Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) (20 page)

“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.

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 appropriately sympathetic noises, but I know what he wants and there’s no way I’m going to compromise my ethics because his seventeen-year-old son has the common sense of a snail.

The rest of the deputies are out in the field, working various angles. I can hear Sheriff Goddard in his office down the hall. He’s loud when he’s on the phone, and now he’s embroiled in a conversation that involves securing a warrant for the home of Frank Gilfillan, the leader of the Twelve Passages Church. Evidently, the judge on the other end doesn’t see things the way the sheriff does, and Goddard isn’t taking it well. So far, we’re batting zero and the frustration level is rising.

“Kate, for God’s sake, are you listening?” Auggie asks.

“I’m listening,” I reply, lying.

“My son’s life is at stake here. If he’s tried as an adult and convicted, his life is all but over.”

For an instant, I entertain the notion of telling him I’ll do what I can, just to get him off the phone. Then Sheriff Goddard comes through the door, looking like he’s had the crap beaten out of him, and saves me from stepping into that particular pile. “Look, Auggie, the sheriff just walked in. I’ve got to go.”

“Will you at least think about what I said?”

I hit
END
and frown at Goddard.

He frowns back. “Looks like your day might be heading in the same direction as mine,” he says.

“You mean to hell?”

“Thereabouts.”

I smile. “Any luck with the warrant?”

Goddard sighs. “Judge says the Twelve Passages is a church and they got the right to worship any way they see fit.” Another sigh. “It’s a damn cult, if you ask me.”

“Judge isn’t a member, is he?”

Goddard gives me a look, as if I might be serious, and then erupts with a belly laugh. “I don’t think so, but I swear to God, nothing would surprise me these days.”

“Did you talk to Gilfillan?”

“We did, and let me tell you he’s a weird son of a bitch. Got a weird belief system and bunch of damn weird followers. A lot of them aren’t much older than our missing teens. He’s recruited some Amish young people, too.”

That snags my attention. “Does he have a record?”

“Not even an arrest.”

“Hard to ignore the Amish connection.”

“Well, it ain’t over till it’s over.” He glances at Tomasetti. “You guys have any luck with Karns?”

“He’s worth keeping on the radar,” I tell him. “He shoots nude photos of kids, has an unusual interest in the Amish.”

“Maybe I’ll have better luck getting a warrant for his place.”

“Judge isn’t an art fan, is he?”

He chortles. “Chief Burkholder, you’ve got a mean streak.”

A few feet away, the pitch of Tomasetti’s voice changes, drawing our attention. I glance over at him and find his eyes already on me. I can tell by his expression that he’s got something. I wait while he thanks the person on the other end of the line and sets down his phone. “Remember those queries I put into VICAP?” he asks. “Analyst found a cold case with the same MO.”

Goddard looks baffled. “We checked similars,” he says. “Ran a search through OHLEG. Nothing came up.”

“That’s because it didn’t happen in Ohio,” Tomasett i explains. “Happened in Sharon, Pennsylvania.”

“That’s just across the state line,” Goddard says.

“How old is the case?” I ask.

“Four years. Fifteen-year-old Amish female.” Tomasetti glances down at his notes. “Ruth Wagler. She was selling bread alongside the highway and disappeared. Body was never found.”

“Suspects?” I ask.

“Sheriff’s office looked at her boyfriend. Looked at her stepfather. But nothing panned out and no arrest was made.”

I look at Goddard. “How far is Sharon from here?”

“Forty-five minutes in traffic, and there ain’t no traffic.”

“We need to talk to the parents.” Tomasetti looks at me. “You up for a trip?”

“Yeah.” My cell phone vibrates against my hip, inducing a flash of annoyance. Expecting Auggie Brock, I glance down. Surprise slips through me when Glock’s name appears on the display.

Turning away from the two men, I answer. “I’m glad you’re not Auggie.”

“Not as glad as me.” He doesn’t laugh, and I feel some internal radar go on alert. Some instinct that tells me he’s not calling to chat. “I just took a call from the Amish bishop, Chief. Your sister and her husband are at his place. William Miller’s niece is missing.”

Something akin to an electrical shock goes through me. My surroundings fade to gray. The voices of Tomasetti and Goddard dwindle to babble. “Sadie Miller?” I ask.

“Right. Fifteen-year-old Amish female.”

His words barely register. I see Sadie as she was the day on the bridge—so defiant of society’s rules, so sure of herself, and so utterly certain the world would be hers if she just had the chance to conquer it. Simultaneously, the image of Annie King’s body tangled in the tree roots on the creek bank flashes in my mind’s eye.

“When?” I hear myself ask.

“Sometime last night.”

“Goddamn it, why are they just now calling?” I know better than to take my frustration out on Glock, but the words are out before I can stop them.

My phone beeps. I glance down and see Troyer’s name on the display. “Put out an Amber Alert,” I tell Glock. “Bring in the SHP. Call Rasmussen. Get everyone out looking. See if you can find someone with tracking dogs.”

“I got it.”

“I’ll be there in a couple of hours.” I take the incoming call with a growl of my name.

“Katie, it’s Sarah.” High-wire tension laces my sister’s voice. “Sadie is missing.”

“I just heard.” I don’t cut her any slack. “Why didn’t you call me right away?”

“We didn’t realize she was missing until this morning.”

“It’s now afternoon, Sarah. Why didn’t you call me the instant you realized she was gone?”

“It was William. . . .” I hear her breathing on the other end and I know she’s struggling to control her emotions. “He did not want to involve—”