Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

CHAPTER 12

Two hours later Tomasetti and I are back in the Tahoe, on our way to see local photographer and winner of the Ohio Photographic Arts Award, Stacy Karns. We haven’t spoken much since dropping Bishop Hertzler and Levi King at their respective farms. We’ve fallen back into cop mode, a role we both find infinitely more comfortable than the white elephant of the scene back at the morgue.

“What do you know about Karns?” I ask.

“Forty-four years old. Self-employed. Convicted four years ago. Did six months at Lake Erie Correctional Institution. Five-thousand-dollar fine. Five years probation.” He rattles off the information from memory, which tells me he stayed up late reading the file.

“What was the charge?”

“Illegal use of a minor in nudity-oriented material.”

“Child porn.” The words taste bitter coming off my tongue.

“Some people rushed to his defense, especially during the trial phase.” His voice is powder-dry. “You know, that fine line between art and child pornography.”

“I guess if you enjoy looking at pictures of naked Amish girls, those lines could get a little blurry.”

Fifteen miles northwest of Buck Creek, we turn onto Doe Creek Road. It’s a narrow two-track that cuts through river bottomland and dead-ends at a sparkling creek-fed lake. We’re less than a mile in when I spot the mailbox. There’s no name, but the number matches the address Goddard gave us.

Tomasetti makes the turn and then we’re barreling down the lane, leaving a billowing cloud of dust in our wake.

The lane carves a swath through a hardwood forest with trees so tall, the canopies block the sun. We make two twisty turns, climb a hill, and the trees fall away, revealing a magnificent Spanish-style mansion with stucco walls, a barrel tile roof, and a massive portico. A profusion of wildly blooming lilac bushes and peonies adorn the front yard. A neat row of pine trees demark the property’s edge.

“Not bad for an ex-con,” Tomasetti comments.

“Photography must pay pretty well.”

“He’s got a couple of coffee-table books out, too.”

I know Tomasetti is being facetious; it’s his way of dealing with some of the more frustrating aspects of police work. Like when the bad guys make good. Having spent the last few hours in the morgue, I can’t conjure a smile. “You can dress it up, but a piece of shit is still a piece of shit.”

“You sound like you might have some preconceived notions about this guy,” Tomasetti says lightly.

“You might be right.” As far as I’m concerned, Karns took advantage of an underage Amish girl and then capitalized on it. He turned the negative publicity into fifteen minutes of fame, and the controversy made him a wealthy man.

Tomasetti drives around to the rear of the house, where gravel gives way to terra-cotta-colored paving tones. Outside a four-car garage, a teenage boy in swim trunks and flip-flops is washing a green Jaguar XJ6. Looking to my left, through the trees, I see the shimmering blue water of the lake. There’s some kind of observation tower, and, lower, a boathouse and dock.

Tomasetti kills the engine and frowns at the kid. “Wonder if his mom and dad know he’s here.”

“I wonder if they know Mr. Karns likes to take photographs of naked teenagers.”

“Goddard says he’s a pseudocelebrity around here.”

“That’s wrong on so many levels.”

He mutters an unflattering adjective beneath his breath as we exit the vehicle. The boy stops washing the car and stares at us as we traverse the flagstone walkway to the house.

Stone stairs usher us to a large veranda that wraps around the front of the house and looks out over the forest beyond. A dozen or more Boston ferns hang from baskets. Clay pots overflowing with red geraniums and larger pots filled with lush palms lend a tropical feel.

We reach the massive front doors—mahogany with beveled skylights on both sides—and I press the doorbell. For the span of a minute or so, we just stand there, taking in the view, listening to the birds, gathering our thoughts. Despite the pressure of the case, the murder of Annie King, the impending interview with Karns, standing in the midst of such tranquil beauty, I find myself starting to relax.

I’m reaching for the bell a second time when one of the doors swings open. A tall African-American man with blue eyes and short-cropped hair that’s going gray at the temples looks at us as if we’re a couple of solicitors in need of being turned away. He’s wearing gray khakis and a white polo shirt, no shoes. He’s movie-star attractive, with the kind of face that compels people to stare. I’m not exactly sure what I expected Stacy Karns to look like, but this isn’t it.

“Stacy Karns?” Tomasetti asks.

“That’s me.” His voice is deep and pleasant, with just a hint of a northeastern inflection. “How can I help you?”

We pull out our IDs and hold them out for him to see.

Surprise flashes across his features. “Wow. Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation. That can’t be good.” His gaze flicks first to Tomasetti and then lingers on me. “What’s this all about?”

“We’d like to ask you some questions,” Tomasetti tells him.

I watch him closely—his eyes, facial expression. I see an instant of confusion, followed by realization, and a flash of disbelief. On the surface, it’s the perfect reaction—the response of an innocent man. But I’m well versed in the wicked ways of deception and I know he’s putting forth exactly what he wants us to see.

“I just heard on the radio they found the missing Amish girl,” he says somberly. “Is that why you’re here?”

I give him points for innovation. When it comes to discussing an unpleasant topic like murder—especially with the police—most people try delay tactics. They beat around the bush. Or play dumb. That Karns got right to the point tells me he guessed we would show up.

“We’re assisting with the investigation,” Tomasetti tells him.

“May we come in?” I ask.

Karns takes my measure and I see a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “Of course.” He opens the door wider and motions us inside, a king inviting a couple of scruffy peasants into his castle. “Would you guys like some coffee? Or iced tea?”

“We’re fine, thanks.” Tomasetti gives him a bad imitation of a smile.

Karns notices, but he looks amused. With the ease of a man who has nothing to hide, he takes us through a foyer with gleaming hardwood floors and a console table that holds a striking glass vase filled with fresh-cut peonies. I smell the sweet scent of the flowers as we walk by. A set of French doors opens to a massive living room with a stone hearth and parquet floors. A wall of floor-to-ceiling windows looks out over the forest beyond.

While the room is beautifully appointed, it is the dozens of framed photographs on the walls that draw the eye. The majority are black-and-white shots. Stark, minimalist, dramatic and yet somehow subtle at once. Karns’s talent is undeniable.

I stroll to the photographs for a closer look. Most of them feature some element of Amish life: an old farmhouse with a leaning brick chimney, a buggy and young Standardbred horse trotting through the gray swirl of morning fog; two barefoot girls holding hands as they skip down an asphalt road; a harvest moon rising over a cut cornfield; an Amish cemetery as the backdrop for a procession of black buggies.

“You’re very talented,” I say after a moment.

He smiles, and I notice that his teeth are very white. “If you’re softening me up for some tough interrogation, it’s working.”

In the periphery of my vision, I see Tomasetti roll his eyes. Ignoring him, I stroll past the windows to the wall next to the hearth. It is there that I see the other photographs: a naked baby crawling on an Amish quilt; an Amish woman with her skirt blown up past her hips, à la Marilyn Monroe; an Amish boy standing naked on the bank of a creek, preparing to dive into the water. None of the photos are sexually explicit, but they are disconcerting. There’s a voyeuristic quality to Karns’s work. Looking at them, I feel as if I’ve interrupted a private moment, seeing something I’m not supposed to see.

“Did you know most Amish object to having their photos taken?” I ask conversationally.

“I’m aware of that.” He keeps an eye on Tomasetti as he peruses the photos on the other side of the hearth. “I strive to be as respectful as possible.”

“As long as you get the shot,” Tomasetti mutters.

“Most cite religious reasons,” I continue. “The prohibition of graven images. Some believe pictures are vain displays of pride. Some believe the snapping of a photo can actually steal one’s soul.”

“With all due respect to the Amish, I think that’s a little melodramatic,” he says. “Don’t you?”

“I think if you respected them, you wouldn’t take photos of them without their knowledge.”

For a moment, I think he’s going to argue. Instead, he smiles. “Stealing someone’s soul isn’t against the law.”

I don’t smile back.

After a moment, he shrugs, a diplomat conceding a point for some greater good. “Everyone is entitled to their opinion.”

Tomasetti stops opposite a photograph of two preteen girls standing topless in the hip-deep water of a creek, shampooing each other’s hair. “You seem to have a real penchant for photographing naked children.”

Karns comes up beside him and looks at the photo. “Most of these photos were taken from afar, some with a telescopic lens. I’ve found that my subjects are more . . . uninhibited when they don’t realize they’re being photographed. The facial muscles are more relaxed. I strive to be as unobtrusive as possible.”

“So they have no clue they’re being photographed,” I say.

“Actually, many of my subjects give me permission.”

“And the ones who don’t?”

“There are ways around that. Photographically speaking, I mean. For example, I can smudge the features so that they are unrecognizable.”

“The Amish aren’t exactly a litigious society,” I say.

He smiles, turning on the charm. “Well, I have to admit, I’ve never been sued by an Amish person.”

Tomasetti turns away from the photographs and gives Karns his full attention. “You have, however, been convicted of the illegal use of a minor in nudity-oriented material.”

“I see.” Karns grimaces, as if his tolerance has reached its limit. “And this is the point of your visit?”

“When a young girl turns up dead, the sex offenders are the first people we talk to,” Tomasetti says.

“With all due respect, I am not a sex offender,” Karns says with some heat. “I resent the implication.”

Tomasetti meets his gaze head-on, completely unapologetic. “Not technically or legally. But in my book, child pornography ranks right up there with sex offender. I don’t differentiate between the two.”

Karns sighs. “Look, I’m sure both of you know the story behind that so-called conviction.”

“Evidently, the jury didn’t see the photo as art,” Tomasetti says.

“A lot of people did,” he tells us. “There’s nothing remotely sexual or inappropriate about my work.”

I listen to the two men debate the issue as I peruse the final wall of photographs. I’m about to join them, when a photo snags my attention. I know instantly it’s the shot that cost him six months in prison. It’s a stark black-and-white photo of a young Amish girl sitting cross-legged in an aluminum tub of water. She’s nude except for a white prayer kapp. Her tiny pointed breasts are exposed. Her head is bent and she’s bringing handfuls of water to her face.

The photo is a blatant invasion of the girl’s privacy. She has no idea she’s being photographed. I bet neither she nor her family has any idea the photograph was taken—or that it was the center of a controversy that cost a man jail time and set his career on a course that made him infamous and wealthy.

The photograph is powerful, with a grittiness that makes me squirm. I feel dirty just looking at it. And something begins to boil under my skin, an emotion that’s gnarly and edgy and sets off an alarm in my head that tells me to rein it in. And I realize that despite this man’s charisma and apparent talent, I have no respect for him and zero tolerance for what he does.

I make my way over to the two men and turn my attention to Karns. “Did you know Annie King?”

He doesn’t react to the name. “I didn’t know her.”

“Did you ever photograph her?”

“No.”

“Did you ever meet her or her family?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Where were you two nights ago?”

“I was at an art show in Warren. One of my friends had her first exhibit and I was there supporting her.”

“Can anyone substantiate that?”

“A dozen or so people.” He laughs. “My credit card. I spent nearly four thousand dollars.”

I’m aware of Tomasetti watching me as I pull out my note pad. I let Karns hang for a moment while I make notes. “What’s the name of the gallery?”

“Willow Creek Gallery.”

“I’ll need the names of three witnesses.”

He recites the names with the correct spelling and contact information, and I jot everything down. “Do you know Bonnie Fisher?”

Karns’s brows knit. “I don’t think so.”

“What about Noah Mast?” Tomasetti asks.

Karns shakes his head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t.”

He doesn’t ask who they are and we don’t offer the information.

Ten minutes later, Tomasetti and I climb into the Tahoe and head down the gravel lane toward the highway.

“Slick guy,” Tomasetti says.

“Except we’re too jaded to buy into his bullshit.”

He slants me a look. “You think he’s lying about something?”

“I hate to see a guy like Karns rewarded for repugnant behavior.”

He pulls onto the highway. “Maybe he made contact with her, photographed her without her parents’ knowledge, and things went too far.”

“Or he initiated sexual contact and didn’t want her talking about it,” I put in.

“I don’t know, Kate. I think Annie’s murder is related to the other disappearances,” he says, surmising.

“Maybe there’s more to Karns than meets the eye.”

That’s one of the reasons Tomasetti and I work so well together. He’s never taken in by appearances and believes everyone is capable of deeds far removed from what they are. When he disagrees with me, he holds his ground.

After a moment, he sighs. “I think he’s a sack of shit, but I don’t like him for this.”

I’m not ready to let Karns off the hook. “The common denominator is that the missing are young and Amish and behaving outside the norm.”

“Karns’s photos depict the Amish within normal parameters.”

“That doesn’t rule him out.”

“We can’t make the pattern fit if it doesn’t.”

I don’t respond.