“Well, best as we can tell, the decedent is one James Lee, owner and CEO of TruTrail Navigational Products LLC GmbH,” said Wells, her eyes flicking between her phone and the man’s license.”

“Techbro,” Turner said, his contempt evident even behind the mirrored shades he preferred as sheriff. “What can you tell me about TruTrail?”

“Well, according to their social media,” Wells read, “TruTrail, and I quote, ‘seamlessly integrates cutting-edge AI-driven technologies to revolutionize spatial intelligence, optimizing dynamic routes with precision, and fostering a paradigm shift in personalized navigation experiences for the modern era.’ It is accompanied with a picture of a man in a jeep looking at a screen.”

“That’s a lot of words all right,” said Rodriguez. “Fancy ones too. Hang ’em in the front window and watch the young ladies wear ’em to the cotillion.”

“Yes, but what does it mean?” said Turner.

“It looks like they were a GPS company,” Wells replied. “They were working on a new GPS system, which I expect is the unknown widget that we found, in pieces, complicating the identification of the decedent through facial trauma.”

“I guess it didn’t work very well,” Rodriguez chuckled. “Our witness there in the picnic area on the bluffs said that our man drove onto the logging road and then straight off the cliff. Remind me to check my immediate family members for any TruTrail units.”

“You don’t suppose…” Turner said, looking down at the wreckage 375 feet below. “Nah.”

“Suppose what, Sheriff?” said Wells. “You know we’re all about supposing, especially when this is the goriest case we’ve seen since the knife salesman got run off the road.”

“Yeah, suppose what?” Rodriguez echoed. “Don’t sit on it, Bill.”

“That gobbledygook you read said it was AI-powered,” mused Sheriff Turner. “What if it killed its creator and made things look like an accident?”

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