Author's Note: This story is inspired by a previously-written story, The Chicago Dahlia (which I may repost, etc., one of these days). Rated M for language and violence. UnBeta'd, but recently revised. Loosely based facts/discrepancies about American law, the Cook County Justice and the supernatural are mine.

Enjoy!

One

"It's not what you think…"

Those damn words. That damned phrase.

It's not what you think.

Did he think she was stupid?

Did he honestly believe that she, his wife, the supposed love of his life, would take those words and accept them?

It's not what you think.

Fuck, the bastard is legally, spiritually mandated to be loyal to her, to love her, to cherish her—He promised such when he had proposed to her. When he had married her. During their honeymoon and the years following.

It's not what you think.

Those were the words he said to her on that fateful dreaded night, while naked under the sheets, eyes widened in shock and horror. Lying in that bed, their bed, next to her that bitch.

Goodness, she could have killed that both right then and there. It wouldn't take long; one bullet between the eyes would do the trick. She would get in trouble, of course, but she figured she could pull enough strings and garner enough sympathy to get a justifiable homicidal charge or double-manslaughter—

She slapped her forehead and groaned. Damn, she must look so pathetic right now, sitting alone on her old leather couch on a work night with a half-filled jar-turned-flask in one hand. Focus unfocused to the point that she didn't register the events displayed on the TV in front of her. All she saw were blurred pictures and noise. All because she was agonizing about something that happened over a month ago.

She guzzled the rest of the drink before picking up the wine bottle from the small glass table that separated her from the television. She poured herself another cup. And it wasn't even the good shit.

She could do better.

She had to do better.

She knew this, and yet—

Her glass was emptied once again and refilled once more.

At least the wine wasn't Tequila—

This was all wrong.

For goodness' sake, she was an accomplished detective. She had spent ten, good, well-earned years working in the Chicago Police Department. She had spent years in the Vice, Special Victims, and Violent Crimes Division. She was damn good at putting perps away with only a handful of cold cases under her belt.

None of this made sense.

Or maybe what she truly needed was a break. Nothing too long, only a few days. Perhaps head out west to visit some family or some friends from her time at DePaul University. Surely, her captain would understand. Jacob would understand.

She could put in her leave, give her captain a two-week notice, citing health issues or some other bullshit explanation. Her supervisor wouldn't give her a hard time, but she doubted he would truly understand. In his eyes, she was a tough woman who could handle anything, under any circumstances. Nothing could faze her, not that unpleasant rumors, not an uncooperative suspect (or partner) and certainly not her husband—

Sam.

Damn it, that man, a terrific defective and, at one time, a terrific man. Goodness, he used to make everything better. If this were a few months ago, maybe sometime in November, he would be sitting right next to her doing anything in his power to pull her out of her somber mode, take the wine away and wrap her with his strong arms, whispering sweet nothings and assurances in her ear.

And now, he was the cause of her anguish.

Maybe if she told the captain the circumstances behind her leave requests, he wouldn't judge her. He wouldn't ask more questions—

She shook her head.

What good would come out of baring her soul?

Not a goddamn thing.

She was already known all over the department as the bitter detective with a permanent attitude. Difficult. Unworkable. A total bitch. The one who had allowed her personal life to interfere with her work. The one who had forced a transfer for creating a hostile work environment. Eight partners in six years.

How was that even possible? They would say. Perhaps she should have another career.

They could all burn in Hell, for all she cared. Everything single—

Her dangerous train of thought was interrupted by the sound of the ringing phone, resting on the other side of the couch. The work one. That the one she was obligated to answer. Fuck.

She glared at the device, hating it, wishing she could toss it out of her third-story window and leave it. For a moment, she considered ignoring it, obligation be damned, but then his name flashed on the screen: Jacob Black. Her partner of three weeks. She couldn't make the wrong impression because of a damn stupor because of her own problems... such self-pity.

Over what?

Sam didn't care. If he did, he wouldn't have been messing around with her. Emily. Her goddamn cousin. After seven years of marriage, and he had the nerve to have an affair with her cousin.

If only murder weren't considered to be a violent felony—

She shook her head. No, she wouldn't go down that road again. Especially not now. Especially not when she had work to do. She placed aside her jar of wine and answered the damned phone on its last ring, "Uley."

Just as she had expected.

Duty called.

"I'll be down in fifteen."

"Sorry for calling you that this time of night. I'm sure you had far better than to do than worry about this shit."

Leah appreciated the apology, but it wasn't needed. "It comes with the job," she told her partner as she stared out of her passenger window, eyes focusing on the vast darkness that was Lake Michigan without the sun. A part of her was grateful for the late-night call. She needed the distraction. She needed a reason to put away the cheap wine.

"Yeah, but still…"

Leah glanced at the man next to her, the one driving the car down Lake Shore Drive. "Jacob, it's fine," she insisted, hoping he would actually take her word of it. Jacob seemed more frazzled than usual with his hands gripped on the steering wheel while he glared at every car around as if they had all personally offended him.

"I knew I shouldn't have taken Lake Shore," Jacob grumbled, tightening his hold on the wheel even more.

"It's fine," Leah said, resisting the urge to place a comforting hand on her partner's arm. The action would've probably caught him off guard; she was never the comforting type. Used to, at least, she was working on it. "The crime scene isn't going anywhere."

Her words worked. Somewhat. It wasn't perfect, but Leah slightly smiled at the sight of Jacob loosening his grip, relaxing. Yes, finally. This was the man she was used to; the one she had begun to appreciate only a few weeks ago. She liked him. Not too hot-headed, not too meek. Calm and collected.

And he didn't judge her for her problems.

"Relationships can be a really big sonovabitch," Jacob had told his partner during the second of their partnership. Day two, and the pair had already been sharing personal stories during their car rides across the city, catching the bad guys.

Leah hadn't intended for Jacob to find out about Sam so soon. Or ever. There had been rumors through the department; half of them complete BS, as usual. Leah had wanted to keep her personal life out her public one, but without much thought… the words had just slipped through her lips.

And it wouldn't be the last time. she didn't know what it was—Maybe it was just Jacob being Jacob. There was something about him that made her feel more relaxed than usual, make her speak more than usual. Made her trust him.

"Not a word."

"Your secret is safe with me," Jacob had vowed. "But word travels quickly at work…"

Yeah, that was something Leah had known all too well.

"I just don't want any it coming from you."

"It won't," Jacob said, flashing his partner a reassuring smile.

Three weeks had passed since that conversation and Jacob stood by his words. Leah couldn't be more grateful; he wasn't taking advantage of her (perhaps unwise, given past experience) trust in him, and Leah had an inkling that the feeling was mutual.

Jacob had opened Leah into a new world, bringing credence to those rumors spreading around the police department about the supernatural—They existed, she would later find out. Vampires, werewolves, shape-shifters; they all existed. Some living separately from humans, other living among them in secrecy.

"It makes life," Jacob had told her.

Jacob knew from personal experience. He, Leah would find out over a round of drinks, had the ability to turn into a wolf at will. No moon needed. And to her complete surprise, Leah hadn't been terrified, alarmed, or upset by the revelation. Surprised, of course, more fascinated than anything. Which Jacob appreciated greatly.

"Are you always this forward?" Leah had asked the other detective a couple of days before Christmas during a hushed conversation inside of a local diner. It wasn't everyday one admitted so nonchalantly about being a member of the supernatural.

Jacob had glanced up from his plate full of medium-rare hamburgers. He had studied her with a straight face, breaking into a smile. A reserved one. "No."

Leah hadn't expected that response. "Then why tell me?"

Because Jacob had thought the information would be useful down the line. How and why? Even now, Leah couldn't figure out, but as she both detectives rushed to their newest crime scene, the answer didn't matter.

What happened was the young woman, allegedly found dead inside a high-end hotel suite. Horrifically mutilated.

According to Jacob, the victim was a Black Dahlia copy-cat.

Leah hoped her partner and the police dispatcher were wrong, exaggerating to tell a good story. She didn't think she had enough wine in her system to handle such a prospect. But she had to remind herself that she was professional; she could handle the gore. Surely wouldn't be the first time. Anyway, nothing could be worse than discovering a mass grave inside of a poorly-made basement grave. Thirteen people, reduced to decomposed beings, all victims of a gang war.

Or the St. Patrick's Day Massacre.

Leah was wrong.

The lobby of the grand LaPush Hotel was crowded. There was increased police presence throughout, all wearing strained expression. But none of the laymen, guests of the hotel, the wedding inside the ballroom and the conference seemed to notice. It was odd; word traveled at the speed of light, especially in the world of social media. Yet, no one, saved for a few, seemed alarmed.

The detectives were soon met by one of the several police officers patrolling one of four elevator banks. He introduced himself as Lawson, the cop who had arrived at the crime scene first and informed the dispatch to send over detectives. He was little shaken up, obviously stressed out, but not enough to be politely advised to leave for the night.

After the detectives exchanged pleasantries, they were led to an elevator bank, farthest from the entrance, and the guests, specifically designed for the police and medics only.

"Victim?" Jacob asked, pulling out a notepad and a pen.

Leah did the same.

"Caucasian female. Brown hair. Slim build," Lawson quietly replied as he entered the elevator. He pressed the button to the 29th floor. "Quite a looker if she wasn't in that… state."

Jacob loudly cleared his throat as Leah gave the officer a sharp look. "Inappropriate," was her curt response.

Lawson was apologetic. "I'm sorry. It's just…" his train of thought stalled as he ran a hand down his face. "It's just that…"

"ID?" Jacob asked.

Lawson let out a deep breath before taking a couple of steps back, eventually slumping against the carpeted elevator wall. "None."

The detectives exchanged a look. Leah checked the message board above. 20th floor. The elevator was taking its sweet time. "How bad is it?" she asked, softly because Lawson looked like he was second away from breaking down. "In your honest opinion?"

The officer swallowed. "I think you need to see it for yourself," he said.

The scene of the crime was inside of an executive suite, one of the most expensive rooms in the luxury hotel, fitted with three bedrooms, two baths with a Jacuzzi, a large balcony overlooking Lake Michigan and to the far right, the rest of downtown Chicago and a kitchenette with a fully-furnished bar. The room was decorated baroque-style was in pristine condition, with no indication of a crime ever being committed.

Except for the massive master bedroom.

Blood. There was blood everyone. On the walls. On the king-sized bed. On the cream-colored carpet and even a few streaks on the ceiling.

The room was jammed packed, for obvious reasons. The detectives had to weave through the sea of cops, CSIs, and medics to get to the other side of the large room, moving until a familiar came into view.

Jacob was more excited with the sight than Leah. "Dr. Swan," he called out, waving with a tight smile at the woman standing on the left side of the bed. His were friendly but laced with fatigue.

Leah barely acknowledged Dr. Isabella "Bella" Swan as she directed the newcomers around the crime scene. But when she caught Bella's gaze, she nodded at the other woman.

Despite her best efforts, Leah could never get a clear reading on the coroner. Dr. Swan seemed friendly enough; Jacob adored her and thought she was the best coroner in the business—but he might come from a biased POV. Everyone in the Cook County justice system knew the detective had a crush on the doctor. But Leah? She didn't know about the woman, but she wouldn't use her personal feelings against Dr. Swan. They had a job to do.

Jacob walked to the other side of the bed, where Dr. Swan stood and froze. He took a couple of deep breaths before taking a step forward. Horrified, he stared down, removed his chest, and held it to his chest. "Christ."

Leah went to her partner's side. Her reaction was not much different.

The young woman was nude and in half. The parts laid about a foot apart with a pool of blood and intestines strewn between them. Lacerations all over her face and body; all clean and concise save for the torso. The victim was laid out as if she was a disregarded mannequin. Her arms and legs spread apart, and her insides—

Leah wiped the perspiration off her forehead with the back of her hand.

A sadist did this, she decided. There was no doubt about it; only people like that would do some so heinous, so passionately, violent, yet so… organized. The killer knew what he was doing, but the blood. There was so much blood; why didn't he clean it up?

The victim was displayed in plain sight; anyone with access to the room would have noticed her. Someone had to have seen her.

Leah's eyes roamed around the room; everything was in pristine condition. No visible signs of a struggle. The victim must have known the killer enough to let him (it was usually a him) inside her room. She would have to consult the hotel staff about any disturbances or any calls to 911.

"I know," Bella whispered, moving around the pieces, searching for more distinctive markings. "Medical school and years of experience certainly did not prepare me for this."

Leah swallowed a couple of times before adverting her gaze. She couldn't—she had to look away from the body, even for a few seconds. "Why do you have so har?" she asked the coroner.

"There are no signs of struggle, not around the room, not on her—I don't think," Bella said, and then added, "Oh, there is something you should see." She bent down and pointed at the nape of the victim's neck. "What do you say?"

The detectives knelt on opposing sides of the body, peered at the mark, then at each other, and then back down. Eventually, Leah glimpsed at Jacob to see his reaction; he seemed concerned. Perhaps she should be as well. "A bite mark," she said moments later. "Where do you think it came from?"

If it had been a month ago, Leah would have thought the bite only came from an animal. But even since learning of the existence of the supernatural, she couldn't help but consider other possibilities—the mark looked too clean.

Bella further examined the wound. "I don't know," she said. "At first, I thought it was from an animal, but…" she trailed off, leaning in further. "Something sharper like fangs. A snake, maybe?"

Jacob turned to Leah. "A snake or—" He stopped, running a hand through his short hair. "I can't believe this—Not even a month since the transfer, and I gotta deal with a goddamn sadist. Bella, Dr. Swan, when can get some results?"

Bella glanced down at the victim. "Tomorrow," she decided. "I should be able to provide, at the very least, the estimated time of death."

Leah wasn't satisfied with the answer. This was already a major case; the media was going to have a goddamn field day. Their captain was going to be up in arms, and the station might get a visit from the mayor—they needed an autopsy done ASAP.

She told Bella this.

"Of course," the coroner said with a tight smile.

"The press is here!"

The press. Such an important aspect of society, but at times like this, such a pain in the ass. With their never-ending questioning and belief that the police would have all of the facts in such a short amount of time.

Since the detectives were called to the scene, they were obligated to deal with the media. Leah announced to everyone that she would be heading down to the lobby, ready to meet any reports because they caused any more havoc.

Jacob chose to stay behind.

It was fine, perhaps better that way. She needed some time to think to herself. She needed to stay away from that hotel suite, that bedroom, and the sight of that unfortunate victim whose life had been so viciously taken away.

As she leaned against the elevator wall, waiting to reach the lobby, she thought about the killer. The bastard, he, she, it or whatever, didn't deserve to live for another second. But who could've done this?

When the elevator doors opened, Leah stood up straight and walked into a group of reporters crowding the police elevator bank. They all turned to her, with their smartphones out, fighting away amongst each other to get the front. All eager to get the latest scoop.

Oh, they would get one, alright.

The craziest scoop of the year.