Difficult Run (4 page)

The killer or killers would probably have hidden on the hillside just up from the place where the Ridge Trail meets this trail and then jumped down to intercept and attack the boys,
M.J. thought.
 
But why here?
 
Perhaps because it was so remote and the chances of being discovered so unlikely.
 
That meant that they had some familiarity with the park and especially with Difficult Run.

“Let’s head back to your office,” she said.
 
“I think I’ve seen all I need to for now.”

They hiked back up the Ridge Trail and then followed it in the opposite direction from the way they had come until it intersected with a wide gravel road.
 
“This is the Old Carriage Road,” Dodd said.
 
“It’s used a lot by runners, horseback riders, and bikers.”

They followed the Old Carriage Road back to the main part of the park and then cut across to the Visitor Center.
 
When they entered Dodd’s office, M.J. looked at her watch.
 
They had been gone almost three hours. “How far do you think we just hiked?” she asked.

“All told, I’d say about eight or nine miles,” he replied, adding, “We actually made pretty good time.”

M.J. sat across from his desk.
 
“Does anyone stay in the park at night?” she asked.

Dodd hesitated and looked down at his hands.
 
“Well … not officially,” he replied.

“What do you mean
not officially
?” M.J. asked.

“I mean there’s no housing here for the site manager or any of the rangers.
 
We close the main gate at sundown and one of your marked cars makes sure there are no cars left in the parking lots.
 
After that, everybody’s supposed to be gone,” he replied.

“Dodd, I know everyone is
supposed
to be gone, but is there anyone still here on a regular basis?” she asked with a note of irritation in her voice.

He looked up and said, “Yes there is.
 
There’s a homeless guy with a camp back in the forest.
 
He’s a Vietnam vet.
 
Lives there with his dog.
 
He doesn’t bother anybody and we just leave him alone.
 
He was a Navy corpsman attached to a Marine unit and he’s administered first aid to some of the rangers when they’ve fallen and cut themselves, things like that. One time, he even set a broken arm until we could get the ranger to the hospital.”

“So why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place?” she asked.

“Look, M.J., you know it’s against the law for anyone to have a permanent camp site in a national park.
 
The only way we could get him out would be to call you guys and have him arrested and we didn’t want to do that.
 
We actually like the guy and check up on him now and then to make sure he’s alright.
 
Like I said, he’s helped us out several times and he doesn’t bother anybody.
 
I hope you won’t report this to anybody,” Dodd said.

M.J. thought for a moment and said, “I’m not going to report it, but I want to talk to him. When can I do that?” she asked.

“I’ll have one of the rangers go by tomorrow morning and tell him to expect you.
 
His camp is behind a big rock outcropping off the Swamp Trail.
 
Not many people go back that way.
 
I think the name of the trail puts them off,” Dodd said.

“I’ll plan on going to see him tomorrow afternoon,” she said.
 
“There’s one other thing.
 
I run every morning.
 
I’ve been running at Hains Point, but I’d like to start running here so I can see who comes and goes in the park.
 
Is that a problem?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he replied.
 
“There are lots of runners here every day.
 
The park opens at seven in the morning, but I’ll give you a key for the gate so you can come earlier if you want.
 
We’ve got locker rooms in this building and you can shower and change there.”

“Sounds great, Dodd.
 
By the way, what’s the homeless guy’s name?” she asked.

“His last name is Wonders.
 
I don’t know his first name.
 
We just call him Doc.
 
His dog’s name is Lola,” he replied.

M
.J. STOPPED ON THE WAY to her apartment and purchased several extra-large T-shirts, big enough to hide her gun belt.
 
It had occurred to her that she might encounter the murderer while she was running in the park and she didn’t want that to happen while she was unarmed.
 
When she ran at Hains Point, she didn’t wear her gun belt and her rough calculation was that it—together with the gun, extra magazines, handcuffs, and pepper spray canister—would weigh about six pounds.
 
She spent some time rearranging the items on the belt to balance the weight for running, then put it on and ran in place to try it out.
 
Not perfect, she thought, but she could handle it.

The next morning, she went to Anacostia Station.
 
The message light on her phone was flashing.
 
It was Zerk asking her to come by the lab, which she did after downing a cup of coffee and checking the duty roster.

Zerk was sitting in front of a computer monitor when she entered the lab.
 
He motioned her over to a table where the two bicycles ridden by the boys were lying on their sides along with their two helmets, all marked with evidence tags.

“There weren’t any usable prints on the helmets, just smudges,” he said, “but I think I’ve got something else that might be helpful.”

He pointed to the front wheel of one of the bikes.
 
“If you look carefully, you’ll notice that the spokes are depressed in this area,” he said, moving his finger in an arc over the wheel.
 
“I think the killer may have stepped on it going after the other boy.
 
Come over here and take a look at this.”

She followed him to the computer where he had been working.
 
He typed in some information and a picture of the wheel appeared.

“This is the wheel with the depressed area,” he said, typing on the keyboard, “and this is a picture of the wheel that I took using a lens with a very short focal length to enhance the image of the depression.” M.J. looked at the picture, which clearly showed an impression about the size of a foot.
 
“It’s not really usable as a footprint because there’s no detail,” he said, “but I was able to do some experiments that may give you some information.”

Zerk got up from the computer and walked back to the table where the bikes had been placed.
 
He pointed to a wheel lying by itself on the corner of the table.

“I was able to measure the depth of the depression using some instruments I have here in the lab.
 
I bought the exact same wheel at a bicycle shop and then started placing weights on the spokes until they reached the same depth.
 
Based on that, I’d say the murderer weighed between 180 and 200 pounds and, based on the rough size of the depression, I’d say he wore a size 12 or 13 shoe,” he explained.

“Zerk, that’s amazing,” M.J. said, noting the look of accomplishment on his face.

“Actually, I can give you one more piece of information,” he quickly added.
 
“There is a rough correlation between a person’s shoe size and their height.
 
That size shoe probably belongs to someone who is around six feet tall, give or take an inch.”

“That narrows things down,” M.J. said.
 
“Thanks, Zerk.
 
Let me know if you figure out anything else.”

She went back to her desk, passing Jake on the way.

“I’m going back out to Great Falls Park to interview someone who might have some information,” she said to Jake.
 
“Zerk gave me some great stuff and, after I talk to the Medical Examiner, I may need your help in interviewing some more people.”

“I’m in the process of finishing up an assault investigation, but I should be finished by tomorrow.
 
Just let me know,” he said.

“I’ll do that,” she said.
 
“Oh, and if you want to have pizza tomorrow night, I’ll buy.”

“Deal,” he said.

She went back to her car and started the drive to Great Falls Park.
 
She arrived at the Visitor Center carrying her gym bag and stuck her head into Dodd’s office.

“Good morning,” she said.
 
“Am I OK to stop by and see Doc later today?”

“I had one of the guys stop by his camp this morning to let him know you’d be coming,” Dodd replied.
 
“Are you going running?” he asked, pointing to her gym bag.

“I plan to do that right now.
 
I’ll see him after I finish and clean up.
 
Thanks for the locker, by the way,” she said.

“No problem.
 
Enjoy your run,” he replied.

She changed into her running clothes and shoes, fastened the gun belt around her waist and pulled the T-shirt over it.
 
There was a full-length mirror in the locker room and she stopped to see how she looked.
 
“It makes me look fat,” she said aloud, “but that’s the price of law enforcement.”

Outside the locker room, she did her stretches and then began running down the trail past the overlooks.
 
There were several other runners, men and women, taking the same path.
 
She cut across to the Old Carriage Road and picked up her pace.
 
The packed gravel surface was good for running and she was able to achieve a speed nearly equal to her Hains Point runs.
 
Her breathing was measured and the gun belt was proving not to be a real problem.

She ran about two miles to the end of the Old Carriage Road, did a high-stepping U-turn, and headed back toward the Visitor Center. She passed more than a dozen runners coming the other way.
 
They were mostly twenty-somethings.
 
Some were wearing earphones listening to God-knows-what, oblivious to the natural beauty around them.
 
She thought she recognized a couple of faces from one of the marathons she had run. None of the runners had the look of a killer.

When she reached the parking lot at the Visitor Center, she jogged in place for a few minutes, did some stretches and checked the GPS-enabled watch that she wore when she ran.
 
It registered 5.2 miles—about the same distance she usually ran at Hains Point—and a little over thirty-eight minutes; slower than her usual pace, but not too bad. The next time she would vary the run to include some uphill stretches, like the Ridge Trail and the trail at Difficult Run, she thought.
 
It would increase her time, but it would be good strength training and let her see who might be on the back trails, away from the twenty-somethings.

She took a quick shower and changed back into the dark blue pantsuit that was her normal workday outfit.
 
She unclipped her sidearm from the gun belt and attached the holster to the belt she used with the pantsuit.
 
She did the same with the handcuffs, pepper spray, and extra magazines.
 
Instead of her regular work shoes, however, she pulled on her hiking shoes.

She walked by Dodd McMillan’s office again.
 
He was gone, but she was told that he was outside the building talking to several rangers.
 
M.J. went out the side door and waited until he was finished.

“I’ll need some directions to get to Doc Wonders’ camp,” she said.

“I’ll be glad to take you up there, if you like,” Dodd offered.

“That’s OK.
 
I’d rather talk to him alone, if you don’t mind,” she said.

“I understand,” he replied.
 
“It shouldn’t be too hard for you to find.
 
Just go back up the Old Carriage Road.
 
The sign for the Swamp Trail is on the right.”

M.J. remembered seeing it on her morning run.
 
“Then what?” she asked.

“Just follow the trail,” he said.
 
“There are footbridges over some small streams coming out of the hills.
 
Right after the second one, you’ll see a path to the right that goes up a steep hill and around a big outcropping of rock.
 
Follow it to the plateau at the top and you’ll be at Doc’s camp.
 
Like I said, he’ll be expecting you.”

“Thanks.
 
I’ll stop by when I get back,” she said.

As she walked down the Old Carriage Road, she began to develop a picture in her mind of what Doc Wonders probably looked like:
 
He was a Vietnam veteran, which meant that he was in his late fifties or early sixties.
 
He probably suffered from PTSD and would have a wild stare in his eyes.
 
She expected him to be wearing an old uniform or some type of camouflage clothing.
 
He would probably be unshaven and might have a full beard.

She entered the Swamp Trail.
 
It was very rough and passed through a lot of rocky areas that required some navigation for safe passage.
 
She reached the second footbridge after a few minutes of walking and looked up to her right where she saw the path. It had several cutbacks, but she still had to be careful of her footing. In some places the ground was still wet and slippery from the heavy rain and she had to plant the toes of her shoes to keep from sliding backwards.

The plateau at the top of the path was about fifty feet square and trailed off into underbrush and woods on three sides.
 
In the middle of the clearing was a large tent with a front awning, under which there were two canvas chairs and a small table.

Doc Wonders came around the corner of the tent, walking with a noticeable limp, followed by his dog.
 
Her mental picture of a semi-crazed Vietnam vet couldn’t have been more wrong.
 
He was about six feet tall, trim and fit, wearing khaki pants and a polo shirt.
 
His hair was trimmed neatly and he was clean-shaven.

“Hi, I’m Doc Wonders,” he said, extending his hand.
 
“You must be the Park Police person they said would be stopping by.”

“M.J. Powers,” she said, shaking his hand.

“Well, this is Lola,” he said, motioning toward his dog, which looked to be some sort of yellow Lab and hound mix with short light brown hair, a white diamond patch on her chest and long spindly legs.
 
She was one of those dogs that didn’t just wag her tail, she wagged her whole body as she came over to greet M.J. with a dog smile on her face.

“Hello, Lola,” M.J. said as she reached down to scratch the dog behind its ears.
 
When she stopped scratching, the dog sat down and looked up at her with expectant eyes.
 
“OK,” M.J. said as she knelt down to pet the dog’s head and back.
 
“That’s all for now.”

“I just made some coffee,” Doc said.
 
“It’s not Starbucks, but it’s not too bad.
 
I only have powdered cream though.”

“I’d love some,” M.J. said, “and black is just fine.”

Doc motioned to the two chairs in front of the tent and M.J. sat down.
 
Lola came over and pressed against her leg.

“Let me know if she’s bothering you,” Doc said as he walked over to a Coleman stove where he picked up a coffee pot.

“She’s not bothering me at all,” M.J. replied, scratching behind Lola’s ears.
 
“I grew up around dogs.”

There were two mugs on the small table and he filled both.
 
“I drink mine black too,” he said.
 
“I just keep the cream stuff around in case anybody wants it.”

“So how did you wind up living here?” M.J. asked, taking a sip of the coffee.

“Well,” he replied, “I was living at my folks’ place in western Pennsylvania and I had hitchhiked down to the Navy Medical Center in Bethesda for treatment of some wounds I got in Vietnam.
 
I was hitching back and the truck driver let me out on the Capital Beltway at the exit for Georgetown Pike.
 
I started walking this way figuring it would be a shortcut home.
 
It was getting toward dark and when I reached the entrance to the park I thought I’d just spend the night here and start hitching again in the morning.