Presumed Innocent by Scott Turow

is called Scottish Malt, the most popular shade. The dye lot cannot be identified and the fiber could be from either an industrial or a domestic weave. In all there are probably fifty thousand homes and offices in Kindle County from which the carpet fibers could have come. There are no hair or skin fragments in Carolyn's fingers or under her nails, confirming that there was no struggle before she was bound, and the only human hair not Carolyn's shade found anywhere near the corpse has been made as female and, thus, insignificant. The cord with which she was bound is regular clothesline, American-made, sold in every K mart, Sears, and Walgreen's.
    "That didn't get us very far," I tell Lipranzer.
    "Not very," he answers. "At least we know she didn't grab anybody."
    "I wonder," I say. "I keep thinking about what we said last week. How maybe this was some guy she knew. I remember when I was in law school, everyone used to pass around this case about a guy whose life insurer refused to pay out. His widow was bringing the suit, which was a real stitch, because it turned out this character had bought it whacking off while he was hanging himself. Literally. Head through a noose and everything. He cashed in when he knocked over the stool he was supposed to land on."
    "No shit." Lipranzer laughs out loud. "Who won the case?"
    "The insurance company, as far as I remember. The court didn't think it was a covered risk. Anyway, maybe that's what this was all about. You know, big-time kinkiness? I'm thinking that more and more. Apparently it's some weird high, coming while you're passing out."
    "How does she end up dead from gettin hit?"
    "Maybe her stud gets scared.
Thinks
he's cooled her. Figures it's John Belushi all over again, and starts to make it look like it was something else."
    Lip shakes his head. He doesn't like it.
    "You're stretchin," he says. "I don't think the path report supports it."
    "I'm gonna run it by Painless, anyway."
    This reminds Lipranzer of something else.
    "Painless called me a couple days ago. Says he's got a report back from the forensic chemist. From the way he sounded, I take it we didn't get much, but maybe you can pick it up whenever you get there. I gotta get out west today. Show Mrs. Krapotnik some pictures." He closes his eyes and shimmies his head, like maybe, if he tries, he can stand the thought.
    We are back downtown now. Lip eases into the first open space in the police lot, and we trek back through the noontime crowds toward the County Building. Out on the street, our spring, as so often happens, is turning fast to summer. You can feel some of the balminess that is a month or two away. It has inspired some of the ladies passing on the avenue to summer fashions, sleeveless tops, and those light, clingy fabrics of the season.
    "Brother," I tell Lip suddenly, "we are really nowhere."
    He makes a sound. "You ever get the fingerprint lab?"
    I swear. "I knew I forgot something."
    "You are a class A fuck-up," he says. "They ain't gonna do it for me. I asked twice already."
    I promise I will do that, as well as see Painless, today or tomorrow.
    When we get back to my office, I ask Eugenia to hold my calls and I close the door. I pull the B file that Horgan gave me out of my drawer.
    Lip studies it a moment.
    The B file, as I received it from Raymond, consists, in its entirety, of a log-in slip, produced when the case was entered in our computer system; a single sheet of sparse notes in Carolyn's hand; and a xerox of a long letter. There is nothing in the file to indicate whether an original of this letter was received or this copy is all that came in. The letter is typewritten and clean — but it still does not look professional. The margins are narrow and there is only a single paragraph. The author is someone who knows how to type but seemingly does not do it often — a housewife, perhaps, or a professional man.
    I have read the letter four or five times by now, but I read it one more time, taking each