When the trash collector talked to the old man sitting in a bluish Jaguar outside of a burning house in Avinger, Texas, in the early morning hours of July 8, the old man said he knew the house was on fire but he "was more worried about the bullets that may start flying."
After driving away from the growing conflagration and nonchalant response from the fire's casual viewer parked in the driveway, the trash collector dialed 911.
Shortly after 2 a.m., the Mims volunteer fire department, which services the small town that borders Lake O' the Pines in Marion County, arrived.
Now, however, the old man sitting in the bluish Jaguar was dead, covered in blood, one gunshot wound fresh to the head.
After firemen extinguished the flames engulfing the small brick house at the entrance to an RV community on Farm Road 729, the Marion County Sheriff's Department discovered a body inside sometime around 5 a.m. They found a second body in the torched structure four hours later.
The old man was Paul Dome, 73. The first body recovered was that of Vivian Dome, 85, his wife of 20 years. The second body recovered was that of Willard Landry, 61, Vivian's son.
"What we are thinking right now is the male subject in the vehicle, who apparently committed suicide, was the husband of one of the victims inside the house and the stepfather of the other victim," Sheriff David McKnight told local news outlets early the next day. It wouldn't be long before investigators determined Vivian Dome and Landry had been deceased before the fire was set.
It was shocking local news not only because murder-suicides don't exactly happen in the rural, tight-knit town, but because the Domes were universally beloved. Acquaintances and friends chatted up local media with the usual refrains.
"I was shocked," neighbor Vernon Browder told local TV station KSLA. "I thought the world of them."
"Nothing like this has ever happened out here," Diane Knabenshut, a cashier at One Eye Jack's liquor store, which adjoins the property, told the News-Journal. "It has always been a peaceful place and they were very loving people."
That local shock, that jolt to the usual day-in and day-out routine of lake life brought on by interrupting news cameras and violence, blossomed when federal agents were seen combing the property and boxing up evidence. And as they tend to do in small, isolated towns, rumors spread quickly. This, they said, had to be about something more than Paul and Vivian Dome, the helpful couple who owned and operated the RV community.
They were right.
The man's real name was not Paul Dome. And this was not the first time he killed anyone, though these would be unlike any murders he had committed before.
Born to an unwed, deaf, mute woman named Verline Williams in Shreveport, La., in 1940, Clarence Addie Crouch was yanked into the orphanage system and placed in Boys Town and other homes for the first decade of his life. Williams eventually married in an attempt to reclaim custody of her son, but back at home, Crouch was rowdier than most and constantly in trouble with the law. He ran away at 14, only occasionally dropping back into Louisiana to see his mother over the years.
By 18, he claimed to have assaulted and almost killed a boy whom he had found with a girl Crouch had taken to a school dance. Between 1959 and 1960, Crouch was arrested for theft, burglary and assault to kill and handed five years in the Texas state penitentiary in Huntsville.
It was there in his cell with his pal "Bobby Dean" that Crouch first fell in love with the idea of riding motorcycles. He'd never owned a bike before, but he would tell friends years later that he and Bobby would hear a motorcycle ride past their window every night, and idle talk and curiosity turned to romanticized dreams of open roads and brotherhood and starting a club. Crouch left prison first, and when Bobby's release finally came, the two bought motorcycles and helped form a Texas chapter of the still young Grim Reapers MC. Crouch patched over as one of the early members of the notorious Bandidos—"one of the First seven," he would write to an acquaintance last year —which were born in 1966 in Texas.
"But since I like to travel on my Hog, I went to Shreveport, Little Rock, San Antonio, Lake Charles, Galveston and a couple of other towns, sought others like us and convinced them to start chapters," Crouch wrote in that recent note. "While Don [Chambers, founder of the Bandidos] stayed in Houston and put a patch on anyone who could come pay him dues each week, me along with about 30 others quit and sent word to Oakland and Sonny [Barger] to come check us out for a chapter."
Sonny Barger was the founder of the Oakland chapter of the Hells Angels and club president for many years.
Crouch eventually made his way to Oakland after meeting other Hells Angels at a national ride. "Walked into Sonny's house and he blew my mind," Crouch wrote, "because he had a big filing cabinet, pulled out a file and called my real name and mother's address."
Barger needed some help out east. He wanted to reform the Cleveland chapter of the HAMC and Clarence "Butch" Crouch was dispatched to Ohio. He was 28 years old.
The ATF's internal summary of the Cleveland Hells Angels history notes that the charter was obtained on Dec. 16, 1967, and consisted of members from two local motorcycle clubs—the Gooses, formed by Tim Adams in 1960, and the Animals.
Adams along with Robert Lemmons, Eugene Padavick, Tom Padavick, George Rothrock, Nelson Blackburn, Ken Vesey and others formed the original lineup.
Less than three months into existence, the Cleveland Hells Angels landed on the front page of the papers and in the crosshairs of the police. On Feb. 28, 1968, Roosevelt Brown and James Tillet were shot to death at Barto's Café, a regular biker hangout, on the east side. The Hells Angels had been out that night in pursuit of members of the God's Children, a rival gang. They gathered at Barto's, eventually bullying a black piano player named Robert Williams until a barmaid put a stop to the ruckus. And while the bikers behaved for a little bit, they soon descended on Brown, another black man, and broke beer bottles over his head. Tillet, who was white and an innocent bystander, tried to intervene on Brown's behalf. Both would end up dead.
Mayor Carl Stokes held a meeting the next day, joined by Cleveland police Chief Michael Blackwell and others. The double homicide had stoked fears of unchecked violence from the Hells Angels and other clubs. "We're not going to let any terrorist gangs take over," the mayor said. "We will not let these hoodlums be the cause of plunging our city into a blood bath."
The Hells Angels and their girlfriends present that night fled around the country, from New York to California. An intensive weeks-long search ensued and the bikers were rounded up, arrested, and shipped back to Cleveland. The lengthy trials and tabloid-esque reporting captured the city's attention and drew nationwide attention as convictions mounted. With all eyes on the club and many of the members in prison, the charter was frozen by Sonny Barger.
On Oct. 29, 1968, less than a year later, the Cleveland charter was unfrozen with enough new blood coming in from California and members out of prison to restart operations.
The following decade was among the bloodiest in Cleveland history. Danny Green and the Irish, the mob, the unions and the motorcycle gangs unleashed bombings and murders across the cityscape. The Hells Angels, of which Clarence Crouch was now vice president, became something other than team of young riders with a penchant for violence.
Murder, pimping, theft, witness intimidation, drugs, bribery, burglary and rape became commonplace as the Cleveland HA feuded with rival gangs, did business against and for other criminal organizations, bought off police officers and politicians and established themselves as one of the premiere chapters across the country. They were the "Dirty 30," proud to call Cleveland the best location in the nation... for Hells Angels.
While whole anthologies could detail the path of carnage, a few incidents help to understand the atmosphere inside the club and in the city.
On March 6, 1971, bikers gathered for a custom cycle show at the Polish Women's Hall in Cleveland. The Hells Angels knew, according to media reports at the time and law enforcement sources, that the Breed, a rival gang, had planned on attacking them at the show. The HA hid weapons inside the hall and made sure that the cavalry—members from other chapters across the country—would be outside and waiting without their colors on when the Breed arrived. Once they entered, they were faced with armed Hells Angels in the front—"Freddie [Radatz, then president] made sure we didn't bring guns with us," Crouch wrote later in life. "We went there and stood up as Men."—and fellow Angels behind them.
85 were arrested. 31 members of the Breed were indicted; 14 from the Hells Angels. Five were dead, 21 were wounded.
Crouch was among them, and though indicted for first-degree murder, he received only two years probation and time served. (Crouch would later tell a friend in an email, and include in his writings, that Cuyahoga County Judge Frank Gorman was bribed.)
"That changed everything," Crouch would write. "New Roll Bones Rule [slang for killing someone to earn full membership to the club], the TCB fund [Taking Care of Business Fund, which he said was used to fund wars with rival gangs] and the focus became how to kill Breed. Biker magazines on the clubhouse coffee table were replaced with how to build bombs and booby traps. And selling dope to finance the war became big."
Crouch was among the worst of the worst. Over the next decade, he would be investigated for rape, narcotics, assault to kill, assaulting a police officer, and about 12 other felonies.
The ATF file notes the severe "loss of human life" attributed to the Hells Angels during that time. "Investigations reveal the Angels to be responsible for at least 20 separate murders, several who were innocent victims having no connection to HAMC at all."
The war against the Outlaws, stockpiled with garages of ammo and guns and bombs, funded by copious drug sales, escalated in the mid 1970s. Bombings increased, and innocents died in very public fashion.
On Jan. 7, 1975, a suitcase bomb was left at the door of a Cleveland home. Brought inside by 26-year-old Burdell Offitt, who was visiting the home, the bomb exploded seconds later, killing him, 21-year-old mother Maryanne Sigley, and her 2-year-old son Michael. Three others were injured.
Years later, the Hells Angels responsible would say they thought an Outlaw lived at the house. That was not the case.
It wasn't just rival gang members and innocents who were being killed. In 1975, club treasurer James "Beetle" Bailey was shot and killed in Iowa on his way to a Hells Angel club run in South Dakota. He was riding with two fellow Angels at the time—Richard Vesey, who was hit in the arm, and "Chip." Chip was murdered during Beetle's funeral. Angel members in Cleveland told the club he was killed because they found a number for an Outlaw, a rival gang, in his billfold.
Crouch wrote that Bailey had receipts with him that he believed would prove members of financial misconduct. Crouch said Beetle had brought the evidence to his fellow Cleveland members, which led to a heated church meeting and a feeling later, all but admitted by Vesey, that Angel members and TCB officers had killed Beetle to prevent him from handing over the receipts.
"All who came to the clubhouse armed and ready to do whatever to find out who and why those who killed Chip and thought they had a right to kill a member with the sanction of the whole membership," Crouch wrote in the 1988 letter. "But it ended when the President stood and gave a long speech about how we should forget Chip since he was an outsider [Chip was a North Carolina patch] and do all we could to draw the Cleveland chapter to what it was supposed to be."
Crouch wasn't sure what that was anymore.
In November 1981, Clarence Crouch contacted the ATF. He would turn state's witness against the Hells Angels.
Why he made that decision may never be known, but from correspondence later in life, anecdotes from family members, testimony and his sprawling, rambling writings he frequently tried to publish, Crouch had a genuine change of heart. He would turn snitch, putting a target on his head. This is not what he had signed up for.
It began back in 1975 with the Sigley bombings.
"I was a very dedicated Member," Crouch wrote in an email to an acquaintance in February 2013. "But with all that happened over the years, and sitting there with my 18-month-old child in my lap the next morning [after the bombing] and watching the news on TV, when I saw the deaths of the Sigley children, my wall of Dedication began to crumble. Hardly a day goes by that I don't think about it. I didn't think of myself as a Snitch—I thought of it was Switching."
In a 19-page letter to a Plain Dealer reporter dated 1988, Crouch penned a manifesto of sorts, an emotional and detailed personal essay of the John Teller variety that lays out his deep-seated problems with the Hells Angels and details what was going through his mind in 1981.
"For you see, the MC that once stood for Motorcycle Club would now be more suitable to stand for Murder Cult. For you see there is no Brotherhood left among this organization's membership. For over the years all of the basic ideals this once Brotherhood was based on were undercut by greed. Always trying to believe that it would one day live up to expectations as we lied to ourselves in the waiting and ignored the hundreds of bodies left in our wake. The simple fact is that this so-called brotherhood self destructed long ago because of greed, hate and the evil borne from it."
Later in the screed, Crouch says he spent most of the summer of 1981 riding across the country—some 8,000 miles he writes—trying to "decide what to do with all the reality ricocheting in my head."
He writes that he met Sonny Barger in Nashville at Waylon Jennings' house and confided his feelings to the Hells Angel leader. "I suppose I knew I was grasping at straws, but as it was, I figured Sonny was the only one who could call enough support together from the membership in order to stop the murder cult."
Crouch continued that Barger told him something along the lines of "Fuck those idiots that still think there's something worth giving their lives for like Brotherhood and all that silly Shit. Use it—use them—get yourself all the millions you can before the whole thing comes down on us."
The ATF file notes in 1981: "At this time, Crouch revealed a history of events that had occurred, involving HAMC members, virtually without any attention being brought to the Hells Angels since the Polish Women's Hall riot."
And in 1981, his wife and children — the Crouch family — including that young daughter who sat on Crouch's lap, became history themselves.
Jackee Taylor, then named Jacqueline Crouch, remembers the funerals of Hells Angels members in Cleveland vividly. There was drinking and smoking, carousing, guns blasted into the air and motorcycles peeling through parking lots. They would go all night, alternating between tears and laughs.
Taylor, born in 1974, was the oldest of three children Crouch had with his second wife. (He was married briefly down in Texas in the early 1960s and had one child.)
There was nothing strange to Taylor about her father's life in Cleveland.
"I just knew that his friends and him all drove motorcycles," she says. "I saw the guns and knives and the drugs—my father called cocaine his 'medicine.' But he was a good father. I had no idea that he was a monster. My mom, who had been a straight-A student and very proper lady before meeting my father and was a nurse, thought she could change him with love. She thought if she gave him his son it'd get better, but it didn't."
Shortly after Crouch reached out to the ATF, her mother began noticing cars parked outside of the house. She took the kids and left for Florida, hoping to escape the violence Crouch had brought into their lives. She didn't know what her husband had gotten into.
"They found us, though," says Taylor. "And they told my mother that our lives were in danger and we had to go into witness protection. And the Feds actually told her, if you don't stay with your husband we won't put you in the program and you will be killed."
The family was brought back to Cleveland and whisked away in a series of black vans to a safe house back in Florida, eventually landing in Billings, Mont. Taylor was barely 8 years old, unable to say goodbye to friends. She remembers sitting in her room and writing her new name over and over again in a notebook, practicing. Jackee Taylor. Jackee Taylor. Jackee Taylor. Jackee Taylor.
Crouch would drop in for a few brief stints in Montana, but he never stayed long and eventually her mother told the children he was going on a ship and would not be able to talk to them. He was actually in prison.
"He'd write us kids every once in awhile, and there were phone calls every couple of months," she says. But her mother began telling them the truth about their father—the killings, the crime—and Taylor's perceptions of her father changed. "I guess she wanted us to feel like she did. We had talked about him lovingly."
Her mother filed for divorce. When Crouch got out of prison, he sent them each a letter with a $20 bill asking to stay in touch.
"I knew that we were in witness protection and couldn't tell anyone," says Taylor. "For years, I was scared every time I heard the sound of a motorcycle. I would fall to my knees and start shaking."
Later, she would learn, she had nothing to fear in terms of retribution. She returned to Ohio for her uncle's 50th birthday party. Her aunt had invited just about everyone in their address book, which included a couple of Hells Angels, who actually showed up.
"I froze when I saw them," says Taylor. "I was standing with my grandfather and he told me not to say anything. But one of them came over—he remembered me—and asked how my mother was doing. I said she was good. He said, 'Good. Tell her she has nothing to worry about. You have nothing to worry about. It was always between us and your dad.'"
It turns out Taylor's life would not be the challenge of evading the Hells Angels (though plenty of other troubles dotted her new world, including violence at the hands of her mother and drugs by the age of 18, though she would get clean); it would be a challenge to reclaim anything close to a normal existence because of problems with witness protection.
"I don't have a birth certificate," says Taylor. "I've called and wrote everyone I can, but never get a response. My mom had to beg to let me play sports because they always wanted a birth certificate and I didn't have one."
Crouch may have been landing cash for his role, but that money never made its way to her family, she says. "It's not like in the movies and TV," Taylor says. "It's glorified. There's no cash and a new car. People think that's how it is. I couldn't get a marriage license if I wanted to, I can't get certain jobs, we are bottom-rung feeders. When you're a kid, you don't sign up for this."
Taylor went public in 2010, describing her story and her problems with witness protection to the Billings Gazette. "Nobody seems to be on our case anymore," she said at the time. "It seems like we've fallen through the cracks. I want a passport. I want a birth certificate. I want to be able to go to Mexico on vacation. I want to be able to get my marriage license in Yellowstone County. It's just been nothing but problems."
Three years later, she still does not have her birth certificate.
In addition to diming on his former friends in 1981, Crouch told ATF agents that he was responsible for a 1974 shooting death in Akron. "This crime remained unsolved until the Defendant confessed to federal agents on November 5, 1981," reads the negotiated plea deal Crouch reached with prosecutors. He would be sentenced to 10 to 40 years and serve eight.
The list of cases Crouch gave information on is extensive. The Cleveland police intelligence report rattles off the names—The Pircio bombing, the John Del Zappo bombing, the Thomas Norton bombing, Bruce Sunday homicide, Denise Padavick homicide, the Richard Spears homicide and on.
Crouch was the state's star witness in three trials in the 1980s, though he wasn't quite the star that prosecutors had hoped for—a known criminal, drug user, drug dealer and killer, and none resulted in convictions.
Cross examination from the defense usually followed along the same topics. Yes, he shot a girlfriend in the leg, Crouch said. Yes, he stabbed another in the foot. Yes, he took a plea deal. "I'll take what they give me, I'll stand for what I did," he said. Yes, he was paid $1,245 a month for being a protected witness.
One of the cases Crouch testified in was against Richard Amato, who was arrested for the Sigley bombing. Crouch claimed Amato thought he was targeting an Outlaw member. Later, in emails and writings, Crouch would say that Hells Angel Harold Chakirelis was also responsible. It had been Harry's birthday that night, and before the cake could be eaten, Crouch says they realized Harry hadn't "rolled his bones" yet. Which led Amato and Harry to exit the clubhouse on Edna Avenue and Harry allegedly saying he'd have his bones "before the cake goes stale."
Judge James McGettrick dismissed the charges, however, he would later be arrested for accepting a bribe from the Hells Angels in the case. (How that came about: An undercover ATF quipped to McGettrick at a bar, "We really appreciate what you did for us." The judge thought the guy was a friend of the Hells Angels and responded that he should have gotten a bigger bribe. He was later caught accepting a bribe to fix the murder case against Frank Fencl, another Cleveland Hells Angel member.) Amato was never retried.
Between inconsistencies in his testimony, his reputation, and cases that often hinged on nothing but Crouch's word, he became the witness no one wanted.
Crouch was never even brought to the stand by Summit County prosecutors in a murder case against Hells Angel Cleveland member Andrew Shission.
For all his information, Crouch's actions proved to have very little effect in putting anyone in jail in Cleveland. By 1990, he was out of jail himself on the plea-bargained manslaughter charges and living down south.
Attempts to contact Hells Angels from Crouch's era were unsuccessful. Many of them are now deceased.
Divorced and out of contact, by choice and circumstance, with his children, Crouch moved to Georgia from 1990 to 1992 living as Paul Allen Verns before moving to Virginia until 1993 as Paul Allen Dome—he'd been in some sort of bar fight and the arrest precipitated the name change. He bounced around Arkansas and Louisiana some before happening upon Vivian Greer who had been looking for someone to work on her house in exchange for room and board. He'd left the witness protection program, content to create security and a new life for himself.
The two married shortly thereafter and returned to eastern Texas, Crouch's old stomping grounds. They settled in Avinger, buying the RV community, a bait shop and the liquor store, which they eventually sold to a family friend.
In April 2006, Jackee Taylor traveled to Louisiana to visit with Crouch's sister. She implored Taylor to visit Crouch in nearby Texas. It would be good, she said. It would be healing.
She had not seen her father since he left for prison in the early 1980s. Her siblings had not been in touch with him, though she occasionally exchanged letters, the only one from the family to do so. (During one trial, a defense attorney claimed Crouch had bragged about having 13 illegitimate children. Taylor says he once told her sister that the number was actually probably in the 20s.)
"It was nice," Taylor says. "We talked, we barbecued—he was a big outdoorsman and liked fishing and hunting and, of course, smoking his weed—and I got to let go a lot of the hate that I had. I got to see he was a normal guy trying to make a decent living. I called him Pop, not Dad. It was weird to call him Dad after all that time."
They continued to stay in touch for the next 7 years. "He was still paranoid about the Hells Angels," she says. "With them, it's not a five-year statute of limitations. It's a lifelong thing. He never did turn in his colors."
Taylor had no idea that her father had been enduring the same struggles with Witsec and obtaining records that she had. And she had no idea he had mentioned her in his letter. If she knew, they would have been even closer, she says: "I'm getting to know my father in death, which sucks."
On March 25, 2013, Crouch sent a letter to the Feds. "To The Administrators," it begins.
"This is an appeal under Federal Freedom of Information Act, 5 U.S.C 552. I am making a FOI Act request for Papers, Medical Records, Newspaper Articles, Files, Birth Certificates and any other Documents seized by the Witness Protection Program, Marshal Service, In I and my Family Members behalf, ie 'Security,' dating from 1981 to 1993.
"I'm dealing with the Social Security in an attempt to get my Disability," it continues. "Without Medical Records of my past, they have denied my disability, leaving me to appeal this decision. Also enclosed is a copy of an article my child was forced to do in the Billings MT newspaper, since the Marshal's Witsex Program had refused to help them over the years. I request that these stated problems be resolved and/or my children be afforded the help they seek."
While Crouch confided some of his failing health to his daughter—"He had arthritis and neuropathy," she says. "He had arthritis his whole life. His toes were curled by the time he was 30. He was in an unbelievable amount of pain by the end."—he didn't burden her with the full weight of his life. Taylor says he rarely could afford pain pills, but would make tables and other furniture—he was an accomplished woodworker—for neighbors and friends. $50 here, $60 there, eventually cobbling together enough cash to go to the doctor.
But he wasn't receiving Medicare, something he had been pestering the government for for three years, and his family's health was even worse than his.
Vivian was losing her eyesight, according to Taylor, and had tumors up and down her spine. Willard Landry, her son who had come to live with the couple, had terminal brain cancer. By the end, Landry was down to 100 pounds and was unable to make it to the bathroom on his own.
Crouch shared some of this with his acquaintance in a May 2013 email.
"Health? Like I said, been in bed a lot lately. Getting old and all these damn bullet holes and stab wounds," he wrote. "Then on top of all that, my stepson is 66 and is laying up on a hospital bed in my front room dying. Hospice comes two or three times a week, but those assholes don't do anything but write in clipboards and leave all the bathing to my wife and I. Last year he was strong and sharp as they come, but now it's like taking care of a stepped-on tomato. Bless his heart and hers. TV, we watch a lot of it these days. I'm 73 now. I've been fighting with SS for three years to get some kind of Medicare. Well, it's 1:30 a.m. and I gotta take him to Walmart in the morning. What a trip that's gonna be! Last time, and why she won't go tomorrow, she found him eating grapes with both hands."
That was the last correspondence the person received from Crouch.
Crouch wasn't right the last few weeks of his life, at least not right in the sense that neighbors had known him.
He'd been sitting in his car most days, unable to walk. Then he'd retreat inside, refusing to answer the door. Neighbors said his dogs, normally tucked away safely indoors at night, were roaming the streets. Really, he hadn't seemed normal since Father's Day.
He'd take his three-wheeler into the woods and putter about sometimes. A few days before the incident, he drove it to One Eye Jack's, just on the other side of the fence that buttressed his yard, and sat out front, calling Sabrina Greer to bring him out two packs of cigarettes. He couldn't make the short walk. He handed her a $20 and told her to keep the change. He never did that.
Investigators think Vivian Dome and Willard Landry had been dead a couple of days before the fire. She was shot once in the chest. He was shot once in the chest and once in the head.
Crouch had taken all his money out of his checking account and put it in his pocket—the sum total of his life at that point just somewhere north of $100.
Taylor says flame retardant was found in the grass on the property and along the fence. He was concerned it would spread to the liquor store. He watched. He waited. Only a precise, calculated move, at least until the trash collector showed up. No collateral damage, not this time. Then Clarence Crouch, or Paul Vern, or Paul Dome, fired a bullet from an off-brand, foreign .765-caliber into his head.
Jackee Taylor was on the last day of a vacation with her children at Disney World when she got the call from her aunt around 11 p.m. Her aunt wouldn't be up this late normally. Something was wrong.
"I was very angry at first," she says. "I went down to make sure he had a proper burial and the sheriff was there telling me he couldn't believe what happened with my father, that he was a great guy, that the town was torn up. This has to be stressed: This wasn't a cold-blooded killing, I don't think. I never said it was a mercy killing. If he did in fact do this, it was more, 'We're not getting help and we're not getting better, so we might as well go out together.'
"This is bullshit, though. It didn't have to end this way," says Taylor. "This could have been avoided if Witness Protection did what they were supposed to do. He was a monster, I won't deny that. But he sure as hell wasn't the last 20 years. He was trying, and he was trying very hard. You can't put a man like my father in Witsec and dump him. He has a past. He has the potential to do what he did."
Taylor is planning a small ceremony for her father, perhaps in January sometime close to his birthday.
Crouch's obituary ran all of three sentences: "Mr. Paul Allen Dome, 73, of Avinger (Lake O' the Pines), Texas passed away, July 8, 2013 in Avinger. Cremation arrangements were by Haggard Funeral Home. No services were held."
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