Head Shot Read Online Free Page B

with Don for moving out so quickly. They said he had chicken shitted out on them, and they talked about wasting him because they feared he would tell what he knew.”
    On Monday June 11, Chris St. Pierre showed up at Friday’s Unfinished Furniture. He wasn’t there to buy a bookcase. “He said that everyone was talking too much. He told me that I better shut my mouth and don’t worry about anything. Then he showed me a handful of bullets he had in his pocket, shook his head, and walked away.”
    Two days later, said Marshall, he heard secondhand that Paul St. Pierre had “picked up some kid on the way to the Rush concert and took him to the house on Pacific Avenue to buy some drugs. Somehow, an argument broke out between Paul and the kid in which Paul just pulled his gun out and blew the guy’s head off. At this point,” admitted Marshall, “I really feared for my life, and when a friend advised me to come forward, that’s exactly what I did.”
    â€œThe friend who advised Don Marshall to come forward was a gentleman named Roy Kissler,” recalled Detective Yerbury. “Don Marshall told us that Mr. Kissler would be very valuable to our investigation, and that Paul St. Pierre allegedly confessed to Kissler, giving him graphic details of a homicide. Naturally, we got hold of Mr. Kissler, and he was eager to meet with us and give a sworn statement.”
    â€œIt was June 15, 1984, that I showed up at Detective Yerbury’s office,” Roy Kissler recalled, “and I was more than happy to tell them everything I knew, everything I suspected, and everything I feared. I think fear probably being the primary word. Not so much fear for myself, but fear for other members of my family.
    â€œAfter Paul came back from the marines,” continued Kissler, “I started hearing all sorts of strange stuff from the other guys in the neighborhood. The first thing I heard was that Paul St. Pierre shot Kevin Robinson, a black man, at the IGA supermarket—shot him in the stomach with a forty-five, and got away with it. From the things I heard, it was obvious that things were getting out of hand. Some of the stories were insane, but believable. Like the St. Pierre brothers driving by the Drift Inn Tavern down on Fifty-sixth and Portland in Chris’s Pontiac Firebird. They had an M-one carbine, and they started shooting into a group of blacks.
    â€œThen another time,” added Kissler, “Paul supposedly started shooting at a guy in a Corvette for some reason. I mean, they were just getting more and more out of control, and I could see that their lives were going nowhere fast. My old friends from the neighborhood would talk to me about it because I was completely out of all that stuff by then. I’d changed my lifestyle one hundred percent, and they knew they could trust me. I’d known these fellows all my life, and deep down I cared for them. I thought maybe I could reach them, have a heart-to-heart talk or something like that. Most people were too scared of Paul St. Pierre to talk to him about anything, but I was never scared of him in the least. I could kick his butt any day of the week, and he knew it. He may have been in the marines, but I’d had six years of intensive martial arts training. Paul respected that big time. I was bigger, faster, stronger, and Paul would never dare to pick a fight with me. Anyway, I said to myself, ‘I’m not afraid of them. I’ll go down and talk to them. See if I can talk some sense to them.’ ”
    This well-meaning attempt to pull the St. Pierre brothers from the slough of self-destructive behavior was neither an expression of naivete nor the ill-informed effort of a self-righteous prig. Kissler’s personal résumé of unrighteous acts and illegal activities easily eclipsed the then-known behavior of Paul and Chris St. Pierre. While Kissler is now a respected family man and successful builder of