“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.