The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

"I'm Kim Bass with the evening news..."

Her voice carried a smooth huskiness, the kind common with late-night radio.

"...Senior military officials have confirmed the unusual streaks of light appearing across the West Coast are weather anomalies caused by a sea storm off the Pacific—"

Static sliced through her words—a jagged interruption, as if the storm itself scoffed at her report. His gaze shifted to the small radio perched on his desk. He gripped the thin antenna between two fingers, turning it until her voice crackled back to life. Satisfied, he returned to the typewriter.

Detective James Gordon's desk was shoved against the long industrial windows. Seated far from his squad, in a distant corner of the floor, he felt exiled. In a way, he was a banished man.

Gusts rattled the thin glass, letting the cold seep in. A chill touched his cheekbones; the skin along his neck prickled slightly. Outside, the storm hammered the city, whipping rain relentlessly as though meting out punishment.

Everything in Gotham felt like that. Strangely intimate—like everyone and everything had a personal vendetta to settle, or some cheap hustle to push.

A flickering orange liquor sign pulsed like a heartbeat across the street. It beckoned drinkers to lose themselves in another bottle. Nearby, cursive neon lights hollered like cheap hookers. It called to gamblers strolling past, taunting them with promises of luck. It was a typical Friday night in South Burnley—a place where indulgence wrapped itself in vibrant colors while dripping wet with desperation.

The typewriter keys clattered loudly, black ink spreading across white pages. The letters began to blur. Gordon pulled off his aviators and rubbed his freckled face with the heels of his hands. It wasn't fatigue but tight nerves. Most nights, he shook it off with a roll of his shoulders. Tonight was different—slow-burning, exhaustive, and interrupted occasionally by the radio.

"...It's been ninety days since armed Iranian militants took over the American Embassy in Tehran. Fifty-two American hostages remain captive..."

Ninety days. The phrase stuck. Has it really been three months? It seemed like just yesterday they'd moved from Chicago to Gotham. Alice drove the station wagon with the kids while he piloted the U-Haul. Their life crammed into a single truck: a living room, kitchen, and three bedrooms all boxed up.

Looking back, the move had been the easy part. Adjusting to Gotham had been harder. Their Buxton townhome was half the size of their old house in the Chicago suburbs. They'd sold off furniture that wouldn't fit: a china cabinet, the dining table, the kids' desks—anything they couldn't squeeze in. Gotham's crime rate was matched only by its cost of living, and no amount of penny-pinching seemed to matter.

His glasses rested on the pale pages. The dim desk lamp cast a meager glow, illuminating the scratches on the lenses. He couldn't afford new glasses; his family couldn't take on the expense.

Needing a distraction, Gordon glanced at the notepad beside the open file folder. Closing cases meant turning weeks of shorthand into clean, typed reports. Sliding his glasses back on, he flipped through a few pages. He managed to read a line or two before the radio cut in again.

"...and the search continues for escapee Ron Ferguson, apprehended just days ago along with over four dozen members of the infamous Crime Alley Boyz. Ferguson, the gang's second-in-command, escaped custody last night while being transported downtown—"

With a sharp click, Gordon shut off the radio. It was too late. Just the name Crime Alley Boyz was enough for doubt to seep into his thoughts. He leaned back, staring at the rain streaking the glass.

Down the street, he glimpsed the red sign for Piccolo's Slots; its letters flickered like they might burn out. Between the buildings, shadows pooled in alleyways. This city's architecture—red brick and ornate, as if carved by an obsessive sculptor—seemed to cradle the darkness like an old secret.

Instinctively, Gordon scanned those shadows for movement. He didn't expect to see him. They'd never meet here. But the act of searching helped chase away the question pressing at the edges of his mind. A question tied to a violent stranger.

Their arrangement had boundaries—not of control, but of respect. He'd look the other way as long as the violence stayed within limits. Nothing obscene. Nothing disfiguring. Nothing born of passion. Would it hold? His red mustache twitched; his resolve was faltering. Gordon reached for his Marlboros, lighting one. The flare of the match briefly lit his face: freckled skin with pale blue eyes. The bitter smoke banished the question. For now.

A commotion across the room broke his focus. Lieutenant Stephen Pinkerton's chair squeaked as he rocked back and forth like a restless child. His back was to Gordon, but it was obvious that Pinkerton was intentionally annoying the floor.

"Would you stop that fuckin' squeaking?" barked Bullock, his cigarillo bobbing with each word.

Detective Harvey Bullock was broad-shouldered and immovable, his presence looming even while seated. Few dared provoke him. Pinkerton was the exception. Gordon imagined the lieutenant's bulbous face splitting into a grin as another squeak cut through the air.

"Do it again, Pinky," Bullock growled, plucking the cigarillo from his mouth.

"The captain told you to stop calling me that!" Pinkerton snapped, kicking back hard. The chair let out a high-pitched groaned.

"That's it," Bullock said, gripping his armrests as if ready to lunge.

"Harv," Sergeant Sydney Johnson interjected without lowering his newspaper.

Older and leaner, Johnson was the floor's steadying force when the captain wasn't around. He was black, about average height, and in his mid-fifties. Flicking back the edge of The Gothamist, he said, "Mightier is he who conquers himself than others."

"Don't start that shit, Syd," Bullock muttered, but the words held him in place. He bit down on his cigarillo, exhaling heavily.

Bullock was six-foot-four, white, and easily over two-hundred and fifty pounds. Gordon had seen him move hastily when it called for it. He was a thick boy but not a slow one. Bullock crossed his forearms over his chest, smoke escaping his lips. He looked like a bull eager for the charge.

Pinkerton stood, belly straining against his button-down. "You've got no respect, Harv. For the badge or the brass," he continued, then stuck an accusatory finger into Bullock's face. Before he could get another word out, Bullock rose.

"Get that fucking finger out of my face before I snap it off," he growled, standing now at his full height.

"Harv," Johnson said again, slapping the paper down and rising from his chair, "Let it go."

Gordon returned to typing. He hoped his distance from them would keep him out of the fray, but Pinkerton's shoes tapped toward him. Then, a stubby finger jabbed into his shoulder.

"Did you hear Harv, Chicago?" he said.

Gordon glanced sharply at Pinkerton's chewed nails, then at his splotchy pink face.

"No," he muttered over his shoulder.

"You gotta pick sides, Chicago," Pinkerton sneered.

Gordon tapped ash into the tray, then leaned back in his chair, gripping the armrest. Turning slightly, he leveled a glare at Pinkerton that said, Take the bullshit someplace else. The force of it was enough to make the lieutenant step back. Pinkerton redirected his attention to Bullock, who was being quietly counseled by Johnson.

"The captain's gonna hear that you threatened me!" Pinkerton whined.

Gordon snubbed out his cigarette, gathered his loose papers, and tucked them into the case file. Crossing the dimly lit floor, he stole glances at the desks: brass lamps, loose sheets, wire baskets nearly empty, and typewriters enclosed in plastic. The ashtrays crowded with cigarette butts told him what he already knew. It'd been a slow night and a slow morning.

The filing cabinets lined the east wall. Rolling one open, Gordon watched paint chips flake to the floor. Behind him, Pinkerton griped about "respecting the hierarchy." He looked over his shoulder to find Bullock standing with fists clenched. Johnson suggested to Pinkerton that he run down to Vice to see if Captain Iverson needed his help.

The thought of intervening flickered in Gordon's mind but was dismissed. He'd learned his lesson in Chicago: Keep your head down and work.

Just as tension grew taut, the sound of shoes on the stairs silenced the room. Captain Rod Gillis emerged, cigarette burning close to his lips. His sharp eyes swept over the night-shift detectives, his expression making it clear he wasn't in the mood for nonsense.

Pinkerton started toward him, but Gillis waved him off. "Not now, Steven. Either get back to work or leave."

Handing a file to Johnson, Gillis said, "We've got a transfer from Missing Persons. You and Harv see what you can find out."

Gillis glanced around. "Where's Chicago?"

"The city or the band?" blurted Bullock, but the captain's face said he was not amused.

"Here, sir," Gordon said, stepping away from the cabinets.

"Dispatch got a fresh one on the Southie side of Elm at the Turn. Pollack and Fritz are the responding officers," Gillis said, giving him a once-over before handing him a slip of paper.

The others glanced too. Gordon felt their weight. They wondered how he did it—an outsider clearing cases without a partner, not a single cold case to his name.

He tucked the paper into his pant pocket. The question from earlier clawed back into his thoughts. His mustache twitched. Whatever tonight held, he knew he'd need answers by dawn.