“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.”