I WATCHED THE crime-scene technicians and police diver struggle in the choppy water. My stomach lurched as I stepped over to help. Forensic scientists and crime-scene investigators can be territorial. The crime-scene tech waved me off.

Then the male crime-scene tech slipped during a particularly rough wave. He grabbed the basket holding the body. It tipped. I tensed, expecting disaster.

The other tech sprang from the deck and managed to straighten the basket. At least temporarily. When the winch holding the basket swayed, the basket came forward onto the boat deck.

That’s when it happened.

The body tumbled onto the deck of the patrol boat with a sickening thud. I kept my mouth shut. It was an accident, and conditions were dicey. It could’ve happened to anyone.

One of the basket’s black straps fluttered in the wind as both crime-scene techs carefully picked up the body, turning her so that she faced up. We all stared at the victim for a moment as the female crime-scene tech kneeled and meticulously brushed wet strands of hair away from the woman’s face.

It was not Juliana’s friend. But whoever she was, this young woman had been stunning. Not just pretty or cute but an honest-to-God beauty. Long, gorgeous dark hair, a straight, petite nose, and high cheekbones. She hadn’t been in the water long. She was fully clothed, and even still had her high heels strapped on. She looked like a peaceful angel lying on the deck of the boat.

Terri Hernandez leaned in close to me. She said in a low voice, “This is really similar to a body we found in the Bronx about two months ago. Both pretty, both in formal wear, and both discarded like an old fast-food container.” She stepped past me and pointed at the body on the deck. “Looks like a puncture wound in the chest. It’s small but noticeable.” Terri turned and added, “See the red soles on those heels? This girl has really expensive taste. Those are Christian Louboutin stilettos, and the dress looks like a Gucci.”

I just nodded. I always need a few minutes after recovering a body. I tried to picture the circumstances that led to the victim’s death. There was something about being dumped in the water that felt extra evil. It’s one of my nightmares. I said a quick, silent prayer for this poor woman.

At the moment, the only thing I could think of was catching whoever killed her.

The crime-scene techs took photo after photo from every angle.

The male crime-scene tech looked up from the body and said, “No ID of any kind. I’d put her age between nineteen and twenty-two. We’ll try to get her fingerprints back at the lab. We’ll see if she ever applied for a government job or has ever been arrested, but we might have a hard time figuring out who she is.”

I shook my head. “Somebody’s missing her. She’ll match a missing person’s report. We’ll know in a day or two who she is.” The thought of this girl dying alone caused a wave of sadness to pass over me.

I’d promised myself that if these kinds of feelings didn’t come to me whenever I saw a body, I’d know it was time to retire.

I’D BEEN IN the office less than an hour, searching the ranks of missing persons, hoping to find a match for the girl we had pulled out of the Hudson, when a shadow fell across my desk like an eclipse. I turned to see the towering figure of Walter Jackson.

He eased down onto the hard, wooden chair across from my desk. Walter never sat down with force. He’d learned better, after a similar city-purchased chair had once crumpled under his weight. Now he instinctively tested each chair.

He gently placed a photo on my desk. It was clearly a recent picture of the beautiful victim from this morning. It hurt my heart a little to see her smiling in the photo. I said, “That was fast.”

“Me and Fotomat promise to develop photos in less than an hour.”

“Jesus, Walter, Fotomat? You’re not that old. How do you even remember them?”

“You’re not much older than me and you remember them.” He looked at the photo. “I got lucky. The ME’s office picked up immediately. They have a fingerprint scanner connected directly to the FBI. Turns out the girl had once applied to work at a preschool in SoHo. We were able to match her fingerprints to that application.

“Her name is Estella Abreu. Nursing student at Pace. Lived in East Harlem with her family on 116th Street.” He bent his head for a silent prayer. Walter did that any time he talked about a recent homicide victim. A common practice around people who deal with tragedy every day.

“Good work, Walter.”

“Autopsy is scheduled for tonight. Aurora Jones is the assistant medical examiner on duty.”

I was glad to hear it. Aurora was a hell of a coroner. I nodded and looked at Walter. “That’s outstanding. Can you see if there’re any connections between this victim and the one from the Bronx? When you have more information, we’ll compare them.”

Walter didn’t waste a second. “The girl in the Bronx, Emma Schrade, was a student at Juilliard. There is one connection right there. Both were students. Emma was a soprano.” He tossed an envelope onto my desk.

I opened it to see a bright-eyed blonde with a spectacular smile. “Where did these come from?”

“I just pulled them off the internet. I printed them so you could take them on interviews. I saved the original photo in ECMS.”

“Walter, just when I think you’re out of surprises, you pull one more out of the hat. This is impressive for just a few minutes.”

“I’ve got two daughters. You think I’m not motivated when I see a photo of a girl who’s been murdered? I don’t understand how you guys ever sleep at night. I’d be consumed with all the leads that come into a case like this. How do you handle it with your ten kids?”

“It’s definitely a balancing act. Between sports, homework, and just trying to spend some time with them, this is a tough job.”

Walter shook his head. “I don’t know how you do it, Mike. With your crazy-ass cases and all those kids, how do you find time in the day?”

“It’s all about being efficient and keeping moving like a shark. I’m afraid if I ever stand still, it’ll kill me. Believe it or not, I also start coaching my daughter Fiona’s basketball team this week.”

“All school officials see when they look at me is a potential football coach,” Walter said. “No one can believe it when I tell them I’ve never even seen a football game all the way from beginning to end.” He sighed. “I don’t know that I’d give up my steady daytime hours and comfortable desk for your job. I’d already be burned out and barely able to talk to my family.”

“Walter, I know your family. It doesn’t matter if you talk to them or not, they’d be talking to you.” We both laughed because we both understood what it meant to be true family men.

“I know what you mean. Questions at work, questions at home. Sometimes you want someone to answer your damn questions.”

I nodded. “Elementary school math and science can baffle me.”

Walter paused. “You mean like what weighs more, a gallon of water or a gallon of liquefied butane?”

“They weigh the same, right?”

Walter grinned. “No, butane is lighter fluid.”

I groaned and said, “You owe your daughter another dollar.”

“Totally worth it.”

I STUDIED THE information Walter Jackson had come up with on both victims. It was during times like this, slouched at my desk, that I appreciated the padded chair I’d bought for myself. The city didn’t care if hours at my desk hurt my back.

As usual, Walter Jackson’s packet on my homicide victim was outstanding. The right criminal intelligence analyst makes any case easier. Walter always sticks in little bits of information other analysts might ignore, putting in data on siblings and old addresses, giving investigators more options to pursue when starting out on a case.

Sometimes, as a homicide detective, you’ve got to re-create the victim’s world in your head. You’ve got to be able to live their life and see the world through their eyes, at least briefly.

I was deep into Emma’s and Estella’s worlds and was startled when my phone rang. The kids had installed a new ringtone, the start of the piano solo from Eric Clapton’s original “Layla.” As soon as I heard it, I remembered that my wife, Mary Catherine, was going to call me after her doctor’s appointment.

The first words out of my mouth were “How’d it go?”

Instead of a concise answer, I heard a series of shrieks and laughing in the background.

Using my razor-sharp detective skills, I made an assessment and said, “You have the kids with you?”

“Only sixty percent of them. We’re on our way to buy some school clothes.”

“I thought you were going to call as soon as you were done at the doctor’s office.”

“Things got crazy and I was running late.”

I heard my youngest child, Chrissy, whine that she wanted to talk to me. That started her sisters Fiona and Shawna doing the same thing. I could barely hear Mary Catherine as she tried to explain things in code.

“Michael, I know I said I wanted to go to this first appointment on my own, but there was a lot to absorb. It was almost like the…” She searched for another word. “The cashier was trying to talk me out of any purchase.”

I was careful with my reply. I said, “To be clear, the doctor tried to talk you out of fertility treatment.”

“I have no idea why crime is rising with brilliant detectives like you running around.”

I snorted a laugh. I didn’t want her to think I was trying to influence her one way or the other about her efforts to get pregnant. Finally, I came up with “How do you feel about it?”

“I really don’t know. I think I’d like you…to come next time.”

I knew her pause was a last-second change from I’d like you at the next doctor’s appointment.

All I said was “Anything you want.”

“I think about how great our life is now in a home filled with children.” Mary Catherine paused to yell at the kids. “Everyone quiet for two minutes!”

I heard Trent sneak in an “Or what?”

The silence over the phone was terrifying. I knew those kids were facing the toughest of Irish glares. I felt sorry for them.

She came back on the line and her voice betrayed no hint of anger. Mary Catherine said, “I look at it two different ways. I think how happy another”—there was a pause—“visitor would be in our house. I also think we have the perfect balance now.”

“No matter what, we can’t lose. We have a great life, and a baby would make it better.”

Mary Catherine said, “I thought irrepressible optimism was supposed to be my thing.”

We both laughed as she broke the tension. We chatted for a few moments about the rest of our day. Then I built up the nerve to tell her, “Listen, I caught a homicide earlier today. I’ll probably be home late.” A homicide detective’s spouse hears this phrase dozens of times a year. But it felt harder to say, knowing she was having a rough day.

There was silence for a few moments on the other end of the line. Then Mary Catherine haltingly asked, “I know you’ve been looking for Juliana’s missing friend, Suzanne…”

“No, it wasn’t Suzanne. Suzanne’s father left another message for me this morning. I’ve been over to Missing Persons at One Police Plaza several times, hoping to find out something. So far there’s nothing on her. But Suzanne wasn’t the girl we fished out of the Hudson.”

“Oh, my Lord. Someone dumped a body in the river? That’s horrible.”

I try not to bring home the terrible things I see on my job. I guess I have achieved my goal because Mary Catherine was still reeling from the few details I had told her. I never want my family to become numb to the horrors that happen. Just like I don’t want to lose sight of what each homicide means, especially when the victim is young. Somewhere a family had lost a child. Every homicide victim means potential that won’t be reached. I know in my heart someone feels the loss every time a person is murdered.

Mary Catherine said, “Don’t worry about a thing, Michael. I have a plan for the afternoon that includes helping the twins with a project, then showing Ricky how I make my Irish stew.”

Her kind understanding—especially when she said things with that light Irish accent—made me want to rush home that much faster.