Difficult Run by John Dibble Page B

right over there.”
    M.J. and Lola started running when they got back to the Old Carriage Road.   M.J. started slowly and the dog kept her pace, looking back occasionally as if to seek approval.   As M.J. increased her stride, Lola matched it, never straying from her right side.
    They ran about three miles and circled back to Doc’s campsite.   When they reached the tent, M.J. reached into her pocket, took out another treat and gave it to the dog.   “Good girl,” she said, scratching behind Lola’s ears.
    Doc was sitting where they had left him, sipping his coffee.   “How’d she do?” he asked.
    “Great,” M.J. replied.   “A born runner.”
    “Feel free to take her along anytime,” he said.
    “I’ll do that,” M.J. said.   “I plan on running every day, but it may not always be at the same time.   Is that a problem?”
    “As you’ve probably noticed,” Doc said, smiling, “we don’t have much of a schedule, so just stop by when you’re in the neighborhood.”
    “Will do,” M.J. replied, giving Lola one more scratch behind the ears.   “By the way, thanks for the information on what you saw last spring.   It may be very helpful.”
    “No problem,” he said.
    “I’ve got to go now, but I’ll probably see you tomorrow,” M.J. said, turning toward the trail.
    When she got back to the Visitor Center locker room, she showered and changed into her pantsuit.   Jake was going to pick her up so they could go to the interviews in McLean, but she had a few minutes and stopped by Dodd’s office.
    “M.J.,” he said, looking up from his desk. “How are things going?”
    “Fine,” she said.   “Have any of your people seen or heard anything?”
    “Nothing,” he replied.   “A couple of reporters came around yesterday, but we told them any questions had to be referred to your office.”
    “Thanks for that,” M.J. said.   “We’re holding back any details on the murders for the time being.”
    “Understood,” he said.   “I’ll let you know right away if we come up with anything.”
    “Thanks,” she said.   “See you in a couple of days.”
    She walked out to the parking lot where Jake was waiting in his unmarked car.
    M.J. had interviewed a lot of families of victims.   Sometimes it produced useful information; usually it did not.   She was not looking forward to meeting with the boys’ parents because it was likely to only be an encounter with the raw edge of grief and little else.   But it was one of the items on the checklist of an investigation, and it had to be done.
    The Marsten residence was on a quiet, tree-lined street in McLean.   Compared to some of the sprawling homes in the area, it was quite modest.   The car they had found in the parking lot at Difficult Run was tucked to one side of the driveway, the bike rack still attached to its bumper.
    They rang the doorbell and were met by David Marsten, a tall man with graying hair, probably in his late forties.
    “Please, come in,” he said.   “My wife and the Hagers are in the living room.”
    As they entered the room, the three parents rose from their seats.   The two mothers were wearing black knee-length dresses.   The fathers were dressed in suits and ties.   All of them had the haggard look brought on by unbearable grief.
    One of the women stepped forward and held out her hand. “I’m Jean Marsten, Steve’s mother,” she said. “This is Phil and Kate Hager, Patrick’s parents.”
    M.J. and Jake shook everyone’s hand and sat down in two chairs opposite a sofa and a loveseat where the parents were sitting.
    “We apologize for bothering you during this difficult time,” M.J. said, “but there are a few questions we need to ask to help us find whoever murdered your boys.”
    “Anything we can do to help . . . anything,” Phil Hager said.
    “What can you tell us about your boys and why they happened to be in Great Falls Park the night they were killed?” M.J. asked.
    David Marsten was