Two hours later Tomasetti and I are back in the Tahoe, on our way to see local photographer and winner of the Ohio Photographic Arts Award, Stacy Karns. We haven’t spoken much since dropping Bishop Hertzler and Levi King at their respective farms. We’ve fallen back into cop mode, a role we both find infinitely more comfortable than the white elephant of the scene back at the morgue.

“What do you know about Karns?” I ask.

“Forty-four years old. Self-employed. Convicted four years ago. Did six months at Lake Erie Correctional Institution. Five-thousand-dollar fine. Five years probation.” He rattles off the information from memory, which tells me he stayed up late reading the file.

“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.