Porridge

There were fewer things Jeff loved more than to cook.
His new job was pretty much just a dogsbody, but he was working in a professional kitchen at last.
He would go and bring the chefs what they wanted from the vast walk-in fridge and he would occasionally chop vegetables or even make a huge pot of bechamel sauce. It was far from living the dream and the wages were terrible, but it was the most satisfying job he'd ever had.
He hoped that one day they'd let him actually fry some meat or make a casserole. He knew that if he did a good job and kept his head down that it was a possibility, but it was down to if and when any of the others left. He had heard a rumour that Steve would be leaving in a month's time, but they never discussed such matters while they worked.
All equipment had to be accounted for. Knives were counted out at the start of a shift and counted in at the end. They were expensive knives and today was the first time one was missing.
All the guys were lined up as the boss paced back and forth in front of them.
"In a minute I'm going to leave the room," he said. "The missing knife will be on this bench here," he slapped his palm against the stainless steel surface, making a noise like a thunderclap, "when I return in one minute."
He left the kitchen and the guys looked at each other, wondering who the culprit was. None of them were thieves. Some were much worse, but thieves they weren't.
When the boss returned a minute later, the knife wasn't on the bench. It was sticking out of the chest of a confused Jeff who was lying on the floor coughing up blood and twitching.
"Shit!" said the boss.
The alarm was sounded and before long the boss' boss was in the kitchen, threatening all of them with all sorts if they didn't tell him who'd done it.
Nobody would ever say a word. It was the code of prison mixed with the knowledge that the kitchen was the cushiest job they could have.