‘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 prettywoman, 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.
