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Michael White and I once went for an evening meal at Humpty's Restaurant, near 75th Street, just north of the Whitemud Freeway. We sat in a booth against the north-side windows.

I told White that while I wasn't a priest ... if he had a confession, it would make for one hell of a story.

White looked me in the eye and said there would be NO confession because he did not kill his wife.

White talked about his time at the Remand Centre and his plans to find work.

Near the end of the meal, Michael White looked up and out of the blue said, "They say I'm a killer ... so what makes you think I won't kill you?"

No one had ever asked me that before.

I looked at him and said, "You know, you could – but not now. Let's finish our meal first."

White laughed. "That's different," he said.

I told White I was interested in what he could tell me about happened the day Liana disappeared, what went on the night before, how he and Liana got along or didn't get along ...

I also wanted to see how Michael White reacted to others in our presence. Little things like, did he check out the waitress' legs when she walked by?

He didn't.

I did.

We finished our meal. I can't remember what Michael White ate, but I had fish and chips with the fries smothered in gravy.

In spite of having high cholesterol, the gravy didn't kill me.

Neither did White.

To avoid either one of us being accused of buying the other off, we split the cost of our meals. Among the Dutch, this is known as going Canadian.

We continued to meet, quite often at Tim Hortons.

White and I were once at a Tim Hortons on 170th Street near 111th Avenue when he suddenly stopped talking. "That girl over there," he said, "She looks like Ashley."

White often talked about how he missed Ashley and Liana.

I tried to find out more about Michael and Liana: how they met, things they did, what drew them together, places they went to, trips they took, their habits, hobbies, TV shows they watched, movies they went to (their first movie date was Saving Private Ryan), what they argued over, how often they had sex, money problems, where they shopped ... anything.

Sometimes the information came. Other times, it didn't. White wasn't always up to talking about his wife or his life so we talked about other things like the weather or farming.

I can only assume that White's lawyer told him to shut up about the case. Even so, White answered my questions about evidence.

I didn't get the sense that people recognized who he was, strange as that may seem. Whenever I was with White he didn't hide behind sunglasses. He was who he was.

An older gentleman once began talking to me about White when White was out of earshot. He said, "Isn't that the son-of-a-bitch who killed his wife?"

I said, well that's Michael White and he's charged with the murder of his wife.

I asked the man why he felt strongly that White was the killer. He said it was because White had "shown police" where his wife's body was.

I later saw the old guy drove off, glaring at White.

During a meal at the ABC Country Restaurant on 127th Street, just north of 137th Avenue, White dropped a bombshell. He said he thought I could be a spy for the police.

"What the hell would make you think that?" I asked.

White explained that I was "kind" ... and police might have me "messing with his head."

I denied I was in bed with the police (or in Remand Centre parlance, a "cop sucker").

A spy for the police ... I couldn't get over that.

A few days later I brought White around to the 630 CHED newsroom to show him where I worked.

There he could see I interacted with the staff at will – so if I was a spy maybe everyone in the building was also.

White later told me he thought that when I brought him to CHED he'd be "ambushed," meaning that someone would surprise him, haul him off in a studio and interview him.

That didn't happen. It might not have been a bad idea though: the quality of a studio interview is far superior to anything done on the phone. Truth is the thought never entered my mind.

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deadmonton - michael white - the untold story - 9