He realized almost as soon as he entered the building that this was probably a tactical error. Looking about him, he was suddenly irrationally grateful that he hadn't had to come here alone. That could have been quite painful. He got the feeling it still would be. Everyone seemed to be glaring at him, even people he didn't realize she knew. He hoped his interview wouldn't be with Brass.

Trying to pull himself together, he reminded himself that this was standard procedure. There had been fatalities in a suspicious circs case, and he had moved the body with his resuscitative efforts. He had done this before. All he had to do was sign a statement saying exactly what he had done to the body, and then he could leave.

He didn't think he'd ever been in a longer hall way. Was it usually this long? Did people usually fill the doorways like this? He tried to ignore it, and continued down the hall. He was so busy not observing where he was going, that when he finally turned the corner, he ran smack into a figure coming the other way. Greg Sanders. Oops.

The smile that usually adorned Greg's face was immediately replaced by something that Hank had never seen before, and to be frank, was more than a little intimidated by.

"Sorry Greg." he apologized unconsciously.

The lab tech did not reply, merely brushing past the two EMTs and heading back to his laboratory.

"What was that about?" asked Hank's partner. "Did they find out about what you did to Sara?"

Hank didn't answer, mostly because he didn't have to.

"Oh man, are you ever in trouble." was the somewhat less than comforting exclamation "Do you have any idea what these people are capable of? Did you ever hear what Grissom did to Eddie Willows once? Or Ecklie? They pull for each other man, and that's very scary."

Hank decided that he should probably never come to this building again. He thought it had been bad when Warrick and Nick had ignored him at the scene tonight. He'd rather be ignored than, well, than whatever it was the night shift did to people that pissed them off. Even if they settled for insults, he knew he'd be out of his league. And after all, it wasn't like he didn't deserve it. Still, he hoped to get in and out of here as fast as he possibly could, and hopefully avoid all further contact with night shift regulars.

The two EMTs finally reached the room where they would give their statements. Hank swallowed and found that he had a rather significant lump in his throat. Sitting at the table, ready to interview them and record their statements was none other than Captain Brass himself. Hank felt sick to his stomach, not unlike the first time he had met Sara, but for entirely different reasons. He entered the room first, and took the seat that was farthest away from the homicide detective. Unfortunately, that meant Hank was now sitting directly across from him, and could not innocently avoid eye contact. Maybe he didn't know.

"Armstrong, Pettigrew." Brass acknowledged them. Hank winced. He knew all right. "Tell me about what you did tonight please."

"We arrived on the scene to find the mother unconscious and face down." Hank let his partner talk. "We turned her over, and attempted resuscitation. We left her on her back for the coroner."

Hank listened as Armstrong outlined what they had done for the other four residents of the house, wondering if he would get off the hook without talking. The table in this room, he noted, had a peculiar grainy pattern that was reminiscent of a fine marble. It was obvious upon actually touching the table that it was just a cheap replica. He stopped looking at the table. It was too symbolic, and settled for looking at the reels on the tape recorder instead.

"Pettigrew." said Brass in the tone of a man who was short of temper before he had to repeat himself several times, and was now even shorter. Hank snapped his head up, and his eyes locked with the Captain's. "Do you have anything to add." he said it like Hank was mentally deficient.

"No sir." Hank croaked. "No, that's what happened."

Brass pursed his lips together, like their was something he wished he could say, but couldn't because of the tape recorder. Then, he dismissed them. Hank almost bolted from the room, and let out an explosive breath upon his exit. Armstrong laughed at him. Hank absently wished he was somewhere, anywhere else. Now, he had to traverse the whole hallway again, past all those eyes, under all those glares. He hoped for the umpteenth time since entering the building that all the CSIs were out somewhere else trying to solve a crime, rather than plotting one here.

He rounded the corner where he had run into Greg on his way in, and faced the long hallway. If anything, it seemed longer on the way out than it had on the way in. He gritted his teeth and set out, vaguely aware that Armstrong had out some space between them, as though to signify that he had nothing to do with him. Which was terribly unpartner-like of him, Hank thought, but there was nothing he could do.

Then in a door way half way down the hall, Hank saw them. They were obviously on the way somewhere, it was nearing the end of shift after all. He hoped in vain that they would walk down the hall in front of him and not notice his presence, but then he remembered that these people notice everything.

He was now on the receiving end of perhaps the frostiest glare he had ever seen, but it didn't come from her. She had looked away, and ducked back into the break room. Hank bit his lip, and walked past the night shift supervisor without saying anything. He could feel the glare boring holes in his back as Sara emerged from the break room and she and Grissom followed him down the hall to the doorway. Usually, he would have held the door open for people he knew were behind him, but today, Hank did no such thing.

As soon as he exited the building, Hank felt as though a weight had been lifted on him. He sighed in relief, filled with the joy that comes with survival. Forgetting his past predicament momentarily, he absently looked back over his shoulder.

A different weight settled in his stomach. It was haunting familiar, and something he knew he would never quite be rid of. Burdened by his guilt, Hank Pettigrew got into his car, and drove home.

Alone.