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Michael White and I often spoke on the phone in the evening (usually around the same time, just after 8 o'clock). The calls lasted 10 or 15 minutes, depending on what happened that day.

Although Michael White tried to sound optimistic about the case and his search for employment, I sensed he was depressed ... even after he found work.

One night, in early December 2005, he called unusually late, about 10 after 10. I barely recognized his voice. He sounded utterly dispirited.

Although Christmas was just around the corner and people were in a festive mood, White said he was down. He said there would be no Christmas this year at his house: his wife was dead, he couldn't see his daughter ... and he was facing murder charges.

White did all the talking.

He said he didn't care if a truck ran over him when he crossed the street.

He began to cry.

He ended the conversation with these words: "Byron, if anything happens to me I just want you to know that I DID NOT KILL MY WIFE!"

He slammed the receiver down. The line went dead.

Later, I wondered if Michael White was too.

I woke up at 2:30, bothered by White's last words and the way our talk had ended. He'd never hung up on me before.

If White did do himself in, there was nothing I could do about it, not at that point. I tried to go back to sleep but it wasn't easy.

White's family in Ontario would later question why I didn't "do more" when Michael White sounded suicidal. My feeling on that was if White wanted to kill himself, he was an adult and it was a private matter. I wasn't a crisis hotline.

If I had to do it again, I would have called the Forbes in Ontario and tell them they should talk to their son immediately.

My plan was to phone Michael White in the morning. If he didn't pick up, I'd call his workplace. If White was not at work and had not called in, I'd get around to his house.

If White didn't come to the door and the door was locked, I'd peer in the basement windows.

If I felt Michael White was deceased, I would call 911 and alert his family in Ontario.

I would then do a news story on it. It would be another scoop.

Just before eight in the morning I called White's house. There was no answer.

I then called his boss, Tony, who said White had phoned and he wouldn't be in to work because "something had happened overnight."

When I was through at the courthouse, in the early evening, I dropped around to 227 Warwick Crescent. I rang the doorbell and the door opened. Michael White invited me in.

I couldn't help but notice a grotesque, red burn on his right forearm that left an ugly welt.

I said, "What the hell is that?"

It looked as though he had taped some firework sparklers to his arm and lit them.

"You tried to kill yourself, didn't you?"

White took a deep breath. "I'm not talking about it, dude."

He held his arm against his stomach to keep me from looking at it.

I dropped the subject. It was clear White wasn't going to tell me what happened.

White's forearm remained welted and red for some time.

I didn't bring up the possible suicide attempt until a month later when I was around to the house and spotted a new toaster on the kitchen counter.

I confronted White: "You tried to electrocute yourself with a toaster?

"Do you know what those things are worth?"

At that point, White talked about what happened the night he called late.

He said he was depressed and after he got off the phone he walked around his house for a couple of hours to "build up his courage."

He said he filled Liana's bathtub with water, hooked an extension cord to the toaster, sat down in the tub, grabbed the toaster and rammed it in the water.

White described the powerful electric shock as "extremely painful."

And he said jamming the plugged-in toaster into the water blew a breaker.

I'd never make it as a crisis counsellor because I suggested to White there had to be less painful and more effective ways to kill oneself. However I couldn't come up with examples, and he didn't ask.

We changed the subject.

The old toaster was, well, toast. It ended up on the curb.

White was annoyed I had told his parents about his feeble suicide attempt, which I thought was little more than a cry for help.

He said, "Why did you have to tell them that? They have enough to worry about."

When I told Carol Forbes, White's mother, about the news she revealed that around the time of her son's call to me Michael had mailed them his "last will and testament."

I asked Forbes if I could see what her son wrote. She declined, saying it was personal.

When I pressed her she said, "Haven't you seen enough?"

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deadmonton - michael white - the untold story - 21