Fred Wilson

They say that when you talk to someone, you never know when it will be the last time. I attempt to imbue my leave-takings with fondness and caring. I especially practice that habit with Robert, even if not always consciously. A car accident, a sudden encounter in a dark alley, and you've just experienced your last memory of someone you care for.

And so it goes with our friend Fred Wilson. Ten or so days ago, he and I had a lovely catch-up chat at one of our regular contra dances. He lived in Maine, in Portland, and regularly came all the way to the south of Boston to dance with our group. He worked for many years with a close-knit group of people in a computer department, and had recently set out on his own as a consultant. He lived by himself, was sweet and gentle and a pleasure to dance with. We saw him fairly regularly at evening dances and at dance camps, had gotten to know him, and liked him quite a bit.

And then yesterday came the news that he had been found murdered in his own house. His neighbors were fond of him and called the police because something wasn't right. The murder weapon has been found. The police know who killed him and are investigating further. I don't know much more. It is a mystery, and a very sad one. He will be deeply missed.