Walt then excuses himself to go to the bathroom and books it to Hank's room, where he rifles through Gale's file, shitting a brick that he's going to find something incriminating about himself or Jesse. After getting a good look at crime-scene photos of Gale's corpse, he finds the lab notebook. That lightning-storm plastic cover just kills me. Before he can look through it, however, Hank comes rolling down the hallway. Walt heads him off, and Hank almost cancels out three episodes of shittiness towards Marie by offering to be a friendly ear for his bro-in-law should he ever need it. Walt's genuinely touched by the offer, I think, but the quickness with which he makes a similar offer to Hank (you know, if he ever needs help with, oh, say, a case) is almost chilling. The selflessness of Hank's offer, followed by the utter manipulativeness of Walt's could give you a shiver.
Cut to Hank and Walt poring over Gale's lab notes together. Walt's examining every corner of the notebook, while Hank explains to him what he already knows about the high quality of the blue meth. Thus far, the notebook's clean (though my favorite touch is the suuuuper fleeting glimpse of a Ron Paul sticker affixed to one of the pages; hell of an endorsement, that). Hank says they figure Gale was the ever-elusive Heisenberg, which twigs Walt's inner egotist like you would not believe. Hank asks some more chemistry questions, while Walt puzzles over what turns out to be a recipe for vegan S'Mores. Or in Hank's words, as my friend Lindsay pointed out, "vegan Schmores." Apparently Gale threw a whole lot of rando crap into his notebook. But apparently no furious diary entries about Walt firing him that one time. In fact, the one possibly risky aspect of the book is a dedication at the beginning, "To W.W., my star, my perfect silence." Hank laughs at how queerball that sounds, while Walter quietly stews, not only because he's riding the razor's edge of incrimination but because he's once again reminded that Gale idolized him, and Walt ordered his murder. Hank ponders the possible identities of W.W.: "Woodrow Wilson? Willy Wonka? ...Walter White?" Walt tries to laugh, but I'm not sure he's got any breath left in his body. What looked for a moment like honest, heart-stopping suspicion on Hank's face now has settled into mere puzzling curiosity. Walt gets a bolt of inspiration and grabs the book back; he thumbs through and ... yes! There's a sketch of one Walt Whitman, accompanied by a poem. "The learned astronomer." Certainly describes OUR W.W. Hank laughs at what a "freakin' brainiac" Walt is for figuring it out. He then laments that he always wanted to be the one to catch Heisenberg, and alive, not dead. He compares himself to Popeye Doyle, and Walt, ever the know-it-all, is like, "I don't think Popeye Doyle ever caught the bad guy either." At least not in the first one. "Day late and a dollar short," Hank mopes. As they exit Hank's room, Walt prods for information about Gale's killer. Hank tosses off something about fingerprints and a "person of interest" spotted at the scene (though that last one is almost certainly Victor, may he rest). "They'll track down the shooter eventually," Hank assures.