‘I’m in compliance with all the relevant laws,’ Howard says, loud enough for the worried-looking receptionist to hear.

‘Frankly, I’m not even sure what those laws would be,’ Thistle says. ‘You’re not being investigated for anything. We were hoping you could help us with a case.’

She nods warily. ‘Okay. My office is this way.’

She leads us back through the sliding doors and out onto the production floor. Thistle and I are both taken aback by the sight. Hundreds of bodies hang from the ceiling, hooks lodged through their bloodless necks. Most have no faces, just bare white skulls which look like hockey masks. Severed heads are mounted on one wall, some bald, some with wigs. It reminds me of the cabin in the woods, with the wolf head and all the other trophies.

From here I can see baking trays where nipples and fingernails are laid out like candy. Workers are mixing chemicals in buckets and pouring them into moulds. A dumpster in the back corner is filled with individual body parts. The smell of silicone is overpowering.

And they say American manufacturing is dead.

‘It looks like a serial killer’s home,’ Thistle breathes.

I think about my own house, which looks pretty normal.

‘Everyone says that.’ Howard shoots us a wry smile. ‘Sorry, I should have prepared you. Sometimes I forget how jarring it can be to outsiders.’

‘What’s the process?’ I ask. ‘How is one of these things made?’

‘It’s pretty straightforward, but every step has to be done carefully. Our customers are discerning. We assemble the titanium skeleton, put it in one of those moulds over there and fill it with silicone. Then we do make-up and put on the extraneous bits—nails, nipples, heads.’

‘Heads are extraneous?’ Thistle says.

Howard smiles wryly. ‘I know, right? Some men just buy the ass on its own.’

She leads us into an office, which has a window overlooking the production floor. There’s a desk, a computer, a filing cabinet—and a plastic tub filled with body parts. I’m already getting used to it.

Howard sits behind her desk. Thistle and I take the two stools opposite.

‘To be honest,’ Thistle says, ‘I’m a little surprised to see a woman running this place.’

‘A man used to run it. But he made the breasts too big, the waists too narrow. The results didn’t look like real women anymore. My dolls are much more convincing, so they sell better. Men only think they know what they want. No offence,’ Howard adds, glancing at me.

I just nod. None taken.

‘You don’t think it seems kind of …’ Thistle looks like she’s hunting for a less offensive word than misogynistic.