CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Harry wasn’t at his desk when we got to 26 Federal Plaza at five to 9:00, and he wasn’t there at 9:15, or 9:30. As per my last conversation with him, he was supposed to see Walsh today. Walsh was in, Harry was not.

The office was quiet for a change, and I counted three NYPD at their desks, and one FBI-Kate. Also, the command post center, elsewhere on the 26th floor, would be manned by at least one duty agent monitoring the phones, radios, and Internet. Hopefully, the terrorists were leaf watching in New England for the long weekend.

I called Harry Muller’s cell phone at 9:45 and left a message, then I called his house in Queens and left a message on his answering machine. Then I beeped him, which, in this business, is official.

At five after 10:00, Kate came across the floor and said to me, “Tom Walsh wants to see us.”

“Why?”

“I have no idea. Have you spoken to him yet?”

“No.” Kate and I walked to Walsh’s corner office. The door was open and we entered.

Walsh stood and met us halfway, which is usually a sign that you’re not in deep doo. He motioned us to the round table near the window and we sat. The table was strewn with papers and folders, very unlike when Jack Koenig occupied this office.

On his big picture window, about where you could once see the Twin Towers, was a black decal showing the towers, with the words 9/11-NEVER FORGET!

It was, as I said, a nice fall day, like the one a year and a month ago when the attacks happened. If it weren’t for the meeting at Windows on the World, Jack would probably have been here in his office and witnessed it as it happened. David Stein, too, would have seen it from his corner office. As it turned out, they saw it from much closer.

Tom Walsh began, “John, the computer security people inform me that you used your password to try to access a restricted file on Friday.”

“That’s right.” I looked at Walsh. He was young to be the special agent in charge, about forty, black Irish, not bad-looking, and unmarried. He had the reputation of being a ladies’ man, and also a teetotaler, making him an Irish queer-a guy who preferred women over whiskey.

He asked me, “What is your interest in that file?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Tom. I couldn’t get into it, so I don’t know if I had any interest in it.”

He stared at me, showing a little impatience, I thought.

I used to think I didn’t like Jack Koenig’s Teutonic style, and I thought I’d like Walsh, being half-Irish myself, but this was a case of the job shaping the man-nurture over nature or whatever.

He said, “What the hell is ‘Iraqi Camel Club Weapons of Mass Destruction’?”

“Just me being silly.” I glanced at Kate, but she wasn’t amused, only confused.

“I see.” He looked at Kate, his fellow FBI straight arrow, and asked her, “Did you mention that surveillance to John?”

“I did, but not until Sunday.”

Walsh said to me, “So, Harry Muller mentioned it to you.”

You never rat out a brother cop, so I replied, “Harry Muller? What’s he got to do with the custard…? What’s it called?”

“All right… it’s irrelevant, anyway.”

“I agree. And while I’m here, can I make a formal complaint about you asking my wife for permission to send me on an assignment upstate?”

“I wasn’t asking her permission. I was just extending both of you a courtesy. You’re married, and I wanted to see if this interfered with any personal plans you had for the holiday weekend.”

“Next time, ask me.”

“Fine. Point made.”

“Why did my name pop into your head?”

Walsh didn’t seem to want to discuss this, but he replied, “Obviously, I thought you’d be the best man for the job.”

“Tom, as you may know, the last rural surveillance I did was in Central Park, and I got lost for two days.”

He smiled politely, then said, “Well, I was thinking more in terms of other aspects of the surveillance.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for one thing, this surveillance involved trespassing on private land without a warrant, which is right up your alley. Also, this place-the Custer Hill Club-has good security, and there was a chance of the surveillance person being stopped and questioned by private guards, and I knew you could handle that.” He informed me, “The members of this club are people with some political influence in Washington.”

I was beginning to see why no one wanted to ask a judge for a search warrant. Aside from that, there seemed to be a disconnect between what Harry Muller told me-routine surveillance, file building, and so forth-and what Tom Walsh just said. Since Harry would not lie to me, I concluded that Harry had not been fully briefed by Walsh.

I said to Walsh, “So, bottom line, you needed a cop to take the fall if anything went wrong.”

“That’s totally not true. Let’s move on.” Tom Walsh looked at both of us and said, “We haven’t heard from Harry Muller.”

I had figured that’s why we were all in his office, but I had hoped it wasn’t. “Were you supposed to hear from him?”

“Only if there was a problem.”

“Sometimes, Tom, when there’s a problem, that’s when you don’t hear.”

“Thank you for your insight. Okay, let me tell you what I know.” He began, “Harry Muller, as you know, left here before five P.M. Friday. He went to Tech Support, got what he needed, and went to the garage for his camper, which he’d taken to work in anticipation of this assignment. Jennifer Lupo happened to see him in the garage, they exchanged a few words, and that was the last person we know who saw him.” He continued, “The next time he was heard from was a cell-phone call he made to his girlfriend, Lori Bahnik, at seven forty-eight A.M. Saturday morning.”

There was a recording device on the table, and Walsh hit a button. Harry’s voice said, “Hi, babe. It’s your one and only. I’m up here in the mountains, so maybe I won’t have good reception for very long. But I wanted to say hi, I got up here last night about midnight, slept in the camper, and now I’m on-duty, near the right-wing loony lodge. So don’t call back, but I’ll call you later from a landline if I can’t reach you by cell phone. Okay? I still need to do something at the local airport later today or tomorrow morning, so I might need to stay overnight. I’ll let you know when I know. Speak to you later. Love you.”

Walsh commented, “So, we know he got there, and we know he was near the subject property. At nine-sixteen A.M., she called him back and left a message on his cell phone, which we recovered from the phone company.” He hit the button again and Lori Bahnik’s voice said, “Hi, honey. Got your message. I was sleeping. I’m going shopping today with your sister and Anne. Call me later. I’ll have my cell with me. Okay? Let me know if you have to stay over. I love you, and I miss you. Be careful of those right-wing loonies. They like their guns. Take care.”

I said to Walsh, “Obviously, you’ve spoken to her.”

“Yes. This morning. She told me that at about four P.M. Saturday, she received a text message from Harry on her cell phone which said…” He glanced at a piece of paper on the table and read, “‘Sorry I missed your call-bad reception here-ran into some friends-fishing and hiking-see you Monday.’”

None of us raised the obvious point that the text message could have come from someone other than Harry. But apparently Lori thought it was from him because Walsh informed us, “She was not happy. She called him when she got the text message, and he didn’t answer. She continued calling and leaving messages and also paged him four or five times. Her last message to him was Sunday evening. She described to me her messages as increasingly angry and emotional. She told him if he didn’t return her calls, they were through.”

I asked him, “At what point did her anger turn to worry?”

“At about ten P.M. Sunday night. She had the after-hours number here and called. She spoke to the FBI duty agent-Ken Reilly-and told him about her concern.”