Paradox (FBI Thriller 22)

I’m sorry I failed you, Octavia. Sala accepted that he’d been the only one who could have saved her, but he hadn’t. And now she was gone. He felt the pain of it burrow deep. Yet again, Ty squeezed his hand.

He wondered if Octavia would have gone back to her ex-husband after all. He stilled. Wasn’t that her ex-husband standing at the edge of the nave? Octavia had shown Sala a photo of him on her phone. It had shown a tall, fair-haired man in his early forties, gym buff and smiling, his arm around her, hugging her tight. Now his shoulders were hunched forward, his face pale and set, as if carved in stone. He never looked away from Octavia’s coffin. Bill Culver was his name, Sala remembered. Culver looked utterly alone. Sala pointed as he whispered to Ty, “That man over there is Octavia’s ex-husband. Try to save an extra seat.”

Ty watched Sala weave his way toward Bill Culver near the back of the church and lightly touch his shoulder. The two men spoke. A few minutes later, Sala brought Culver back with him. He leaned down, introduced her. “And this is Chief Ty Christie.” He didn’t add Ty had seen Culver’s ex-wife murdered on Lake Massey.

Ty took Culver’s hand. His skin felt cold and dry. He looked frozen, his grief deep and raw. “Mr. Culver, please sit with us.” The three pressed together in a space meant for two, but their neighbors didn’t mind, probably didn’t even notice.

They sat quietly, listening to the organist play a slow requiem Sala didn’t recognize. Culver said, his voice nearly breaking, “That was one of Octavia’s favorite organ pieces. I wonder if they know that.” Sala looked down at his clasped hands and waited until the organist began another piece before he leaned toward Culver. “I know this is a very hard time for you, Mr. Culver—”

“Bill, please, Agent Porto.”

Sala nodded. “Call me Sala. You know about Victor Nesser?”

Culver stiffened, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth became a tight seam. “I saw his face all over TV and on the web. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, how could he kill her after what she did for him? Is he insane?”

“That’s the working hypothesis. Did Octavia ever talk to you about him?”

Culver looked down at his polished Italian loafers and nodded. “It was toward the end of our marriage, but both of us were still trying to resolve things in counseling. We were still civil.

“I remember Octavia felt sorry for him, said he was the saddest young man she’d ever seen, that he didn’t seem to care what happened to him. She said he’d focus on inconsequential things, like the guy in the cell next to him snoring, but mainly he complained about his ankle, said the FBI had shucked him off to a know-nothing intern who didn’t know an ankle from an elbow and he’d limp forever. But Octavia told me he barely limped. She hadn’t even noticed it until he’d complained about it.”

Sala felt his stomach drop. “Do you know the intern’s name?”

Culver shook his head. “I think I remember Octavia saying Nesser was treated at Washington Memorial. They took him there right after he was brought back from wherever it was the FBI caught him and that crazy girl he was with. Why?”

Because Nesser might go after him, that’s why. “Do you remember if Nesser told her he was angry at the defense she’d used at his competency hearing?”

Culver nodded. “She told me Nesser said to her face she was a lying bitch and how dare she announce to the world he was nothing but a pitiful pawn? She was worse than that worthless lawyer from L.A. he’d fired. I remember Octavia couldn’t believe it. She’d saved him from a trial with a jury that would have, justifiably, found him guilty of murder and bank robbery, even though he only drove the car. And he did shoot a police officer, but thankfully she didn’t die. He should have gotten life imprisonment or a lethal injection. That’s the law. Sorry, you know that. But she got him committed instead.” Culver shook his head. “She told me he was smart, so I suppose she was right. He escaped that mental hospital, didn’t he? Supposedly high-security? And he killed her because she simply pointed out he was a naïve putz who fell for a teenage Lolita.” He struck his fist against his open palm. “He needs to be put down.”

“I agree.”

Culver looked blindly ahead at the crowd of people, their heads bowed or staring straight ahead, some speaking quietly, and then at the spear of light still shining on Octavia’s face. “How many dead bodies did he and his crazy girlfriend leave behind?”

Sala knew, but he only shook his head.

“Octavia truly believed he’d been abused, both emotionally and physically, manipulated by his sixteen-year-old cousin. Lissy Smiley was her name—sorry, you know that, too. Octavia said Victor denied the physical abuse, said his father only hit his mother. When it was over, I remember she cried because she felt so bad he was upset with her. But she hoped he’d come to understand it was the only defense to get him out of jail in this lifetime. I remember I asked her if he would ever recognize it as the truth, if he would ever see what happened with clear sight. She had to admit he probably wouldn’t, he was too damaged. She did consider the sentence a victory. I remember clearly she believed true justice had prevailed. And now she’s dead.” His breathing stuttered. “Because she didn’t realize how truly crazy he really was.”

Sala understood the man’s fury,

his pain. He understood how helpless he felt. He didn’t hesitate, leaned close. “Octavia told me she was giving serious consideration to coming back to you.”

Culver’s eyes blazed, then the light died out again, and he shook his head back and forth. “No, she never said anything like that to me. I thought it was over. Did she really tell you that?”

“Yes, she did.”

Culver laughed, low and bitter. “When was this, Agent? Surely not when you were sleeping with her? Aren’t you any good in bed?”

The fury of Culver’s words jolted Sala, but then he calmed. He, too, would be out of his mind with anger at the man who’d been sleeping with the woman he wanted to come back to him, the man who had also failed to save her at crunch time. “No,” Sala said, “I guess not.”

Culver shook his head. “Sorry, none of this is your fault. The thing is, Octavia never knew what she wanted, but it was always something else, always something she didn’t have. I tried to understand, I really did, because I worshiped her. She had a great career, and when her grandmother died, she inherited millions from her offshore accounts.” He paused. “But it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.” Culver looked down at his clasped hands and drew a deep breath. “I can’t believe she’s dead, that I’ll never see her again, never make her favorite strawberry margarita for her.” He raised dazed eyes to Sala’s face. “Did she really say she was coming back to me?”

She hadn’t exactly, but Sala nodded.

When the organ music stopped, Father Francis McKay moved to stand at the podium. He paused a moment, looked out at the hundreds of mourners, and then began Octavia’s funeral mass. To a Protestant, the mass was like a choreographed dance, everyone knowing what to do when. It was long and slow and infinitely soothing. In the homily, Father McKay spoke of Octavia’s passion for justice, her love of her family and of all the people whose lives she’d touched in her too-short life.

Family and friends spoke next, filling the air with pain and raw emotion. Like Father McKay, they spoke of her kindness, her deep and abiding love for her family, and what she felt was her mission to help find justice for those unable to find it for themselves.

As he listened, Savich held Sherlock’s hand. He felt such rage at Victor Nesser, he knew if he’d been there, he’d have killed him. Justice long overdue. He knew he’d have to get in line.