In the minutes after the murder, I search and acquire the contact information for the immediate family. Manning makes the calls. We’re still at Ellie Landau’s apartment. Uribe and CSU have arrived. Neighbors and emergency personnel fill the hallway. The press are downstairs in droves. When Ms. Landau’s grown children arrive—her daughter Lauren, also an attorney, and son Cameron, an orthopedic surgeon—it will be Manning’s job to get their permission for the medical examiner to perform an autopsy.

This is the shit they don’t tell you about when you acquire your gold detective’s shield. I see grief in Manning’s eyes, the first time he’s ever shown it.

At 2250, a few minutes before eleven, Lauren and Cameron arrive. Manning speaks with them privately. Ellie Landau’s children insist on viewing their mother’s body in its terminal posture. They are tough, these two. Manning gives them as long as they need, which is not long. When the siblings emerge I see them shake his hand. Manning’s eyes, I can tell even from across the room, are clouding from an oncoming migraine.

Permission has been granted.

The forensic examination proceeds.

A memorial service for Ellie Landau will be held the following day.

The medical examiner’s office transfers Ms. Landau’s remains from OCME to Temple Beth Shalom at Park and Ninety-First, arriving at one-thirty in the morning. Manning rides with the body. I follow in our Crown Vic. Amazingly nearly a dozen family members, friends, and colleagues wait to receive the corpse and sit with it. Rachel and Ben-David are there, in the same clothes they wore in the subway. Both are grim and shaken. They speak privately with Lauren and Cameron.

The memorial service is scheduled for eleven this morning, Monday. The mourners will sit up with Ellie’s remains through the night. The men in the room all wear yarmulkes. Prayer shawls cover their shoulders. They chant softly or recite prayers.

Throughout this interval I’ve been handling the press and supervising the precinct officers in securing the crime scene. I find a minute in transit to Beth Shalom to jump on the phone to Uribe and get the results of the autopsy. Yes, our ME confirms, the “LV” sign was present, exactly as on the corpses of Justman and Davis. COD, Uribe says, will go in his report as “trauma to tracheal airway.”

As I’m entering these notes to my files and Manning’s, a text comes in for me from Iceland—the Reykjavík metropolitan police. WTF? I check local time. It’s six-thirty in the morning there. The message is from a homicide detective named Elisabet Gottmundsdottir. I’ve never heard of her, nor have I communicated with her via any medium.

To Det. Covina Duwai, Division Six, New York Police Dept.: