Catherine's apparently decided that Mr. Julia Reed is ready to talk about the circumstances in which his wife died. Long story short: it's kind of hard to sprint for safety in high heels. Catherine looks devastated. Mr. Reed says, "They didn't have to shoot her. They were wearing masks; we didn't get a good look at them." Catherine's all, "You can't look for reasons here. That's my job, and I've got another 44 minutes before we get to the big why -- 32 minutes if you believe in the plot-accelerating power of the 48-minute mark." Or something to that effect.
Meanwhile, over in the morgue, David the Squeezably Gruff Coroner is extracting the bullet from Julia's back using a highly technical process called "popping it out like it's a lead zit." Warrick speaks for us all when he snots, "Is there something wrong with tweezers?" David explains, "They can mess up the striae. You've got enough to deal with without my tool marks in the mix." David's so thoughtful like that. He manages to pop the bullet out, eyeballs it with a "Hunh," and then whips out two different types of specimen envelopes to ask, "Paper or plastic?" Warrick grins in appreciation of his dark humor.
We then move over to a monitor's eye view of Rufus's body -- and I am fighting the urge to add "T. Firefly" to his name every time I type it -- before zooming back to the morgue at large, which is looking a little full with three men laid out. Gil comes in, and Emergency Backup David tells him that Officer Clay was already processed because they wanted to get him to his family quickly. Gil is not impressed with this talk of human families; he wants to know if Emergency Backup David thought to take prints off the two suspects. What's he going to say? No, because he's never worked around the CSIs before? Of course not -- he's already got the prints ready for Gil, as well as the bullets. Gil then checks out their forearms and remarks, "Prison tattoos. They weren't virgins." That's a very personal assumption to make. Emergency Backup David says nothing; perhaps he's afraid Gil will begin commenting on everyone else's virginity as well.
Catherine's gone to Desert Palms (or so we can assume, what with it being the only hospital in Las Vegas and all) to talk to Celeste. The woman behind the counter snaps, "Right. Curtain three. Just got out of surgery. Stable. She's still pretty doped-up. You're going to have to come back later." It's nice to see a nurse who's thrown off all that Clara Barton-this and Florence Nightingale-that baggage. Or maybe the nurse has had one too many neighbors snigger, "You know what they say about nurses…" However, the nurse does redeem herself by handing over the bullets. Catherine thanks her, and presses for information on the little boy. Clara Nightingale manages to wriggle free of the pole which had previously been responsible for both her uncommonly good posture and her attitude, and reports with some relief that the kid is fine except for shock. The nurse then grinds in an extra dose of working-mom guilt with, "Hell of a night, huh? You take your kid to work, you both end up shot." However, this line does not send Catherine down her usual primrose path of I'm-a-single-mother-so-tell-me-about-it empathy-spewing. She's more interested in figuring out that the boy's mother is Celeste Turner.
We then go to a shot of the two of them in bed with the boy snuggled up next to his mom. Catherine decides to gaze at that tableau for a while, in a surprisingly subtle allusion to her own situation.