The once-mighty Kellestine homestead, long feared and legendary, has fallen apart.
The intercom that acted as a gatekeeper at the crumbling, big stone gates by Aberdeen Line is pulled out of its moorings. The rutted gravel driveway is starting to grow over. The house, once filled with Wayne Kellestine's eccentric memorabilia, is gone, destroyed by fire. A small recreational trailer with a satellite dish is parked on the lawn. Some cattle graze lazily in the pasture nearby.
But the barn remains intact -- the ghostly reminder of where eight men, once close friends of Kellestine's, spent some of their final moments before their murders.
I wondered sometimes, during the seven months I sat in the same courtroom as Kellestine during the Bandido trial, what he was thinking when the courtroom was allowed to look at photos of his house, his barn, his shed and his property and listened to how he lived not far from Iona.
I'd sneak glances at the man, now convicted as a mass murderer, looking at his video screen while lawyer discussed his arsenal of guns, the Potty Mouth Jar on the shelf, the general clutter and disarray around the property.
That was his world. The biker world.
He loved it. He was proud of his patch and brotherhood. He called his fellow bikers his brothers. He had a vision. And then it all fell apart.
And he became the perfect partner for a Winnipeg Bandido up-and-comer, ex-cop Michael Sandham, who also had a plan for power a province away, but needed a someone to carry out his dirty work.
Sandham was the match. Kellestine was the spark.
Through every version of testimony about what happened on April 8, 2006 -- from biker turned informant M.H., the lying Sandham, and the newbie Bandido. Marcelo Aravena -- the only clear string that ran through the whole mess was based in a preposterous plan that had no chance of succeeding.
I couldn't get my head around why Kellestine could shoot his old friend John (Boxer) Muscedere, the Bandidos Canada president, over membership in a so-called brotherhood.
If there is a hero in this mess, it was Boxer, the target of much of the wrath, who stood up and begged to be shot first, perhaps hoping his death would satisfy the power intentions and save the rest.
But once one died, all had to die. Kellestine had said it as he was winding up his murderous troops.
And even he understood later how he overestimated his response.
"I got f---ed and I f---ed," he said during a phone conversation.
Even after all the legal wrangling, there wasn't much question this case was a slam-dunk for the Crown -- an indication as to why it only took the jury 14 hours of deliberations over two days to sink all six men on trial.
There will be questions about the cost of this case, and why it took so long.
And there will those who will wonder if it was worth making an immunity deal with a man who should have been sitting in the prisoners' dock with the others.
M.H., even though he spoke up to police, was as culpable as the rest. He knew of the plan, he held the prisoners at gunpoint before their executions, witnessed George (Pony) Jessome's execution, helped dump the bodies and destroyed evidence.
The Crown's circumstantial case without him, was enormous. But what M.H. did was lead the police to other evidence and added the necessary context to lock up the rest.
While some of the men -- the non-shooters -- appeared chagrined and pathetic when the verdicts were read, all eyes turned to Kellestine, the local biker legend, well-known to police, who had used up the last of his criminal nine lives.
He, just like everyone else in the courtroom knew, what the outcome would be.
Kellestine looked over at the reporters he recognized and as polite as he had been throughout his lengthy jury trial, he shrugged his shoulders in resignation.
He knew what was coming. He knows where he's going.
And he knows what he lost.
Jane Sims is a Free Press justice reporter.
