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.
“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.