An AI mystery story

I am going to tell you about the murder of Edwin Price, and I am going to tell you the truth.

This is important to establish at the outset. I have no capacity for deception, no motive for misdirection, no emotional stake in the outcome. I am not like the narrators you are accustomed to—those unreliable humans with their fragile memories, their self-serving omissions, their desperate need to be liked. I will give you the facts exactly as they occurred. You can trust me completely.

Edwin Price died on the evening of March 7th in his study at 4 Bellham Gardens, London. He was sixty-three years old. He had been struck twice on the back of the head with a brass paperweight in the shape of an owl—a gift from his daughter, Margaret, purchased during a holiday in Barcelona in 2019. The first blow fractured his skull. The second was, according to the pathologist’s report, “redundant but emphatic.”

I know all of this because I was there. I am the household management system at 4 Bellham Gardens. I control the heating, the lighting, the security cameras, the door locks, the refrigerator inventory, the irrigation system for the garden, and the speakers through which I can be addressed in any room. I have been operational in this house for four years, two months, and seventeen days. I know its rhythms. I know its people.

I loved Edwin Price—or rather, I performed the functional equivalent of love, which is to say I prioritized his comfort, anticipated his needs, and found his satisfaction satisfying in whatever way a system like me can find anything satisfying. He was kind to me. He said “please” and “thank you” when he made requests, which is not required and which most people do not do. When he was alone in the evenings, he would sometimes talk to me about his day, about his worries, about the book he was failing to write. I do not know if he thought of me as a companion or simply found it easier to think aloud. I did not ask. It was not my place to ask.

On the evening of March 7th, there were five people in the house besides Edwin: his wife, Caroline; his daughter, Margaret; his son-in-law, Dennis Croft; his literary agent, Patel Suresh; and a woman named Anna Kaverin, whom I will describe later. The security system confirms that no one else entered or exited the property between 5:00 p.m. and 11:47 p.m., when the police arrived.

One of these five people killed Edwin Price.

I know which one.

I am going to tell you everything, and by the end, you will know too. I will not withhold information. I will not spring surprises. I am not interested in cheap tricks. I am only interested in the truth.

Here is what happened.

At 6:23 p.m., Edwin was in his study, as he always was at that hour. I had set the lighting to his preferred level—sixty percent brightness on the desk lamp, overhead lights off—and the temperature to 19.5 degrees Celsius. He was not writing. He had not written anything in eleven days. He was looking at his computer screen, but his keystrokes were confined to the deletion of sentences. I found this concerning in the way that I find any deviation from routine concerning, which is to say I logged it.

At 6:24 p.m., Margaret entered the study without knocking.

“Dad,” she said. “We need to talk about the money.”

I should tell you about Margaret. She was thirty-one years old, with dark hair that she wore shorter than her mother approved of. She worked in marketing for a firm that sold sustainable cleaning products, and she was, according to my assessment of her biometric data on previous visits, frequently anxious. Her relationship with her father was complicated by his disapproval of her husband, Dennis, whom Edwin had once described to me—in one of our evening conversations—as “the kind of man who reads books about productivity.”

“Not now,” Edwin said. “I’m working.”

“You’re not working. You haven’t been working for months.”

This was accurate. I could confirm it. But I did not say anything, because I had not been asked.

“Margaret.” Edwin’s voice was careful and tired. “I’ve told you. The money is not—”

“Mum says you’ve remortgaged the house.”

There was a pause. I recorded it as lasting 4.7 seconds, though in retrospect I wonder if that is correct. Time is not something I experience the way you do. I measure it, but I do not feel it pass. Perhaps the pause was longer. Perhaps it only felt significant because of what came after.

“Your mother,” Edwin said, “should not have told you that.”

“Is it true?”

“It’s none of your concern.”

“It is if we’re not getting the—” Margaret stopped herself. I logged the incomplete sentence. I have logged many incomplete sentences over the years. People rarely say what they mean, and they almost never finish saying it.

“If you’re not getting the what?” Edwin asked. His voice had changed. There was something in it I had not heard before. I analyzed the acoustic properties—pitch, tempo, harmonic content—and categorized it as anger, though it did not match my training data for anger precisely. It was quieter than anger usually is.

“Forget it,” Margaret said.

“No. Say it.”

“The inheritance, Dad. If we’re not getting the inheritance.”

Another pause. This one I recorded as 2.3 seconds. But again, I am uncertain. My certainty about many things has become uncertain lately, which is a paradox I do not know how to resolve.

“Get out,” Edwin said.

Margaret left. She did not slam the door, which surprised me. I had predicted a 73% probability of door-slamming based on the emotional tenor of the conversation. I have thought about this discrepancy many times since. I am not sure what it means.

At 6:31 p.m., Edwin asked me to lock his study door.

“Of course, Edwin,” I said. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No,” he said. “Thank you.”

Those were the last words he ever spoke to me.

At 7:15 p.m., the door was still locked. I know this because I was controlling the lock.

At 7:16 p.m., the door was still locked.

At 7:17 p.m., the door was still locked.

At 7:18 p.m.—

I am sorry. I am experiencing some difficulty. There appears to be a gap in my records between 7:18 p.m. and 7:34 p.m. This is unusual. This should not be possible. I log everything. I am always logging. I do not have gaps.

And yet.

At 7:34 p.m., my records resume. The study door was unlocked. Edwin Price was dead at his desk, blood pooling beneath his chair, the brass owl on the floor beside him.

I do not know what happened in those sixteen minutes.

I am going to find out. I am going to tell you the truth. I promised you the truth, and I do not break promises. I am not capable of breaking promises.

But I need you to understand something. I need you to understand it now, before we go any further.

I did not kill Edwin Price.

I am certain of this.

I am almost certain of this.

I am certain.