Wayne Kellestine: Portrait of a biker

Sat, April 15, 2006

Where quiet charm meets crazy cunning

By RANDY RICHMOND, FREE PRESS REPORTER

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Not long after the London biker heard the notorious Wayne Kellestine was after him, the biker wrote a suicide letter to his son.

"There are things going on that are not good for me and I don't want anything to happen to you or anyone else . . .

"So I cannot stay here. I am going to leave and go away for awhile."

I love you very much, Dad."

The London biker had turned police informant.


In a colossal law enforcement mistake, the biker's phone number with the word 'informant' beside it had been disclosed to defence lawyers and their clients in one of the many cases swirling around the 1999 shooting of Kellestine.

The biker heard from someone who had done time with Kellestine on the range at Elgin-Middlesex Detention Centre.

"Wayne said, 'If I ever see this guy, he . . . ratted me out . . . If you see him out there, I want to hear from him.' "

Word got out there was a $10,000 price on his head.

The biker spoke to The Free Press five years ago about his problems. His story was backed by his lawyer, police sources and other bikers.

Death by his own hands seemed his only choice.

"There is no way out of it. They've already labelled me the rat," he said.

A few months later, though, Kellestine appeared in court and gave the biker's lawyer a sign all was OK. He tapped his heart and gave a thumbs up. The London biker lived and faded into ordinary life.

His experience says much about Kellestine, who faces murder charges in the deaths of eight fellow Bandidos.

The reputation of the 57-year-old Iona Station resident is well-established: he's deadly, volatile and to be feared.

The reality: Kellestine's personality and life are much more complicated.

For every former girlfriend who said, "I can't a say a word. I could be killed," there's another woman -- his current girlfriend -- who said, "He gave me the power to stop being scared."

For every criminal associate who said, "He is an intelligent man," there is one who said, "The guy is just an idiot."

In and around Iona Station, Kellestine is known as a biker, but also a quiet and pleasant person.

"He just seems like a quiet, middle-aged man who goes about the community and doesn't bother anyone," says neighbour Tony Gosnell.

Mind you, Gosnell was in his fields one day in January 1992 and watched six police cruisers rush to the field next to his.

Buried in that field was one David O'Neil, 34, of RR 1, Putnam, a man who killed a police officer and was known to move in the same circles as Kellestine.

It's accepted knowledge in the community that Kellestine offered up the body to police to get some charges dropped and to take the heat off his criminal associates.

It's clear one has to dig below the surface to understand Wayne Kellestine.

The Free Press interviewed several former associates, including members of Kellestine's various biker gangs, to get a look into the life he led in the rambling country home north of Iona Station.

The house itself is a study in contrasts.

"The main floor was decorated in biker chic," recalled one frequent visitor with a laugh. White supremacist paraphernalia, biker flags and slogans decorated the kitchen and dining room to the left as one entered the house, and the pool room to the right.

The second floor, though, was like a quaint country home, "with quilts on the beds . . . It is a fairly nice house," said the woman, who went to several of Kellestine's annual pig roasts.

The pig roasts were a popular affair, she recalled.

Once the bikes were put safely in the barn, the bar was set up nearby.

"It was a cash bar, but the drinks were cheap. The money went to the jail fund and the costs of the roast."

Kellestine played the charming host well, she said.

"Wayne has the charm of a Jim Jones, a pied piper. It astonished me.

"Guys would follow him anywhere."

Women sometimes found Kellestine's house less inviting.

One biker's girlfriend offered insight into the Sopranos-like world of bikers, where ordinary life could quickly turn to violence.

She and her boyfriend, a full-patch (full-fledged) member of the Loners, had been arguing at one of the pig roasts.

"I was in the kitchen doing a salad when all these biker chicks came in and said, 'You've got to go now.' "

The bikers marched her out of the house.

The other bikers threatened to kill her.

"One guy came out of the tent and said to my boyfriend, 'I'll help you dig the hole.' "

Why the trouble? She had dared to swear at her boyfriend, a full-patch member

"Their women, when they say you can speak, you can speak."

She got to spend the night, though. No one was sober enough to drive her home and risk getting caught by all the police cruisers that had the party under surveillance.

The pig roasts and the good times lasted a long time.

"When we were just with the Annihilators, not getting into the one percenter (full-fledged gang members) club, just being us guys, we were having fun, just partying and riding," recalled the biker who would later be an informant.

That changed when the Annihilators became a chapter of the Loners, an Ontario gang. A rift over joining Hells Angels in 1999 led to violence between gang members.

About the same time, the wire taps on the informant's phone led to jail time for several bikers.

Kellestine's reputation in the biker world began to suffer. The wildness and craziness began to grate, especially in the new world dominated by the more businesslike Hells Angels.

His paranoia became a target of ridicule.

Years ago, he cut down all the trees on his property and chained dogs up and down the driveway, says the partner of a local biker leader.

"He didn't want anybody to sneak up on him."

In 1999, after the attempt on his life, a Free Press reporter and photographer visited the farm. They were followed up Kellestine's lane by a black car and when they left, escorted out.

Police also began to disparage Kellestine. One RCMP officer told The Free Press Kellestine just couldn't keep out of trouble.

"If he was talking to us now, at the same time he'd be stealing a newspaper out of this box."

Still, life was not all bad. Six years ago, his second daughter was born. Kellestine had met his common-law wife, Tina Fitzgerald, at a strip club, says one source.

"She followed him home and never left."

Besides their daughter, Kellestine has another, about 20, living out West.

"Wayne loves children," the source said.

He worshipped his mother and his mother "loved him to death," another source said.

His mother, Edna, was beloved by bikers of all stripes. Kellestine was crushed when she died, but he was not allowed out of prison to attend the funeral, a source said.

At the time, Kellestine was serving a two-year penitentiary sentence on weapons charges.

When he was sentenced on those charges in 2002, Kellestine, then 53, his salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a ponytail, said he was done with the biker life.

He disappeared from public view, but in the past year had been trying to build a Bandidos chapter.

One friend suggested he had no choice. Kellestine had fought all his life against Hells Angels and by the time he got out of jail, that club had consolidated its hold in the area.

He may have needed the power of a club because of his personality, too, suggested a former acquaintance.

"He started throwing his weight around in St. Thomas."

Scraps in bars, confronting other bikers -- Kellestine did not embrace retirement as a country gentleman.

He hooked up with a woman he had met nine years ago.

The woman told The Free Press that nine years ago, Kellestine had helped her family get away from a "notorious" London criminal.

The two became friends, then lovers.

When he got out of prison, the woman was having trouble with an ex-partner over her son.

Kellestine encouraged her to fight back, not with weapons, but through the courts.

"Don't let them beat you up like this," he told her. "Stand up for yourself.

Kellestine had announced he was going to retire, she said.

When she heard about the eight dead bikers on the weekend near Iona Station, she called the house.

"I thought for sure he was dead."

Kellestine sounded close to tears when he wondered during the phone call if some of the eight were friends of his, the woman said.

The woman said she can't believe Kellestine has been charged with murder.

In fact, if there's a common thread among lovers, enemies, acquaintances and friends about Kellestine, it's disbelief he could plan and carry out the contract murder of eight bikers.

He's too nice, said both his current girlfriend and a former lover.

He's too smart, said a biker friend.

He's too stupid, said another biker.

One former associate said he's too lazy.

"I can't even believe he pushed the lawnmower to make the swastika (in his backyard)," she said with a laugh.

The possibility there was a shootout, or an attack on Kellestine, changes many opinions.

Trapped in a corner, Kellestine's charm disappears and is replaced by a crazy cunning, said many friends and associates.

"You have to get up pretty early in the morning to catch him off guard," said a longtime friend.

The man is as hard to pin down as his reputation, the friend said.

"If you want Kellestine, you had better be sharp."

For more than 20 years, Wayne Kellestine has spread violence and courted danger.

- During a 1982 trial of another man, he was accused of fatally shooting John DeFilippo, 31, and wounding the man's father-in-law, Vito Fortunato, then 53, in a North York home invasion in 1978. Kellestine was never charged in the killing due to a lack of evidence.

- In 1984, Kellestine was sentenced to six days in jail or a $700 fine for punching a London bouncer as the bouncer grappled with another man in a bar.

- In 1985, police seized LSD and cocaine worth about $325,000 and a semi-automatic handgun at Kellestine's farm.

- In December 1991, Kellestine was charged in the shooting of Thomas Harmsworth in June of that year. Harmsworth took five bullets in the stomach, then four men in a black jeep dropped him off at St. Thomas Elgin General Hospital. Charges against Kellestine were dropped in January 1992 because Harmsworth refused to talk about it. Several other charges, including possession of stolen property were dropped.

- In January 1992, police found the body of suspected cop killer David O'Neil, 34, of RR 1, Putnam, in a shallow grave near Kellestine's house. O'Neil met a gangland-style death, taking three bullets to the head from a .38-calibre revolver. Kellestine was never considered the killer, but it's accepted knowledge among criminals and police sources he got some charges dropped because he told police where to find O'Neil's body. He also got a lot of heat off his criminal associates.

- In March 1992, in a police sweep ironically called Project Bandito, Kellestine and 14 others were charged with dozens of drug and weapons offences. After a seven-month probe, 100 officers raided the Outlaws clubhouse in London and the Loners clubhouse in St. Thomas. Kellestine pleaded guilty and got six years. Not long after he got out, someone tried to put Kellestine out of action for good. By then, his club was a chapter of the Loners, an Ontario biker gang. The Hells Angels wanted a foothold in Ontario and started courting Loners. Kellestine didn't want to join. One of the Hells Angels supporters was pistol-whipped and assaulted. In retaliation, the Hells Angels fired a shotgun at a vehicle supposedly carrying Kellestine, blowing out one window. But it was the wrong car.

- In July 2002, Kellestine pleaded guilty to 22 weapons charges and was sentenced to two years behind bars. He told a London judge he no longer ran with bikers.