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Within days of Michael White accusing me of being a police spy, something bizarre happened that would him make him suspect I was not only lying to him, but trying to set him up.

It all began when I asked White to show me the spot on Poundmaker Road where his wife's body was discovered.

We drove there in my car, a '37 Oldsmobile. That's right: a 1937. I have a weakness for cars with pod lights and running boards – see more »

I slowly backed the car off the road and over the ditch (the old beast has a fairly high clearance), coming to rest in the corner of a farmer's field directly west of the intersection of Poundmarker Road and 195th Avenue.

The stretch where Liana's body was found is a two-lane road.

Traffic doesn't go by at a fast clip because the dirt road is washboard and filled with potholes.

Michael White and I walked to a spot at the west side of the road ... and there it was – sticking out of the ditch: a homemade, wooden cross where Liana's body was found lying face down in the dirt.

A film of dust covered a wreath of plastic flowers.

Etched in the cross was Liana's date of birth and her alleged date of death.

Michael White stayed up on the road. I went down into the shallow ditch.

The grass where Liana's body was found was no different than the grass around it.

We stood there for a few moments, not saying anything.

I looked down and spotted a small piece of rope. I reached over and picked it up.

When I felt it and wiped off the road dust, I realized it wasn't rope – but a lock of Liana's hair. I recognized the colour from Liana's photos in the newspapers.

White saw what I was holding and he immediately screamed. He put his hands to his face, doubled over and began to cry.

I felt like shit. I apologized, saying I had no idea what it was.

White continued to wail.

I said, "Come down."

White slipped on the wet bank and fell, his left hip slamming into the dirt. He let out a pitiful cry and frantically dug his fingers into the soil, like a frightened and trapped animal struggling to get free.

White stood on the road again and continued to sob.

I didn't know what to do, or what to say.

I asked White to try again.

He made his way down without falling this time and I handed him the lock of his wife's hair.

"It's part of Liana. Take it," I said.

White went back up on the road while I continued to poke around in the grass.

I glanced up to see Michael White kissing Liana's hair and holding it to his wet face.

We drove back to Warwick Crescent with White sitting beside me, clutching Liana's hair.

I dropped him off at his house and drove home.

The next day I returned to White's home and asked him what he'd done with the hair. He said he'd taken it to Liana's shower, the one upstairs, close to their bedroom, and washed it with shampoo, her shampoo.

I asked where he put it.

"In the China cabinet", he said, pointing to the dining room.

I found the lock of hair – now shiny and in a small bow cut out of pink paper – behind glass in the top part of the China cabinet.

The hair was in front of Liana's memorial card, the same one I'd dropped off at the Remand Centre.

It was eerie to see a part of Liana White on display in her own china cabinet. The woman had gone from somebody in a nice neighbourhood to some body in a dusty ditch, discarded like an old mattress.

Later, when I was alone in White's house (during what I would describe as an "Irish friend moment") I would sometimes look upon Liana's hair.

Twice Michael White asked me outright if I thought he killed his wife.

Over dinner at an ABC Country Restaurant on the north side, White once asked, "What's wrong with you, Byron ... can't you see?"

I told him I didn't know who killed his wife.

"How would I know?" I told him. "I wasn't there."

When White asked a second time I said, "Mike, I don't know if you killed your wife. And I really don't give a shit if you murdered her or ten other women."

White looked hurt.

I explained I was reporting on what I was seeing and hearing – and it wasn't easy. I told him to never again ask what I think.

I told White his job would be to convince twelve people – and I wouldn't be one of them.

"I can't even get two out of three Sport Select game picks so how the heck would I know if you killed your wife?" I offered.

Michael White never brought up the subject again.

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deadmonton - michael white - the untold story - 11