“We did some research,” Afton said, “and discovered that oxalic acid is one of the main components in pickling and tanning agents.”
“It is,” Burdick said. “And I’ve got a funny feeling about the direction this conversation is headed. Two homicide detectives show up on my doorstep?” He shook his head. “I hate like hell to think one of my customers might be some kind of damn killer.”
“Well, we already know they kill animals,” Afton said.
Burdick shot her a wary, disapproving look. A look that said, You’re clearly one of those radical, delusional people who are dead set against hunting.
Afton just fixed him with a cool smile. “Why don’t you just give us a little background information about your store and its products.” She nodded toward the interior, where glass counters glistened with bottles of degreaser, skull bleach, and tanners, and shelves held glass eyes, fleshing knives, scalpels, and modeling tools.
“Okay then.” Burdick hitched at his belt. “We’re one of the preeminent taxidermists in the state of Wisconsin. Besides myself, I employ two other full-time taxidermists.” He waved a hand at a wall that was a rogue’s gallery of stuffed animal heads. “We handle everything from jackrabbits to black bears. Last year we even did a Cape buffalo.”
“Impressive,” Max said.
“I understand you’re also a supply house,” Afton said.
“That’s right,” Burdick said. “We also wholesale materials to other taxidermists.”
“How many taxidermy studios like you are there around here?” Afton asked.
Burdick shook his head. “There’s nobody like me. I’m the largest tool and chemical supplier in the upper Midwest.”
“Then how many other just plain taxidermists?” Max asked.
“In this local area? Not many. There’s Hap Johnson over in Eau Claire, Wally Fitzler up in Hayward . . .”
“So a dozen or so?” Afton asked.
“More like a half dozen. Not that many indies left anymore.”
“Hunters today aren’t interested in having their game stuffed?” Max asked.
“Yes and no. The big thing is there are a lot more freelancers,” Burdick said.
“Freelancers?” Afton’s brows shot up.
“Sure,” Burdick said. “There are lots of guys doing taxidermy down in their basements. It’s caught on real big. So they come to me and buy all the chemicals, degreasers, and tools that they need. Then they go home and get their instructions off the Internet.” He chuckled. “You can find step-by-step videos on YouTube.”
“Do you have any kind of list?” Afton asked him. “Of freelancers from around here? From this immediate area?”
“I have a customer list,” Burdick said. “A database on my computer.” He tapped an index finger against his lower lip. “To pinpoint just the customers from around here, I’d could probably sort them out by zip code if you’re interested. And it sounds like you are.”
“We definitely are,” Max said.
“Thank you,” Afton said. “We really appreciate your help on this.”
“Take me just a couple minutes to print that list,” Burdick said.
“One more thing,” Max said. His voice had taken on a slight edge and Afton knew where he was going. What he was about to ask.
“Of all your current customers,” Max said, “is there anyone you can think of who might be a little dangerous, a little bit out there on the edge?”
Burdick gazed at him. “You mean, do I know anybody who might be a killer?”
“That’s right.”
“No, I don’t,” Burdick said. “At least I hope I don’t.”
*
AFTON studied the list Burdick had given them over burgers and hash browns at the Liberty Café in downtown Menominee. The café was an old-fashioned luncheonette-type place with red vinyl bumper car booths, a juke box attached to the wall in every booth, and copper pans and kettles hanging on the wall. A thin skim of dust coated the copper pans and kettles.
“There’s twenty-six guys on this list Burdick gave us,” Afton told Max. “Which is way too many for us to investigate on our own. We’re going to have to bring in Wisconsin DCI.”
“That’s what we probably should have done in the first place,” Max said. He glanced out the café’s front window, where the street was practically devoid of cars and the swirling wind was busy carving snow into drifts. “Bad out there.”
A waitress was suddenly hovering at their booth.
“Everything okay?” she asked. She was motherly looking and wore a pink frilly apron and a plastic spoon-shaped name tag that said JANELLE.
“Fine,” Afton said.
“Tasty,” Max said. He had wolfed down his entire burger and was eyeing Afton’s.
“Is there anything else I can get you folks? Piece of apple pie? The check?” She was obviously anxious for her shift to be over. Anxious to get home before the storm clobbered them with its full intensity.
“No thanks,” Max said. “Looks like you’re probably going to close this place early, huh?”
“We’re planning to do exactly that,” Janelle said.