already feeling sleepy.

M.J. got up early the next morning and put on her running clothes.
 
She headed up the steep hill behind her parents’ house, the same hill she had run as a child.
 
There was a trail along the ridge that lead to the town of Ronceverte and she increased her pace.
 
She missed having Lola running next to her but did not miss the added weight of her gun belt.

She came down off the ridge and followed the trail to Main Street, passing Rudy’s Corner Grill where she had worked as a waitress on weekends in high school. The town only had a population of 1,500 and M.J. knew most of its residents.
 
She passed several people who waved and yelled out her name or “Good to have you back!”
 
She had run this same route every day growing up and she enjoyed the familiarity.

She cut over to Edgar Avenue, which ran parallel to the railroad tracks.
 
A long freight train hauling coal was moving slowly through the town and M.J. instinctively tried to outrace it, just as she used to do as a girl.

At the end of town, she cut back to the trail along the ridge and then along it to her parents’ house.
 
When she arrived, her father was sitting on the front porch with a cup of coffee.
 
She gave him a kiss on the forehead and sat down.

“How have you been feeling, Dad?” she asked.
 
“You look like you’ve put on a little weight.
 
Are you getting enough exercise?”

“I actually feel pretty good,” he said.
 
“Since I retired I probably haven’t been getting as much exercise as I should, but I walk into town once or twice a week.
 
It’s your mother’s cooking that’s made me put on some weight.”

M.J. smiled. “Just because she cooks it doesn’t mean you have to eat it all,” she said.

“I know, I know,” he replied, patting his stomach.

M.J. gave him another kiss and went to the kitchen where her mother was cooking bacon and eggs.
 
She hugged her and poured some coffee for herself.

“Mom, don’t cook a lot of that for me.
 
I’m not much of a breakfast eater,” she said.

“Whatever you don’t eat, I’m sure your father will be glad to finish,” she replied cheerfully.

“I know,” M.J. said, “but he needs to cut back on his eating and get some exercise, too.
 
I just told him so.”

“That’s what I tell him all the time, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference,” her mother replied.

“Speaking of which, how have you been feeling, Mom?” M.J. asked.

“Oh, I really feel fine,” her mother replied.
 
“My legs get a little achy sometimes, but that’s from all the years I spent on my feet waitressing. Other than that, no complaints.”

M.J. stepped back and looked at her mother.
 
“Well, you look great, Mom,” she said.

“Aren’t you sweet,” her mother said and gave her a hug. “Now go tell your father it’s time to eat.”

Over breakfast, M.J. told them about the people she had seen on her run.

“You were such a fixture with your daily runs I’ll bet some of them thought they were in a time warp,” her father said, laughing.

“Why don’t you and I go downtown a little later and do some shopping,” her mother said to M.J.

“That would be great,” M.J. replied.
 
“Dad, I brought a couple of movies for us to watch this afternoon, if you’re up for it.”

“You know me.
 
I’m always up for a movie,” he said, dishing the last of the scrambled eggs onto his plate.

That evening, M.J.’s mother made meatloaf.
 
It was delicious and M.J. once again ate enough to make her sleepy.
 
She was only able to join in a game of Scrabble until about nine o’clock.
 
“I’m going to have to leave you two to duke it out.
 
I need to get going fairly early tomorrow,” she said.

“That’s OK, Honey,” her mother said.
 
“I think you probably can use the sleep anyway.”

M.J. got up the next morning and had coffee on the porch with her parents.
 
Her father carried her bag out to her car.

“I know that case you’re working on is frustrating as hell,” he said, “but trust your instincts and you’ll be OK.
 
Yours have always been good and that’s what will help you solve it.”

She gave him a hug.
 
“Thanks, Dad,” she said.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

M
.J. WAS STILL FRUSTRATED with the lack of progress in the murder cases, but the weekend with her parents had helped to put things more in perspective. She found herself lessening the intensity, if not the frequency, of her surveillance of people in the park.

There seemed little else that she could do but wait for a break of some sort.
 
Thus far, none of the public appeals for information had produced anything at all.
 
The parents of the murdered boys had called M.J. several times to see if any progress had been made in the investigation. In early June, David Marsten called to say that the families and some friends had put together a reward of $10,000 for information leading to the arrest of the killer or killers.
 
M.J. explained that it would be difficult to obtain any federal reward money, but that she would try.
 
In the interim, she said, the families’ offer would be added to the public information on the case.
 
A small article about the reward appeared in the Metro section of the
Washington Post
and similar stories were published in the community newspapers.

It was now mid-June, more than two months since the murders had occurred, and still nothing.
 
M.J. continued to run in the park every day and to walk Difficult Run at night.

She was beginning to wonder if her daily runs had a chance of producing any usable information when she saw something that caught her attention.
 
It was late in the day and she was just getting ready to turn off the Old Carriage Road onto the Swamp Trail to pick up Lola when she saw a solitary figure running ahead of her.
 
He was about six feet tall with a shaven head and massive shoulders and biceps that stretched the material of his gray T-shirt to the limit.
 
He was wearing running shorts and M.J. could see that he was in very good shape.
 
She decided to follow him.

He was running, not jogging, but M.J. still had to slow her usual pace so she didn’t overtake him.
 
She stayed back about a hundred yards to keep from being noticed, but he never looked behind him.

At the Ridge Trail, he started up the steep slope without noticeably reducing his speed.
 
M.J. followed, still keeping her distance.
 
He disappeared over the hill on the trail, and she slowed to make sure she didn’t accidentally catch up to him.

When she reached the crest of the hill, he had almost reached the bottom of the trail where it intersected with Difficult Run.
 
M.J. was about to start running again, when he suddenly stopped at the juncture of the trails.
 
She stopped and stepped behind a tree.

He was near the spot where the boys had been murdered.
 
He slowly surveyed the area from right to left but never looked in the direction where M.J. was hiding.
 
Then something strange happened.
 
He bowed his head and his huge shoulders began to shake.
 
It took M.J. a moment to realize that he was sobbing.

He suddenly fell to his knees, still sobbing, and placed his face in his hands.
 
He stayed that way for several minutes until he finally stood up, using the sleeve of the T-shirt to wipe his eyes.
 
He started moving up Difficult Run, not running this time, but walking slowly, his head still bent.

M.J. made her way carefully down the Ridge Trail and waited until he was once again about a hundred yards ahead of her position.
 
He was still walking and she did the same.
 
There were a few other people on Difficult Run and she noticed that when he passed them he straightened himself and seemed to be avoiding any kind of eye contact.

He kept walking until he reached the parking lot, where he went over to a late model Dodge Charger, opened the door and got in.
 
M.J. went to a car directly opposite, placed her foot on its bumper and pretended to be doing stretches while she memorized his North Carolina license plate number.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

B
Y THE TIME M.J. GOT TO ANACOSTIA STATION, Jake had run the license number and had left a copy of the report on her desk.
 
She briefly looked at it and walked over to his desk.

“So what gives?” he asked.

She explained how she had followed the man in the park, his physical description, and his strange actions near the murder scene.
 
Jake nodded his head and said, “Definitely sounds like something worth pursuing.”

The plate had come back as registered to a Franklin C. Cody with an address in Jacksonville, North Carolina, a town just outside Camp Lejeune.
 
The plate had not been registered with any of the local jurisdictions, but M.J. found a matching telephone listing in Springfield, Virginia.
 
She waited a hour and called it. A man answered the phone.

“Is this Mr. Cody?” M.J. asked.

“Yes, this is Sergeant Cody.
 
What can I do for you?” he replied.

“Sergeant, this is Detective Powers of the United States Park Police.
 
I was wondering if we might set up a time to meet and ask you a few questions.”

“What kind of questions?” he asked.

“Well, we’re conducting an investigation and we thought you might be able to help us,” she said.

“I don’t understand.
 
Am I in some kind of trouble?” he asked.

“No, Sergeant.
 
We would just like to meet and ask you some questions.
 
It’s completely voluntary on your part, but we would really appreciate it,” M.J. said.

“Where is it you want to meet?” he asked.

“We’re located in the Park Police station in Anacostia Park.
 
Do you know where that is?” she asked.

“Yeah, sure.
 
I’ve gone running there a few times,” he said.

“Is there sometime tomorrow that might work for you?” M.J. asked.

“Well, I’m temporarily assigned to the Marine Corps Barracks which is just across the river from you.
 
I could come by when I get off duty at four,” he said.

“That would be great.
 
We’ll look for you around four thirty, if that’s OK,” M.J. said.

“Sure, I’ll see you then.
 
By the way, do I need to bring a lawyer or anything?” he asked.

“You can if you want, but we just want to ask you some questions,” M.J. responded.

“OK, I’ll be there,” he replied.

M.J. turned to Jake, who had been listening on the other line.
 
“This should be interesting,” she said.

Sergeant Cody arrived promptly at four thirty, without an attorney, and was escorted to the conference room on the first floor where M.J. and Jake were waiting.
 
He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties, but his eyes had a vacant stare that made him appear much older.
 
He was wearing the Marine Corps uniform consisting of a short-sleeve khaki shirt and drab green trousers.
 
His hat was tucked tightly under his arm.

His shoulders and arms were as massive as M.J. remembered from the trail, and his chest, which she had not seen, was equally well developed.
 
She surmised that he had to have his shirts tailored to fit his physique.

His shirt was adorned with three rows of medals and M.J. recognized a Silver Star and what she thought was a Bronze Star.
 
He towered over both her and Jake.

“Please have a seat Sergeant,” she said. “Thank you for coming.”

“Yes Ma’am.
 
What is this about?” he asked.

“Well, as I said on the phone, we just want to ask you a few questions,” she replied. “I guess the first question is whether you have you ever been to Great Falls Park?”

“Yes Ma’am, yesterday, as a matter of fact,” he replied.

“Is that the first time you’d been there?” she asked.

“Yes Ma’am,” he replied.

“And why did you go there?” she asked.

“A friend of mine told me it was a good place to run, so I thought I’d try it out,” he responded.

“You ran down a trail to a place called Difficult Run and stopped and looked around.
 
Why did you do that?” M.J. asked.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“I was behind you on the trail,” M.J. responded.

“What’s wrong with stopping and looking around?” he asked.

“Nothing.
 
But then you started to cry, sob really,” M.J. said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with some irritation.

“Sergeant, I was right behind you on the trail and I saw you start crying and then fall to your knees with your face in your hands,” M.J. said.

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
 
“Why are you asking me these questions anyway?”

“OK, Sergeant. There were two murders committed very near the place where I saw you stop and start sobbing and we’d like to know what you know about them,” M.J. said.
 
“Just tell us why you stopped there and started crying.”

Cody looked down at the floor.
 
He seemed to be composing himself.
 
When he looked up he asked, “Are you going to tell my C.O. about this?”

“Not based on anything we’ve heard so far,” M.J. replied.

Cody hesitated and took a deep breath. “Three years ago,” he said, looking at the floor again, “a squad I was leading was ambushed by the Taliban on a trail by a stream in eastern Afghanistan.
 
The place looked just like the place where I stopped when I was running yesterday.
 
Three of my men were killed in that ambush and two more seriously wounded.
 
I guess when I saw that place in the park I had some kind of a flashback.
 
It just came out of nowhere and completely overwhelmed me.
 
I’ve had some other problems like this, but they didn’t bring me down this hard.”

M.J. gave him a few moments before speaking.

“One last question Sergeant, she said. “Where were you on April 4 of this year?”

“That’s easy to answer Ma’am,” he replied.
 
“I was in Helmand Province in Afghanistan with the 2nd Battalion of the 8th Marines.”

M.J. and Jake looked at each other in stunned silence.

When she finally spoke, M.J. said “Thank you for meeting with us.”
 
She hesitated and then said, “And thank you for your service.”

After Cody had left, M.J. turned to Jake and said, “I need a drink.”