Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

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.

 
CHAPTER 13
     
    An hour later, Tomasetti and I are back in the interview room of the Trumbull County sheriff’s department. He’s slumped in a chair, looking grouchy and bored, pecking on the keyboard of his laptop. I’m standing at the rear of the room with my cell phone stuck to my ear, listening to Auggie Brock lament the injustice of his son’s ongoing legal saga. I make all the