The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

Gordon stood in the alley where the girl had been found, his eyes sweeping the asphalt. It always struck him how ordinary crime scenes looked after the fact—just another stretch of pavement, as if nothing had happened. He stepped onto the sidewalk and scanned the street.

North on Elm, girls lingered along the curb, their silhouettes briefly flaring into view as cars prowled past. Rain drummed against his hat brim, slithering down his collar, chilling him to the bone. He pictured the girl in the frayed shorts, sprinting through the crowded north end, her desperation slicing through the usual rhythm of the street.

"If anyone saw her running, those cars would've peeled off, and the girls would've scattered," he muttered. His gaze shifted south, where Elm Street emptied into shadow.

He walked. The Turn loomed parallel, hovering above a lot crowded with the homeless. A knot of men huddled around a trash bin, its flames flickering weakly against the rain. Gordon dug into his pocket, pulled out a few cigarettes, and handed them off. The men accepted without thanks, their wary eyes darting between him and the street. No one spoke. He followed their gaze, half-expecting someone watching from the dark. But there was no one. He knew the rules here—maybe they saw something, but in Gotham, helping a screaming girl was as dangerous as snitching.

At the dead end, the Spurgeon River churned violently against the jetty, carving a dividing line between Uptown and Midtown. Across the water, Midtown's lights shimmered in fractured reflections.

A metallic screech snapped his focus. He swung his flashlight toward the jetty's edge, its beam cutting through the mist and rain. Rocks glistened like wet knives. The sound had come from a metal-barred door, the entrance to a rainwater outlet. The light caught on the jagged edges of the rocks, reminding him of the faint cuts on her hands.

He scanned for the nearest manhole cover. Spotting one a few yards away, he crouched and pried it open, the lid scraping against the asphalt. Biting down on the flashlight, he climbed into the dark.

The stench hit him first—rot, stagnant water, something deeper, fouler. His boots splashed into a foot of murky runoff rushing toward the ocean. Adjusting his grip on the light, he swept the beam across the tunnel. Water roared faintly in the distance, gushing from gutters farther ahead.

A few yards in, something clung to the horizontal bars of a drain—a soaked black hoodie, heavy and limp.

Gordon reached for it. The fabric was small, fitted for a petite woman or a girl.

"Maybe it weighed her down... or made her colder."

He glanced up. Rainwater dribbled through the manhole's edges.

"It would've been too heavy for her." His light traced the slick ladder leading up to the street.

He pictured her down here, frantic to keep moving, the cold eating at her bones, fear driving her forward.

Setting the sweater back, he pressed deeper into the tunnel. The roar of water filled his ears—until something new cut through.

Footsteps.

Sloshing, deliberate.

He froze. Tightened his grip on the flashlight. Shined it ahead.

The sound stopped just beyond the beam's reach.

"This is Detective Gordon, GCPD," he called, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. "Who's there?"

Silence.

His hand shifted instinctively to the gun holstered at his chest. "Step out where I can see you."

Nothing.

Then—movement.

Something shot from the dark, knocking the gun from his grip. The flashlight tumbled, splashing into the filth.

Heavy footsteps charged toward him. A figure slammed into him, driving them both into the freezing water.

They grappled blindly, the tunnel an echo chamber of splashing and ragged breath. The man's movements were precise, practiced. Not some street brawler. Gordon tucked his chin to avoid a chokehold, but he was at a disadvantage—on both knees, hands slick, grasping for leverage.

He drove his elbow low and hard, striking just beneath the ribs. A sharp grunt. A moment's hesitation. It was enough.

Gordon wrenched free, sucking in air, fingers reaching for the backup strapped to his ankle—but a brutal blow caught the side of his head.

His thoughts splintered. His balance teetered. The gun slipped from his fingers.

Darkness crashed over him, swallowing him whole as he collapsed face-first into the freezing black water.