I hope I am as objective and detached as I sound. During the trial, I had plenty of time to become that way, and I’ll try to remain so as I tell you the story. If at any point I feel I’m losing that detachment, I’ll do my best to let you know it so you can be on your guard. After all, you have your own powers of judgment to rely upon; mine only got me to where I am now. . . .

Detachment. It was the very thing that first attracted me to Frank. I was working on my master’s degree at the state university and was quite content with being the fair-haired favorite in the English Department. As an undergraduate, I had made the dean’s list every term and had been admitted to the Honors College, a distinction which carried all sorts of practical advantages, including a private room in an overcrowded dormitory. I stayed on at State for my master’s even though I was courted by fellowship offerings from five more prestigious universities. I was secure, comfortable and smugly superior. At the time I met Frank, I wasn’t consciously aware that I was tiring of my niche. Had I been as satisfied as I thought I was, I probably would have dismissed him at our first encounter.

I had only one girlfriend, Gloria Davidson, who lived in an apartment off campus. There were many reasons for my liking Gloria. Being number four scholastically in the English Department, she never begrudged my being number one, and she never competed. She was forthright and witty, more glamorous but less vain than I, and uncommonly loyal. Despite the fact that we were the same age, I called her “the kid,” an endearment she would smile at and one that succinctly defined our relationship. I had no sister, only two younger brothers; she had one older sister, whom she disliked, and so the chosen roles in our friendship were perfectly suited to each of us. Whenever we double-dated, she had a childlike and charming way of showing off our friendship by directing most of her attention to me while her date was drooling over her. She enjoyed my mock cynicism and was dazzled by the impression I gave of being totally self-sufficient. Whenever possible, she signed up for the same classes I did. Sitting next to me, she would take copious notes while I slouched in my seat, lost in a crossword puzzle or a newspaper bridge column. Now and then, when there was a lull in the lecture, she would glance at me, amused, and yet admiring my “rebelliousness.” I helped her shop for clothes and passed judgment on the men she went out with. Secretly, I reveled in the knowledge that I was the rock and she the tide. However, the self-serving incompleteness of this metaphor escaped me at the time: for it is the movement of the tide which shapes the rock. Later, Gloria was to become a major influence in my life—and a witness to the murder.