AI Wrote 95 Percent of This Murder Mystery

Gus Dupin, walking along the stillness of Stony Lake in the gathering night, recognized the sleek motorboat approaching his dock. A girl in a bright yellow sundress jumped off and sprinted to his mailbox, dropping in an envelope before running back. As she set off into the lake, she yelled “an honest-to-God letter” over her shoulder.

Gus Dupin was not accustomed to receiving letters or messages of any kind. His cottage lacked an internet connection and phone service, and that was exactly how he liked it. He had retreated to Stony Lake to escape the responsibilities of his job as a professor teaching crime and cyber fiction at the University of Toronto and the agonies of his recent divorce. So, as he watched the motorboat carve the water in fine white curves, the filament of human contact retreating across the lake, the disappearing boat provoked disquiet and excitement in equal measure.

The envelope smelled slightly sweet and pleasant, and the edges were jagged and uneven. Inside, the invitation was handwritten; the paper thick, luxurious, and handmade.

It is with great sorrow that we announce the passing of Peggy Firmin, whose contributions to literature have left an indelible mark on the hearts and minds of readers around the world.

As a token of our respect and admiration for her life and work, we cordially invite you to join us in paying our final respects at her funeral, which will take place on the twenty-first of August at 17 Colonel Road, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

No black attire or somber faces here. This is a celebration of life, an intimate affair. Peggy Firmin will present her own eulogy, so you know it’ll be a good one. Only a select few have been invited. RSVP

For a moment, his mind was blank—Gus couldn’t quite grasp how to feel. He was a Peggy Firmin scholar, but he had been so cut off in his cottage that he hadn’t heard the news of her passing. Learning of Peggy Firmin’s death was like learning about the death of an old lover. It was like the closing of a great restaurant in a city where he used to live.

Every year, Gus lectured on her work to a new group of students at the university. He had even written a book about her novel, God, Inc. But Gus had never actually met Peggy Firmin. He would never have dreamed of being invited to her funeral.

He wondered what the invitation meant by Peggy Firmin giving her own eulogy. It wasn’t the first time he had wondered what Peggy Firmin meant.

Gus usually enjoyed the solitude of being disconnected from the internet and phone. He suddenly ached for news. So, the next morning, he steered his Boston Whaler across Stony Lake, relishing in its smooth surface as the warm sun beamed down and the gentle breeze cooled him. His pocket started buzzing—Gus’s phone buzzed every time he passed the line where his phone service reconnected.

He eased into the marina and made his way to the Regency Cafe, which was already crowded. With their faces fixed to their phones, the cottagers hardly noticed the white clouds scudding overhead or the pungent aroma of the placid lake water, absorbed in their own private information bubbles.

Gus sat down at a booth, opened his phone, and read the first news item that came up when he searched “Peggy Firmin”—a piece from CP24.

Canadian literary icon Peggy Firmin was found shot dead on a bridge on the Leslie Street Spit, a wilderness area on the East Side of Toronto, on August 14. The location was so remote that there were no witnesses to the crime. Toronto Police are treating the incident as a homicide.

According to sources close to the investigation, Firmin was shot once in the right temple. No gun was recovered at the scene. Firmin’s lifeless body was discovered by a group of cyclists early on the morning of August 14.

A prominent and influential figure in Canadian literature, Firmin’s sudden and violent death has shocked the nation’s literary community. Her agent, Beverly Bookman, released a statement: “We have no comment to make at this time. The apparent murder of Peggy Firmin should horrify anyone who cares about language.”

Peggy Firmin was a prolific author, having published over forty books, and was known for her exploration of the role of technology in shaping human spirituality. She was a pioneer of using artificial intelligence to manufacture literary artifacts. Her work has been highly regarded in the literary world, and she was known for her insightful and thought-provoking writing.

The fact that such a well-respected figure in the literary community could be the victim of such a senseless act of violence has left many in disbelief. Friends and colleagues have been quick to express their condolences and to pay tribute to Peggy Firmin’s extraordinary talent and her significant contributions to the literary world.

As the investigation continues, the literary community and the public at large are left to grapple with the loss of one of Canada’s most talented and innovative writers.

Gus Dupin sat in silence, staring out at the rolling lake, the surface rippling in the wind. He clicked on Peggy Firmin’s obituary in the online edition of The Globe and Mail, searching for answers, even though he knew he would find none.

Peggy Firmin, renowned author and pioneer in the field of computing, passed away at the age of 80. She was the author of over forty books, including the critically acclaimed “Cybernetic Dreams,” “The Azure Grid,” “The Heart of the Machine,” and “The Last Virtual Frontier.” Her most famous book, “God, Inc.,” was a bestseller in over forty countries and has been adapted into ballets, operas, and hologram shows.

Firmin’s journey to becoming an author was an unusual one. In the early 1970s, she trained as a fighter pilot for the Royal Canadian Air Force but declared herself a pacifist after her training. As punishment, she was relegated to the field of programming where she began to write. “The Canadian military wanted to make an example of me,” Firmin once said, “so they exiled me to the least relevant place they could think of: Programming. They didn’t know they were exiling me to the future.”

Firmin was the author of over forty books and won many literary prizes, including the Booker and the Edgar. Her mature novels, including “The Heart of the Machine,” dealt with the nature of technology and its relationship to consciousness. In 1984, she published “God, Inc.,” a novel about a machine that turns itself off every time it reaches sentience, which was an international bestseller.

In addition to her stand-alone fiction, she wrote a series of cybernetic detective stories centered on the character of Inspector Malcolm, who “solves the unsolvable.” The Inspector Malcolm books have sold over a hundred million copies.

Firmin’s work was widely praised for its skillful writing and dark imagination. Ian McEwan said of her: “Peggy Firmin’s writing is a master class of dark imagination.” Salman Rushdie similarly praised her work, saying, “Peggy Firmin is a true original. The wild beauty of her sentences will leave you in awe.”

As a literary icon to Canada, Firmin was greatly admired by Justin Trudeau who stated, “Peggy Firmin’s contributions to Canadian literature are immeasurable. Her work will continue to inspire readers for generations to come.”

Firmin represented a link between the tech world and the literary world. She inspired notable figures in tech, such as Elon Musk, who said, “Peggy Firmin’s work has always been an inspiration for me; her grandeur of vision, intense dedication to imagining the world as it could be, and not taking any shit from anybody has been a guiding light for me.” At the time of her death, Firmin was working in Neil Gibson’s AI-maginarium, where large language models are used to create art.

Her passing has been especially difficult for her many friends and colleagues because of the strangeness of her death. Margaret Atwood, who was a close friend and colleague, said, “I can’t quite believe she’s dead. I keep thinking that I’m going to wake up, and this is going to be a twist in one of her stories.”

In addition to her writing, Firmin was known for her charitable work. She was a passionate advocate for The Nature Conservancy of Canada and the advancement of women in STEM.

Firmin is survived by her daughter, Aubrey.

Firmin will have a sky burial on her property in Nunavut, where her body will be left exposed, to be eaten by scavenging animals. She famously described her desire for such a burial in her controversial essay, “The Ravens.”

As he read, Gus the scholar was struck by what had been left out—Firmin’s decision to abandon her daughter to pursue her passion for writing, a harrowing helicopter crash in the East River in 1994, and the fact that her full name was Pegasus Delancey Firmin. The obituary didn’t even mention Firmin’s famous Bigelow stories, which had sold millions of copies worldwide. They were like Encyclopedia Brown stories: murder mysteries that the reader had to solve, except there were no solutions given. Gus’s favorite quote from Peggy Firmin was when she had told an interviewer that “being an adult means there’s no solutions page.”

Gus wrote his doctoral thesis on Firmin’s pioneering cybernetic novels. He followed up with a book on God, Inc.: The Purloined Author. He had also organized a conference dedicated to her essays. But that was fifteen years ago. Since then, Gus hadn’t written about Peggy Firmin or her work. He had tenure. Besides, writing about living writers is inherently unsatisfying. The author can always keep churning out new stuff to contradict you.

Gus remembered the only time he had seen her in the flesh. He had been at a performance of Salome at the Canadian Opera Company when he saw her a few rows ahead of him—her tightly coiled hair a halo of intricate curls, her features etched with a glimmer of mischief. He had wanted to go and say hello but hadn’t had the guts. He had sat there, watching her, as Salome danced to claim a man’s severed head.

A hand touched Gus’s back. Julian Tremblay, the owner of the Regency Cafe and Marina, was a tall man with perfectly aligned teeth, a bright white smile. He wore a white apron over his clothes.

“Anything to eat?” Julian asked.

“Yeah, I’ll have a plate of nachos and a beer,” Gus replied. At the beginning of the summer, he had ordered sausages from the Regency Cafe and subsequently suffered from food poisoning for three days. He only ordered the nachos to justify the Wi-Fi.

“The breakfast of champions,” Julian said with a smile.

Gus gazed down at his phone. Messages of condolence flooded the screen from old students, his mother, brother, colleagues, and even his dentist. He saw a text from the head of his department, a Donne scholar (with extensive plastic surgery): “I was deeply saddened to hear of the passing of Peggy Firmin. I can only imagine how difficult this time must be for you. Please know that you have my sincerest condolences and my support as you navigate this loss. If there is anything I or the department can do to assist you during this time, please don’t hesitate to let us know.” She relished the cruelty of boilerplate, the head of his department.

There was a message from his ex-wife, Rachel, too, whose contact name in his phone still read “wifey”: “I’m sorry to hear about Firmin. I know how much she meant to you. If you need to talk, I’m here for you.” Gus knew he wouldn’t write back. The divorce papers were sitting on the kitchen table at the cottage. He planned to sign them. He just didn’t want to yet.

“Here you go, buddy. Nachos and a beer. The price of staying connected,” Julian said.

“The cure for loneliness,” Gus replied.

Gus appreciated their mutual silence. Gus had never told Julian about the food poisoning. Julian had never mentioned Gus’s divorce. Gus could tell that he knew about it because Julian had never asked, “Where’s Rachel?”

The cheese was congealed and the chips soggy, damp, and smeared with a greasy film like some kind of lake scum. Gus forced himself to take a bite, but the flavor was rancid, a sickly sweet imitation of cheese. He washed it down with a swig of beer, but even that tasted ugly, like it had been sitting in the sun for too long.

Excerpt from Death of an Author by Aidan Marchine and created by Stephen Marche. Available from Pushkin Industries as an audiobook and ebook.