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.”