Carl was half way through the door, knob in hand. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. "It's twenty till six.". With that, he pulled the door closed and headed down the skinny hallway. One naked light bulb illuminated the top of the stairs. The railing was loose. The stairs skinnier than the hall. The first flight of fourteen stairs moaned and creaked as he descended to the second floor.  The second floor hall was also illuminated by one naked bulb. He walked past the insurance companies office. It occupied both offices on the second floor. Carl desperately wanted one of the second floor offices....<br/><br/>He walked the length of the second floor and descended another fourteen steps to ground level.  He walked out onto Main Street, and peered into the Bakery's glass door. He could see lights on in the back, but the sales area was still dark. He tried the door. Locked.  He went back into the building and down the narrow hallway. The rear entrance to the bakery was off the hallway, behind the stairs.  Light painted it's way across the hall floor through the open door. Carl noted a couple drops of blood. Probably Mrs. Davidson's, he surmised.<br/><br/>Carl braced himself for the inevitable, and peered around the door frame.  The kitchen was small. The tiled walls were a dingy yellow. Carl imagined they had once been white. He saw stainless steel counters and sink to his right, against the back wall. To his left was another stainless table. Baking utensils hung from a rod over this table. Beyond the table was the back side of the display counter.  Directly across from the door were two industrial ovens, also stainless steel.  Little red lights on the front indicated they were probably on. The floor was a typical red  Spanish tile. There was a drain in the center of the floor, between the work table and the sink.  It was surrounded with little puddles of blood.<br/><br/>Car stepped inside, l carefully avoiding the  blood on the floor. He took two steps around the work table towards the display counter. He noted that the cash register was closed,  and in one piece.  And there on the floor, between the display counter and the work table, was the body of one Michael Newton, retired.<br/><br/>His eyes stared blankly at the drop ceiling. He had a single bullet hole in his forehead.  Small caliber, Carl noted.  As he backtracked to the door, he glanced down into the 40 gallon trash can beside the door. Lined with a fresh dark green bag, it was obvious the trash had been taken out the night before.  He almost missed the little black object in the bottom of the can. Carl reached down into the can and pulled out an old<a class="postlink" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/FN_M1905">.25 Browning</a>.  Four and a half inches long, the little pistol weighed less than a pound.  Someone was either incredibly smart, or incredibly stupid.<br/><br/>He slipped the Browning into his pocket and started making his way back up the 28 steps to his office.