I made my way back to the Liberty Bell a few minutes before ten and found a spot on a nearby bench. Despite the beautiful weather, the area wasn’t very crowded. There was just a smattering of tourists and the occasional businessperson out for a stroll. I tilted my face toward the sunshine and scanned the group of people that surrounded the bell until I saw the man I was looking for.

“Duane!” I called, giving him a wave.

He responded instantly, walking toward me, a large Styrofoam cup in each hand.

“Hey, Callie,” he said in his distinctive Midwestern twang. “Thanks for meeting me down here. You really saved me some time.”

He offered me one of the cups, which turned out to be coffee. I accepted gratefully, drinking it black.

“So how’s it going?” he asked. “Have you made much headway?”

“I’ve got a theory,” I replied. “And a few suspects to go with it.”

I told him about the insulin and the lack of a struggle, about my guess that the fatal injection had been given by someone Wendell Smythe knew and trusted.

“I’ve been talking with the coroner,” Duane said, reaching into his inside pocket to produce a rolled-up manila file folder, which he handed to me. “Cause of death was definitely overdose of insulin by injection. The injection site was neat and clean. According to him, the man would’ve gone into a hypoglycemic attack almost immediately after that, which would’ve made him weak, dizzy and confused.”

“Why was he on the floor?”

“The coroner thinks he was trying to go for help, stood up, and passed out. Apparently, just three cc’s of regular insulin can take a diabetic’s blood sugar level down into the 20s. All alone like that, he didn’t have a chance. Probably died while he was passed out, somewhere between 10 to 30 minutes after his insulin shot.”

“I see.”

“I believe you discovered the body soon after that.”

“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.