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.
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.”
“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—”
“That’s bullshit. I’m sick of it, Sarah. Do you hear me?” I’m shouting now and keenly aware that Tomasetti and Goddard are staring at me. I know I’m not helping the situation, that I’m alienating my sister, and I struggle to check my temper. “How long has she been gone?”
“We believe she went out through her bedroom window last night.”
“Last night.” I lower my head, pinch the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger. The urge to tear into her verbally and denigrate the tenant of separation I loathe burns through me. I want to ask my sister how she could allow her belief system to endanger her young niece. Somehow, I manage to rein in my fury. “Do you think she ran away?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Katie, I’m scared. Sadie has been so rebellious and angry.”
I glance at my watch, knowing that even with my emergency lights flashing, it’ll take two hours to get back to Painters Mill. “I’m going to send Glock out to Roy and Esther’s farm. Can you meet him out there?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Sarah, I want you to speak with them and tell them to cooperate with the police. Tell them we’re their best hope of finding Sadie. Do you understand?”
“Yes. I will do my best.”
I want to say more. I want to tell her I love her, but I’m too angry. Instead, I snap my phone closed and shove all of those useless emotions into a compartment to deal with later.
“What happened?”
I turn to Tomasetti, who’s standing directly behind me, staring at me through narrowed eyes that see a hell of a lot more than I’m comfortable with.
Quickly, I recap my conversation with my sister. “The missing girl is my brother-in-law’s niece.” The words don’t begin to convey what I feel for that girl. I want to explain to him the connection Sadie and I share. The way she looks up to me. How I see in her all the good parts of myself. But there’s no time and the words dwindle on my tongue.
“Kate, is it a runaway situation, or do they suspect foul play?”
The question rattles me anew. I look at Tomasetti, struggle to get a grip. “She fits the profile of these victims,” I tell him. “Troubled. Rebellious. The age is right.”
“The timing is off,” Tomasetti says. “This is too close to the previous disappearance.”
I think of the pool of blood on the road, of Annie King’s body tangled in those roots, and I can barely bring myself to answer. “I have to go back.” I stride to the table, close my laptop without shutting it down, and slide it into its sleeve. “I need the Tahoe.”
Tomasetti reaches into his pocket and retrieves the keys, hands them to me. “I’ll ride with Goddard to Sharon. Pick up another vehicle later.”
I take the keys. Tomasetti frowns when he sees my hand shaking.
Goddard comes up beside me. His hand on my shoulder is unexpectedly reassuring. “Let us know if you find something that links this one to the others, Chief.”
Tomasetti unplugs the power cord of my laptop and hands it to me. “Be careful.”
I stop what I’m doing and look at him. More than anything at that moment, I want to feel his arms around me. I want to know he’s going to be there—not only in terms of the case but for me, too.
I loop the strap of my laptop case over my shoulder. “I’ll call you when I know something.”
And then I’m through the door and rushing toward the Tahoe.
There are a thousand reaso
ns why a cop should never work a case in which he or she has a personal connection. Ask any veteran and they will tell you that a cop who is personally motivated will fuck things up faster and more thoroughly than any rookie. When the stakes are high—when someone you care about is at risk—everything changes. I want to believe I can handle it, muscle my way through, conventional wisdom be damned. But already I can feel the gnarly beast of emotional involvement riding my back, goading me into territory in which I have no business venturing. I know going into this that I’m at a disadvantage. I’m vulnerable to making snap decisions and taking risks I might not normally take. It would be smarter to hand this case off to someone else. Only there is no one else.
It takes me just under two hours to reach Painters Mill. I employed emergency lights and siren and hit ninety miles per hour once I reached the highway. Still, those two hours seemed more like days and a thousand terrible thoughts ran through my head the entire time. I don’t know for a fact that Sadie Miller has been kidnapped. As far as any of us know, she could have made good on her promise to leave the Amish way and taken off for greener pastures. But I know all too well how quickly a runaway situation can become a missing-person case.
Or a homicide.
It’s early evening by the time I pull into the gravel lane of the Miller farm. I park the Tahoe in the long shadow cast by the house, ever aware that the day is drawing to a close. I see Bishop Troyer’s buggy parked by the barn, the old Standardbred horse tethered to a tie post near the main door. Glock’s cruiser is a few yards away. A Crown Vic from the sheriff’s office sits at a haphazard angle behind Glock’s car. There’s another buggy I don’t recognize next to the bishop’s.
I’ve known the Millers since I was a teenager. They’re a conservative Amish family, and there were many times growing up when they didn’t approve of the choices I made or the things I did. Back then, I thrived on that kind of controversy. I thumbed my nose at the rules, and I didn’t give a good damn that they looked at me as if I were something that needed to be mucked out of a stall with a pitchfork.
As an adult, I know they’ll never approve of the decisions I made that put me on the path to where I am now. But this isn’t about me or a past that’s long gone. I hope their disdain for me doesn’t affect the level of cooperation my department receives with regard to Sadie.
Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4) Page 15
