As he entered a bell over the door jingled feebly. But once it stopped, and the door had closed behind him, he noticed how quiet it was. Quieter than simply soundless. Quiet as the grave, he thought, as he looked around at the bodies of the silent animals. A hart, a lynx. A wolverine with bared teeth. Several birds. As far as he could tell they were perfect copies of the original living beings they once had been. He stopped before each one in turn. How lifelike they were. As though they all had stories to tell. So unlike the corpses he was used to seeing. Murder victims with expressionsof fear, perhaps, or pain, but who otherwise hid more than they revealed, holding on to secrets it was his job to wrest from them. Bob stood contemplating an owl that returned his gaze. And it occurred to him that the silence in here wasn’t oppressive at all, it was…restful. Liberating. Balm for the ears and the soul.
“Good morning.” A smiling man with a laurel wreath of hair surrounding a bare dome emerged from a doorway, in the act of removing a pair of latex gloves. “Sorry to keep you waiting, I was in the middle of something rather complicated in the workshop.”
“Quite all right,” said Bob. “Mike Lunde?”
“That’s right.”
Bob showed him his ID.
“That was quick, I must say, Detective…” He leaned closer and read the name aloud: “…Oz?”
“My great-grandfather’s adaptation of his Norwegian name. A-a-s-s. The pronunciation is the same. At least it is according to our Norwegian relatives.”
“That’s correct. Two As in Norwegian are pronounced like an A with a hoop on top of it.Å.”
“You speak Norwegian?”
“No, no.” Mike Lunde laughed and shook his head. “I learned that about theÅfrom my grandfather.”
“I see. Well, of course, my great-grandfather couldn’t have known that Frank Baum would one day write a kids’ book about a wizard.”
“Precisely. But I don’t suppose that was the worst name you could be called as a child?”
“The wizard of Oz? Better than the alternative, I guess. The wizard of ass would have been harder to shake off.”
Mike Lunde laughed heartily. There was something melodic and disarming in the sound. Perhaps because of the silence of all the animals, it made Bob think of birdsong in a vast forest.
“I’m here about a customer of yours, Tomás Gomez,” said Bob.“I found your card in his apartment yesterday. A neighbor of his, a Mrs. White, said she had recommended you to Gomez.”
“Ah, I see,” said the taxidermist. “I thought you were here because of my phone call.”
“Your phone call?”
“I saw in the newspaper that you were looking for Tomás Gomez. So I called the police and left a message. A…eh, a tip-off, isn’t that what it’s called? That was just…” He looked at his watch. “Two hours ago. That was what I meant about being quick.”
“If it was about Gomez then it probably didn’t get through to us at Homicide, it probably went to Aggravated Assault, because the victim didn’t actually die. What did you say in your message?”
“That Tomás Gomez has an order here waiting to be picked up. A cat.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“Anything else?”
“Anything else you can tell us about Tomás Gomez?”
“What might that be?”
Bob didn’t respond but just looked at Lunde. He had taken a spontaneous liking to the man. There was something straightforward and natural about him. The type who calls the police because it’s the right thing to do. But it was also evident that he wasn’t telling Bob everything. He continued to hold Lunde’s blue eyes and let the silence work for him. Watching for signs of stress. But Lunde seemed unaffected by the silence. And when he finally did speak, he did so in a calm, assured voice:
“I had no idea he was going to shoot someone, if that’s what you mean. If, that is, Tomás really is the one who shot this other person.”
Bob nodded. He studied the owl. The feathers looked so vivid and the eyes so lifelike he wouldn’t have been all that surprised if the bird had suddenly taken off from the pedestal on which itstood. “So you know Tomás Gomez? As more than a customer, I mean?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Tomás Gomez is a very common name. There was no photograph or drawing in the newspaper, and yet you knew that the man in question must be your Tomás Gomez. You call in with information, but now you express doubt about whether it really was Gomez who did the shooting. And you referred to him by his first name just now.”
The taxidermist rubbed his chin. “My wife always tells me I’m a terrible liar. She says I should practice more.” He gave a resigned smile. “So yes, I do know Tomás as rather more than just an ordinary customer.”
