Collect Call of the Wild

By TJ Sullivan
Published: 02/07/1999
Ventura County Star

Down Central Avenue in the small, farming community of Fillmore, past the new City Hall and beyond Harvey Patterson's old hardware store, sits the Fillmore Natural History Museum, the town embarrassment.

The blacked-out glass door in front has been locked for more than nine months, concealing a hall consumed by an eerie, dark forest of gnarled and bent antlers. They're the dead remnants of more than $100,000 invested by the city in a stranger who came to town three years ago selling Disneyland wishes.

The wishes never came true.

The museum went belly up less than a year after it opened. The founder is facing up to four years in jail for committing felony perjury. And the city is negotiating with the auction house of Butterfield and Butterfield to sell the 400 stuffed animals left behind as collateral to satisfy a $160,000 debt and soothe a bruised ego.

It's a tale that Fillmore residents repeat disdainfully.

"It's an embarrassment," said former city councilwoman Linda Brewster, one of four council members who initially supported plans for a museum.

"Every time somebody wants to say something negative about the city or the City Council in particular, this is what they use. And we can't argue that, because it happened and it's sad."

It all began in 1996, after the city finished cleaning up from the Northridge earthquake and began searching for tourist attractions to complement the steam locomotive rides it offers each weekend. Along came self-described biologist Karl Anderson, a captivating guy with a truckload of taxidermy, a few exotic animals and, some say, a gift for gab.

Anderson had a nonprofit organization, Wildlife Educators of America Inc., which claimed the support of such prominent people as Vice President Al Gore and world-renowned primatologist Jane Goodall. In some cases, he had letters to prove it.

And he had the remarkable collection of taxidermy. Valued by Anderson at more than $800,000, it included whole bears, half a giraffe, entire lions and an assortment of antler-clad heads.

The exhibition of materials and the breadth of ideas dazzled former Mayor Roger Campbell. He wrote a fund-raising letter in October 1996 calling for citizens to give money to the cause and introduced Anderson to the City Council.

The wild was calling, and it was calling collect.

It seemed the small town couldn't do enough, awarding Anderson's group a $98,000 loan in redevelopment money to finance a museum — money that other businesses in the community might have tapped otherwise. The city also waived permit fees and paid for an air-conditioning system for the museum.

Local businesses followed the city's lead, extending lines of credit.

In a town where front doors are often left unlocked and handshakes are as binding as a contract, no one thought to do a thorough background check.

They regret that now.

The dollars that went in did not come back out.

Now Campbell is encouraging business owners with unsettled debts to file claims against Wildlife Educators of America. The city has already done so.

Butterfield and Butterfield is expected to sell the collection of taxidermy at auction this summer, allowing Fillmore to recoup the debt. If there's any money left after the city is paid off, it could be used to pay other museum bills.

But even if the dead heads are sold on the auction block, everyone gets their money back, and the museum signs are ripped down from the storefront on Central Avenue, Fillmore is sure to remember this lesson for decades to come.

The best-laid plans

Karl Anderson's ranch, just outside Fillmore, was hardly what one would expect to see in the Santa Clara River Valley. A drive through the citrus groves, up the dirt road and past the front gate revealed a mini-Wild Kingdom, and the sounds that came out of the cages were nothing like residents of the area had heard before.

There was a bear, a Siberian tiger, two lynx, a bobcat, several foxes and other exotic animals.

The animals were Anderson's claim to fame, and he claimed to be an expert on each of them, displaying his proficiency at the slightest provocation.

Anderson's tales captivated Campbell, who was serving as mayor when he first met Anderson in 1996.

"He had all these grand ideas," Campbell said. "We talked and we started to see how this could be a grand idea for this town."

A natural history museum in Fillmore — the notion was, to say the least, original.

But it was not tailor-made. Anderson had pitched a similar plan a couple of years earlier when he lived in Oregon.

A story published in 1994 in The Oregonian, a Portland newspaper, detailed the vision — a facility big enough to house a couple of whale skeletons and 300 pieces of taxidermy that had been donated to Anderson's group, which at the time was called Wildlife Educators of Oregon Inc.

Anderson dropped names like a Hollywood producer, claiming to have contacted Charlton Heston and Stephen King as prospects to help with the museum.

His wife, Ulrich, was quoted in the newspaper article as saying they'd even asked for money from the Sultan of Brunei, touted as the richest man in the world.

But the Oregon museum never happened.

Less than a year after the newspaper article appeared, Anderson was the subject of a long investigation by the Oregon State Police, who asked in a written report if his goal was to conserve wildlife and educate youth "or is he just another wildlife wholesaler/retailer with a clever, deceptive name?"

The investigation resulted in charges that Anderson unlawfully possessed and sold protected wildlife. He plea-bargained and accepted guilt on two misdemeanor charges in November 1994, was fined $500 and sentenced to six days in jail.

When Anderson got out of jail, he loaded up the truck and moved to California.

Campbell, a well-respected local whose auto-repair shop has served the community for more than 30 years, was oblivious to any of Anderson's history because Anderson didn't offer it. Campbell said he would have thought it ludicrous at the time to ask if Anderson had ever been in jail.

When confronted by the Star in 1997, Anderson said he didn't mention his past because it was "not really germane to my knowledge and experience as a wildlife educator."

He said in that instance, as in others since, he was confused by the permit laws and was victimized by an inspector who was out to get him.

Anderson could not be reached for comment this month. His attorney said he preferred not to allow his client to talk to the press.

Knowing only what Anderson told him in 1996, Campbell was sold. This museum was just what the town needed, he thought.

This was no giant ball of twine designed to sucker people in off the interstate; this was a genuine rarity, a veritable safari right in downtown Fillmore: Ride the train, eat lunch, see the giant elephant head.

Plenty of others followed Campbell to help cart the idea into the City Council chamber for approval.

A business plan was drawn up and the City Council was asked in December 1996 to loan $98,000 to Anderson's nonprofit organization, Wildlife Educators of America Inc.

It was, as one councilman put it, quite a show.

An air of celebration filled the stuffy chamber. Museum supporters showed up, as well as a few wild animals, which the City Council members ironically fed out of the palms of their hands.

A lynx even climbed across the dais during the presentation and napped at one end.

Tales of rotating exhibits, a gift shop and live animal shows filled the bill. Anderson was going to be Fillmore's P.T. Barnum, and all the shops on Central Avenue would reap the benefits as he pulled people miles off the beaten path, down rural Highway 126 and into his tent.

Councilman Don Gunderson, the only council member to vote against the loan, said he opposed it because of the business plan. It was flawed.

There was no reliable source of income to pay back the loan, Gunderson said, just some fund-raiser concerts that would be held "in the future."

"I said, 'Well, who would do these (fund-raiser concerts)?' And they said, 'There are a lot of people in Hollywood who were real excited about this.' "

No names were given. All Anderson would say was that there were "a lot of people."

None of those people ever played a note. No concerts ever were held.

Dead on arrival

Fillmore behaved as if it were in love, ignoring flaws as quickly as they appeared.

When the museum didn't open on time in May, the city waited patiently until it did — in August.

When Anderson said he needed $120,000 more and began calling for donors, he got credit — $40,000 worth from the local artist designing the displays in the museum.

When Anderson complained about city permits being required for each of the live animals at the facility — 68 of them at a cost of $75 each — the city waived more than $4,000 in fees.

Trust began to be shaken only as news reports were published late that summer in 1997.

Claims by Anderson that his organization had the support of Vice President Gore proved false when Gore's office was questioned about the matter. The document Anderson had cited as a show of support from Gore was simply a form letter.

Goodall, the world-famous primatologist who Anderson claimed was a board member for his organization, said through a spokesperson that she had stepped down more than 18 months earlier and asked to be disassociated from the group.

Wildlife Educators of America's nonprofit status even disappeared and then reappeared on government records, a situation city officials blamed on an error by the Internal Revenue Service.

Other claims turned out to be false, especially one that said Wildlife Educators of America had all its state and national permits.

Ventura County building code investigators went after Anderson because the ranch he was living on was not zoned for exotic animals. Bears and tigers are not allowed in an agricultural zone.

Then the state Fish and Game Department got involved, charging that Anderson didn't have proper permits for protected animals and was keeping some of them in improper cages.

Just as he had done in Oregon, Anderson pleaded guilty to several of the Fish and Game charges and was sentenced to 30 days in a jail work-release program and placed on probation for 36 months.

That did not help the museum's fund-raising efforts.

Three months later, in February 1998, Anderson stepped down as director of the museum.

A couple of months later, the museum closed for good and the city scrambled to seize the collection of taxidermy as collateral for the loan, collateral it had never had professionally appraised.

The last chapter

As the city prepares to sell the museum's holdings at auction later this summer, Anderson is preparing to be sentenced for committing perjury.

He pleaded no contest in December 1998 to charges that he committed felony perjury upon signing an application with the California Department of Fish and Game to renew permits on more than 20 animals, including nine hedgehogs, an alligator, a bear and a tiger.

Deputy District Attorney Laurel McLaughlin said Anderson signed the document to confirm that, under penalty of perjury, all the information it contained was accurate, but it wasn't. Anderson had forged the signature of a veterinarian on the form, McLaughlin said.

The city is sore, particularly local business owners who say the city acted irresponsibly. They're watching carefully as the city moves to recoup its money through the auction house of Butterfield and Butterfield — the same auction house that has been entrusted to sell pieces from the O.J. Simpson estate.

Councilman Campbell still defends the idea but blames its failure on Anderson.

"Karl … was a lousy businessman," Campbell said. "He didn't have the drive to go out and get money."

When people ask Campbell if the city got conned, he shakes off the notion.

"In order to be a con somebody has to benefit, and nobody benefited," Campbell said. "I think it was just pure incompetence."

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