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 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.”
