Gary was a friend. I won’t use his last name because he’s still a friend although I have’t seen or heard from him since 1979. He and I met in Roseburg, Oregon in 1970 where he hired me to work at a local radio stattion. We became good friends and went so far as to share a house as roommates and work some of the same jobs. We both moved from Roseburg to Portland, and while we remained solid friends, our lives diverged a bit. We lived and worked in separate places. That was about the time that Gary met Frieda, a lovely young lady. She was short, even compared to Gary who was only 5′ 8″. Frieda moved in with Gary and lived in a little apartment off Burnside, down near Corno’s Market. I lived in North Portland, just off Killingsworth Avenue in a little two story home. Frieda was pretty. Her petite frame seemed to make her somewhat fragile appearing, kind of like a porcelain doll. She was well shaped and proportioned, with crystal blue eyes and blondish hair. And, she was lovely and energetic and positive.
I had a serious crush on Frieda. Because she was my friend’s girl I kept my feelings in check though. I enjoyed spending time with both of them and liked them both for different reasons. Our lives went along pretty unremarkably, we were just a couple of guys living in America and getting by as best they could. Right up until the day I heard a knock at the door and opened it to find a very large man shyowing me his badge. He explained that he was a homicide detective with the Oregon State Police who was looking into the death of one Frieda Gillette. It took the wind out of me to hear those words, like I said, I liked her and had a crush of sorts on her.