Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (19 page)

The elevator doors open to a reception area with pale yellow walls, a blue sofa and chair, and a couple of large areca palms. The coffee table holds a vase filled with silk peonies. A flat-screen television mounted on the wall is tuned to the Fox News Channel. As I take in the decor, I can’t help but think that someone tried a little too hard to make a dismal place seem normal.

A middle-aged woman in a fuchsia skirt and jacket sits behind a glossy oak desk with a headset on. She offers an appropriately somber smile. “Can I help you?”

Tomasetti steps ahead of us and shows his identification. “We’re here for a viewing.”

“We’re expecting you. I think they’re ready back there.” She eyes the two Amish men as she hands him a clipboard. “Just sign at the bottom.”

Tomasetti scribbles an illegible signature on the form and returns the clipboard to her.

She rounds her desk. “This way, please.”

With Tomasetti and I behind her and the two Amish men trailing, she takes us around the corner. We pass by a windowless gray door marked
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
. Above the door, a sign printed in an Old English font reads
MORTUI VIVIS PRAECIPIANT
. It’s not the first time I’ve seen those words. I don’t read Latin, but I know the translation by heart: “Let the dead teach the living.”

The hall opens to a small, starkly furnished room painted an eye-pleasing beige. A sofa table holds a small lamp and a box of tissues. Above the table, a cheap southwestern print in an oak frame is hung a few inches too high. A ceiling-to-floor curtain drapes the fourth wall. Next to it, a small round speaker with a red button is set into a niche. Behind the curtain, I know, is the viewing window.

“I’ll let them know you’re here,” the woman tells us.

Bishop Hertzler and Levi King stand near the sofa table, looking out of place, not making eye contact with Tomasetti or me. Neither man acknowledges the curtain, as if pretending it isn’t there will make whatever’s on the other side disappear.

The urge to move, to pace the confines of the small space, is strong. I stand there waiting, impotent.

“Never doubt in the dark what God has shown you in the light,” the bishop says. “He will take care of His children.”

No one responds. No one knows what to say. Those of us in law enforcement know that sometimes God sits back and lets Fate have her way. We know sometimes God’s children die before their time.

Levi shoves his hands into his pockets and looks down at the floor. A few feet away, Tomasetti stands near the curtain, looking as if he might tear it aside himself if it doesn’t open soon.

“Agent Tomasetti? Are you ready?” A male voice crackles from the speaker set into the wall.

Tomasetti looks at Levi. The Amish man nods. Tomasetti turns back to the speaker and depresses the red button. “Let’s do this.”

An instant later, a motor hums and the curtain glides open. Levi King leans forward, his eyes seeking. I’m standing slightly behind him. I make eye contact briefly with Tomasetti. He looks as grim and tense as I feel.

I see a small rectangular room tiled completely in white. Stark light rains down on a stainless-steel gurney covered with a light blue sheet. I can just make out the shape of the body beneath. A young technician in green scrubs stands at the head of the table, looking out at us. He peels away the sheet. I see brown hair combed away from a slack, pale face, blue lips that are partially open, slender shoulders with blue-white skin.

The sight of the dead is always a terrible thing. But knowing the promising life of a young woman was cut short by violence is worse. Sometimes the senselessness and injustice of that is almost too much to bear.

Next to me, Levi King makes a noise. A quick intake of breath. From where I stand, I can see his mouth quivering. His shoulders begin to shake. Bishop Hertzler reaches out and squeezes his arm, but Levi doesn’t seem to notice, and I know there will be no comforting.

In the Amish culture, grief is a private thing. Levi King doesn’t have that option. The sound that erupts from him is so unsettling, the hairs at the nape of my neck stand up. His cry of grief cuts through me like a blade. In the periphery of my vision, I see Tomasetti turn away. The bishop wraps his arm around the other man’s shoulders. “She is with God,” the bishop says. But the words aren’t convincing.

I glance at Tomasetti. He’s standing a few feet away from the window, staring through the glass at the dead girl. His expression is dark and inscrutable. “Is it your daughter?” he asks.

Levi King turns his face to Tomasetti, jerks his head once. Tears stream down his face and run unchecked onto his shirt.

It is a scene in which I’ve participated a dozen times in the course of my career. When I was rookie, I always believed it was my inexperience that made it so damn hard. The truth of the matter is, it never gets easier. You don’t get tougher or harder or colder, at least not in any way that counts. Every time, bearing witness to another person’s grief cuts out a piece of you.

“Who could do this terrible thing?” the Amish man whispers.

No one answers.

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.