Chapter Twenty-Nine

For Hunter and Garcia, the next day began with a trip to Terry Wilford's apartment in East LA.

Late last night, Research had finally managed to get hold of Mr. Aldridge, Terry's landlord. Hunter and Garcia had been lucky. Mr. Aldridge had been away for thirteen days, dealing with tenants and a couple of properties just outside LA, which meant that Terry's apartment hadn't actually been touched. If Mr. Aldridge hadn't been away, upon hearing the news of Terry Wilford's death by suicide, he would've immediately boxed all of his personal belongings. Anything of value that he could've sold, he would've done it already, trying to recover some of the costs of at least two weeks' unpaid rent. Whatever was left, Mr. Aldridge would've stored, but not for long. The apartment itself would've been cleaned and with a property market that moved as fast as the one in Los Angeles, there was a great chance that a new tenant would've moved in already.

But none of that had happened yet. Mr. Aldridge hadn't been back to Terry's apartment since he had unlocked it almost three weeks ago, so that the Missing Persons detectives could have a look inside. He told the UVC Research team that he could meet the two homicide detectives at the property at 9:00 a.m., with the keys.

The building was a small, rectangular structure right on the corner of Michigan Avenue and North Hicks Avenue, in Wellington Heights. It was only two stories high with a single, glass-door entrance lobby at its center. Long hot summers and tropical downpours had long ago caused the building's light-yellow coat of paint to crack and chip, and yellow wasn't yellow anymore. Due to everyday traffic pollution, the building's fa?ade had acquired a bong-water brown hue to it. Clearly not the most attractive building on the street.

At 9:00 a.m. sharp, Mr. Aldridge opened the door to Terry Wilford's apartment for Hunter and Garcia and simply left them to it.

The front door led straight into a very male and restrained living room, which had been sparsely decorated with two black replica-leather armchairs, a black coffee table that was low to the ground, a TV set stuck at the center of a tall black wood module, and neutral art on the walls. One of the corners of the living room had been altered to create a small, open-plan kitchen, which contained a small stove, an old-looking fridge, a microwave and nothing else.

‘I don't think we'll take long in here,' Garcia said, as he walked into the kitchen and checked the four cupboards in there – two under the sink and two on the wall. ‘There isn't very much for us to check, is there?' In the cupboards he found a few pans, plates, cups, glasses and cleaning products.

Hunter didn't reply. Instead, he crossed the room in the direction of the door on the other side. It led directly into the bedroom – no hallway. The bedroom wasn't very spacious.

Garcia checked the fridge. ‘He either didn't spend much time at home,' he called out, ‘or he didn't really eat much. There's almost nothing in this fridge.'

Inside the bedroom, Hunter found a double bed with a single bedside table, a two-door wardrobe, a four-drawer compact chest and a fold-up chair resting against the side of the wardrobe. Just like in the living room, all the furniture was dark in color.

‘Yeah,' Hunter finally called back. ‘There isn't much in here either.'

‘At least he was tidy,' Garcia commented.

Across the bedroom, on the other side of the bed, there was another door that Hunter knew would take him into the apartment's only bathroom. He went to check it.

In the living room, Garcia had walked over to the TV module, the only piece of furniture in there that offered any kind of storage – three cupboard-like doors directly underneath the TV set. Inside the first one, he found a couple of large folders filled with what looked to be bills and invoices. He tried the second door – more paperwork and documents. Terry Wilford wasn't only tidy with his apartment, he seemed to have been a very organized individual as well. Every document type had its own separate, color-coded folder.

Third and last door – pencils, pens, envelopes and a lidless box with some photographs. Garcia reached for it and flipped through the photos for an instant. There weren't that many – ten… twelve, maximum. The first few were of Terry behind the bar, posing with two different people. All three of them were in bartending uniforms. The lit neon sign high on the wall behind them read ‘Winning Score Sports Bar' – one of the places that Terry had worked at back in Arizona. The next five or six photos showed Terry with a cocktail shaker in his hand, mid-mixing, or pouring colorful cocktails into nicely garnished glasses. In all of those photos, he sported a bright and friendly smile. The final two photos were of Terry's late wife, Joana, and their son, Joseph. In both photos, Joseph looked to be about ten or eleven years old.

Garcia put the box down and checked some of the document folders – bills, invoices, payment slips, receipts, etc. They would have to go over every slip of paper just in case, but there were too many for him to be able to check them right there and then. He placed everything on the coffee table and walked over to the bedroom. Hunter was standing by the wardrobe, which was wide open, his back to his partner. He looked to be holding something in his hands.

‘Found anything?' Garcia asked, stepping into the room.

Hunter turned to face him. He was leafing through a large book. ‘A family photo album.'

Garcia nodded. ‘Yeah, I also found a few photographs in the living room. Nothing special, though, just Terry Wilford working as a bartender and a couple of his wife and kid, that's all. I also found his document folders – mostly bills and pay slips. We'll take everything with us.'

‘No bartending photos in here,' Hunter said back, flipping another page on the album. ‘Just him and his family, really.'

‘Anything else of interest in that wardrobe?'

Hunter shook his head. ‘Not really – clothes, shoes, a baseball glove and this.' He nodded at the album.

Garcia's eyebrows rose at Hunter, as he pointed to the door on the other side of the bed.

‘Bathroom the size of a desk,' Hunter told him. ‘Nothing in there either.'

‘Chest of drawers?'

Hunter shook his head. ‘I haven't checked it yet.'

‘I'll do it.' Garcia walked over to it.

Hunter reached the end of the album and as he was about to place it on the bed, something in one of the last photographs caught his eye. He paused and stared at it for several seconds before flipping back a few pages. He studied a couple more photos on those previous pages before, once again, flipping back to the end of the album.

‘Not much in here either,' Garcia said, closing the fourth and last drawer of the chest. ‘More clothes, some bedding, some towels, a set of screwdrivers, and a few books on mixology. That's it.'

Hunter's attention was still on the photo album; the look in his eyes was something between concern and doubt.

Garcia paused. ‘I know that look, Robert. What have you found?'

Hunter half tilted his head to one side in an unsure gesture, as he, yet again, flipped back a few pages. ‘I'm not sure. Probably nothing. Probably just apophenia, which is what I do best.'

Garcia's nose crinkled at his partner. ‘What is it that you do best?'

‘You said that you found a few more photos in the living room, right?' Hunter asked. ‘Where are they?'

‘I'll go get them.' Five seconds later, Garcia was back with the box of photographs. He handed it to Hunter. ‘So what the hell is apo… whatever? The thing you said you do best.'

‘Apophenia,' Hunter confirmed, as he flipped through all the photos in the box. Once he got to the final two, he paused. They were both of Terry's wife and kid.

Garcia was still waiting for his answer.

Hunter kept his full attention on the two photos.

‘Robert,' Garcia called, his tone firm. ‘I don't speak Gugguggle. What the hell is apophenia?'

‘Maybe I should just show you.' Hunter handed the photo album to Garcia. ‘Have a look at this photo.' He indicated the picture right at the end of the album. ‘And then compare it to these ones.' He flipped back a couple of pages. ‘Tell me if anything stands out.'

‘All right,' Garcia took the album, using his right index finger as a marker on the page that Hunter had indicated. ‘Am I looking for anything specific?'

‘Not exactly. Just compare the photos and see if you can spot anything.'

Garcia began with the photos on the marked page.

Terry Wilford's wife, Joana, had been a stunningly pretty woman, with a pixie face and large hazel eyes, framed by gorgeous dark-brown waves that went way past her shoulders. As a young kid, Joseph had been just a little on the chubby side, with a mop of luscious curly hair that he had clearly inherited from his mother. There were indications that he would possibly grow up to be a very attractive man.

Garcia flipped to the page at the end of the album.

Years had clearly gone by. Joseph looked to be in his early teens then. His chubby face had slimmed down, his hair had been cut shorter, and his features were starting to cash in on that promise of good looks.

‘Well,' Garcia said, his unsure stare landing back on Hunter. ‘His kid is certainly older from one page to the other.'

‘Anything else?'

Garcia shrugged. ‘Terry Wilford had a beard in the earlier photos. Their clothes are different… the location is different… and the photos were clearly taken years apart… that's it.'

‘How many years, would you say?' Hunter asked.

Garcia twisted his lips to one side. ‘I'm going to use the kid as a guide here because it's easier to guess the age change.'

‘OK.'

‘In these pictures,' Garcia said, indicating the ones on the marked page, ‘the kid looks to be five… six, maybe.'

Hunter nodded his agreement.

‘And in this one,' Garcia flipped to the end of the photo album. ‘He looks about eight or nine years older. Definitely starting his teens, so I'll say – thirteen… fourteen?'

‘And on this one?' Hunter handed Garcia one of the photos from the box. It was a photo of Joana and Joseph together.

‘Umm…' Garcia waved his head from left to right. ‘I'm going to guess that the kid is around ten… not older.'

‘So easily at least a three-year gap from one photo to the other?' Hunter asked.

‘I'd say that that's about right, yeah,' Garcia confirmed.

‘And nothing made your mind wonder with questions?'

‘No, not re… What sort of questions?'

Instead of replying, Hunter's gaze went back to the album, which Garcia had placed on the bed when he took the loose photo.

Garcia waited, but he got nothing else from his partner. ‘So are you going to tell me what the hell apophenia is, or was this it – comparing images and trying to figure out the time lapse between them?'

‘In all honesty,' Hunter explained, collecting the album from the bed, ‘apophenia is really just a fancy word for the tendency that humans have to find connections where they don't really exist – being either images, situations, words… anything, really. Like kids finding shapes in clouds. And that was me right now – trying to see connections where no real connection exists.'

‘So basically – overthinking,' Garcia said with a nod.

Hunter chuckled. ‘That's one way of looking at it, yeah.' He reached for the loose photos, but Garcia halted him.

‘Hold on a sec, Robert. That isn't what you do, though.'

Hunter frowned at him. ‘What isn't what I do?'

‘Find connections where they don't really exist,' Garcia replied. ‘Or see patterns that aren't really there. For most of us – I'd agree. But not you. Not usually. What you do is find connections where others can't… you see shapes that others have missed.' He indicated the album and the photo. ‘So enough with the Gugguggle lesson and just tell me straight up – what is it that you think you saw in those photos?'