Ortega, at a café near the courthouse.

He was a retired postal worker who used to greet her in the elevator with weather forecasts and stories about his grandchildren.

He had called after hearing that police had been at her home.

“I don’t want to pry,” he said, “but there was something strange last month.”

He had seen Priscilla carrying large shopping bags into the building while Iris was at work.

That alone meant little; she visited regularly.