August 2004. Philip Dhingra told me about an apartment in San José that he knew would interest me. The tenant had disappeared some two years earlier. No one knew where he had gone. The landlords had approached the Police and local authorities and were about to move in and clear the place.

I went in with the cameras one sweltering afternoon. It was in the 100s. The place was deeply disturbing. There were signs of packing, a suitcase on the stripped bed, packing cases, and the mess of organizing things. There was also a grenade on the dining room table, a five inch artillery shell in the kitchen, a watch, live round and credit card on the coffee table. Everything had been left behind. Or maybe not. There were two gun cleaning kits in the cupboard alongside a row of deodorants and after shave, but no guns.

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