Dominick Dunne

In an age of celebrity, Dominick Dunne was a social commentator of the highest order. The longtime Vanity Fair writer and best-selling crime novelist, who died Aug. 26 at 83, was one of the few people I’ve met who could talk as well as he wrote. And he liked to talk.

I first met Dunne in Washington when I had him on my radio show. He was supposed to chat for an hour but stayed for three. He was your ideal guest: passionate, humorous and extraordinarily honest. Dunne was the first to admit that when he covered high-profile crimes, he was “prosecution-oriented.” The careful term alluded to the first and most painful trial he ever witnessed–that concerning his daughter Dominique, a 22-year-old actress who was strangled to death by an ex-boyfriend in 1982.

His daughter’s death, perversely, made his career. His anger spurred an obsession with celebrity justice and helped him pioneer a new genre of journalism–one that was part memoir, part editorial, part fact. He came to love the smell and ambiance of the courtroom and had the ability to put it into your head. During the O.J. Simpson trial, I had dinner with one of the many reporters covering the case. The guy said he was ready to give up. When I asked him why, he replied, “Because Nick’s here.”

A former Hollywood film producer, Dominick was a creature of parties and a confessed name-dropper. With his horn-rimmed glasses and wonderful suits, he personified the word dapper, but there was an almost impish quality about him too. He made friends with everybody and wanted to know about every little thing. The last time we spoke, he told me about being in a hospital with Farrah Fawcett and how brave she was. Even on his deathbed, his curiosity was insatiable.