The Mystery of The Four Mysterious Pictures

The Center For Unspectacular Research.  Dover, Delaware.  March 16, 2:13-ish P.M.  

Dr. Osis Flapp, 79, long-red mullet, Sagittarius, mouth breather, has been working all week in his basement office on a project of misguided attention and forgotten importance.  Oldies 107.3 FM blasting in his headphones.  He hardly notices Gurton, his midget assistant, approach with dagger drawn.  Years of mental abuse and ear thwapping have bubbled over to this moment.  Flapp sneezes his first sneeze since childhood at the exact same moment that the dagger plunges into his left buttock.  Like a hot knife into peach ice cream.  Buried up to the handle.  He makes eye contact with his attacker briefly.  Smiles an unsteady smile.  Blood streams from his mouth for some unrelated  health reason.  He staggers, knocking over some dumb pencil holder he got from his son-in-law for Christmas in 1997, and flops face first to the floor.  Gurton flees through The Doors of Equal Unimportance:    

Alarms go off.  People stare at the midget in the blood-stained labcoat.  Children laugh and point.  Adults encourage their children to laugh and point with more intensity.  A police car squeals to a stop, pinning Gurton against a wall.  At chin level almost.  The policeman's eyeglasses are knocked off his head when he frantically exits the vehicle and forgets to remove his seatbelt.  He attempts to proceed with the apprehension of the mysterious bloody suspect, but with his blurred vision, he handcuffs himself to a newspaper stand.  Later, back at the station, he describes exactly what happened to the chief in a very detailed, time-consuming wood carving, pictured here:

Far, far away in religious Italy, the old bell washer in The Church of Santa Clammy, is summoned from far up inside the bell tower all the way down 504 steps to the old, rickety fax machine in the lobby.  It's beeping very timidly.  He puts another roll of paper on the spool and it starts printing out a message.  Very slowly.  He fixes a new pot of coffee, sweeps the steps, washes a bunch of dishes, makes chit chat with a priest about the best kind of bell washing soap - all while the fax prints.  Finally, near midnight, he uncurls the message and reads it. He thinks about it for a moment, then shows it to the camera.  It says "You missed a spot."  

(The preceding story was originally 6 pages long, but I discarded the superfluous description of what each character's breath smelled  like and the contents of their bowels)

(You're welcome)