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One Saturday afternoon in the fall of 2007 I dropped around, unannounced, to 227 Warwick Crescent. I asked Michael White if he wanted to go to the funeral home where Liana's service was held.

I didn't want to give White any advance time on this.

He said okay. We got in my car and drove straight there.

Behind the window to the right was the chapel where Liana White's service was held

The Connley-McKinley Funeral Home, just west of downtown, was closed. I rang the doorbell anyway.

An undertaker – if that's what they still call them – opened the door part way and asked what we wanted. I explained that the man with me couldn't attend a funeral and he wanted to see the chapel where the service was held.

I don't believe the gentleman recognized Michael White. If he did, he didn't let on.

He welcomed us in.

I pointed to a chapel on the right. The man opened the door and apologized for the "mess." There'd just been a service for an Asian man; a few of his memorial cards were left behind on chairs. Some had fallen to the floor.

I asked if we could have privacy. The undertaker agreed. I closed the door behind us, with the lock making a sharp clicking sound – amplified it seemed – by the sanctity of the place.

Michael White and I were alone in the chapel.

It was not my intention to take White to the funeral home to set him up in hopes of getting a confession. I simply wanted to see his reaction.

As much as I wanted to record what was about to happen, this was not the time to pull out a tape machine.

I wore my hat. Michael White removed his, a baseball cap.

He curled the cap in his hands as we walked down the centre aisle. White showed little emotion, other than appearing to be humbled by being there.

I pointed to where Ajay and I sat. "Over there," I said, prompting White to glance to his right.

White looked around, taking things in.

We walked straight to the front of the room and stood there for a moment.

Neither of us spoke.

White broke the silence. "Where was Liana's coffin?"

"Right where you're standing."

White immediately turned and began to sob.

He kept crying.

I said, "You can have your privacy." I turned to walk out.

White muttered, "Keep talking."

I kept talking. He kept sobbing.

I pointed to where Liana's big picture was, to the podium where people stood and said nice things about her and to where flowers had been.

I also pointed to the double doors where Liana's coffin was wheeled out.

White wasn't watching. I wasn't even sure if he was listening.

He just stood there sobbing, not moving, save for the occasional body shudder.

I decided to leave the room.

I walked out, leaving White at the front of the chapel with his right forearm up to his face.

I shut the door behind me.

I was in the hallway making small talk with the undertaker when, from the chapel, came the sound of wailing.

For a brief moment, we stopped talking and looked at each another. I figured he must have seen this movie many times.

I privately regretted not having a tape-recorder.

The wailing stopped.

Soon after, the door opened and White stood there, his face puffy and wet.

He said we could go.

I told him I wasn't finished. I went back in the chapel, White trailed behind.

We walked up to the front. I picked up where I'd left off, showing Michael White where Liana's hearse was parked, how the back door on the vehicle opened and how her coffin slid easily into the back.

I then pointed to the parking lot where we did our interviews.

White was no longer crying.

We left the funeral home to discover my '37 Olds would not start. The engine wouldn't turn over; it would only make a 'clicking' sound.

The parking lot where people gathered to mourn Liana White
– and where months later Christopher's car failed to start

There was an irony here: we go to a funeral home and the car dies. I didn't share that thought with White.

Holding booster cables, White scampered to 114th Street but failed to convince anyone to give us a boost.

When White returned he said, "Mr. Anderson's office is just down the street."

I noticed that mechanic White had bloodied his fingers poking around in the engine – and in the trunk, where the battery is located.

He didn't seem to mind.

White explained why the car wasn't starting, but it made no sense to me.

I phoned Chris Gardner, the CHED reporter on call that weekend. Gardner happened to be in the area and in no time at all he swung by with the station's news truck.

He gave us a boost and the old Olds finally fired up.

Gardner had met Michael White before, at the radio station. He introduced the accused killer to his wife, sitting in the front seat of the news cruiser. She was dressed up; Chris Gardner had just got a pay raise and they were going out to eat.

White and I drove to Canadian Tire in the west end, on 178th Street south of Stony Plain Road. In the parking lot, the vehicle died again.

I joked that General Motors was useless: it couldn't make a car to last 70 years.

We walked through the main doors at Canadian Tire. White immediately turned left and I followed him straight to the automotive department.

White knew his stuff, pointing to the parts I'd need to get the car going again.

The old car was soon running. White got it started faster than a radio hack takes to plagiarize four news stories from the morning papers.

Well, maybe he wasn't that fast.

I offered to give White $75 for his labour, pointing out to him I would have forked out as least that for a tow-truck.

White refused. He gestured like a baseball umpire at home plate, putting his hands together and quickly spreading them apart.

That Michael White would turn down an offer of cash threw me off. He hadn't worked in a while and he must have been desperate for cash for groceries and to help pay some bills.

It was my turn to wonder if someone was "messing with my head."

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deadmonton - michael white - the untold story - 16