“Yes,” I answered, remembering the odd pallor of Mr. Smythe’s face and the startling feeling of a wrist that held no pulse. “And the stuff around him on the floor?”

“All diabetes-related. He had a little kit he used to test his blood sugar.”

“Prints?”

“They got a partial off the syringe. Not very clear, but they’re working on it at the lab. They also got a hair, which they’re testing for a DNA match. Speaking of prints, here’s the fingerprinting kit you asked for.”

From another pocket, he produced a small box, which I accepted gratefully and tucked away in my briefcase. I opened the report he had given me, scanning it as he continued.

“The final blood sugar reading in the tester machine’s memory said 44, which is extremely low. The coroner thinks Smythe was given the insulin injection, got to feeling woozy, tested his blood sugar and saw that it was only 44, tried to go for help, fell down, passed out, and died.”

“So who did it?”

“From that back door, through the bathroom, it could’ve been anybody. Secretary says no one except you went in or out through her door all morning.”

“No one?”

“Mr. Smythe had a lot of work to do and didn’t want to be disturbed. He left strict orders that he was to be interrupted only for the lady from the foundation with the money. That was you.”

“Yes.”

“Anyway,” he said, “I guess that’s all I have to tell you.”

I closed the file. I would go over it more carefully later when I was alone.

“Right now,” he said, “they’re looking to the beneficiaries, family, business associates, you know the drill. ‘The usual suspects,’ as they say.”

“Has the will been read?”

“Standard stuff,” he said, nodding his head. “Most of Smythe’s fortune was divided evenly between his wife and kids. A few bequests to charities and things. No big surprises.”

“What’s your impression, Duane? Who are they really looking at?”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Their search field is still fairly wide,” he said. “But I think you’re on the right track where you are now. If you’ve got eight or nine close relatives and employees who you know for a fact regularly gave the man his insulin, then I would stick with them. Look for motives, check out their alibis—process of elimination. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if the killer is on your short list.”

I thanked Duane for his help, tucking the file beside the kit in my briefcase.

“No problem,” he said. “Happy to help. Though from here on in, you’ll be dealing directly with the police. I’m sorry to say you won’t need to see me much unless there’s a problem.”

We stood and shook hands, then he took our empty coffee cups and tossed them into a nearby trash can.

“I’m familiar with the police detectives handling this case,” he said. “Good guys, both of them. Very competent. They’re happy to cooperate—as long as it’s mutual. They’d like you to stop by and see them this afternoon.”