The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

Cold water lapped at Gordon's knees, the dull throb in his skull making it hard to think. He'd been propped against the tunnel wall, his flashlight lying a few feet away, casting a weak, flickering beam. Standing was a struggle, but he managed, shuffling toward the light. As he bent to retrieve it, something in the water caught his eye—a glint of metal, thin and sharp-edged, shaped like wings and pointed ears.

He knew exactly what it was.

Without hesitation, he scooped it up, shoved it into his pocket, then scanned the ground for his glasses, which had been knocked off his face. He grabbed the damp sweater still clinging to the bar, then made his way to the ladder.

Climbing out, daylight hit him like a slap—bright, unrelenting. He collapsed onto the asphalt, shoes sloshing, clothes clinging to his skin. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared, a sharp reminder that the city had already moved on. Slowly, he pushed himself up, head pounding. Probably a concussion.

As he waved off an impatient driver, the sound of a revving engine caught his attention. A black motorcycle roared past, heading north on Elm.

His pager buzzed weakly at his waist. He unclipped it, shaking the water from it. Squinting at the distorted numbers—precinct code.

"Shit," Gordon muttered. He rarely cursed, but when he did, it brought the same relief as a cigarette.

Dragging himself to his car, he drove straight to the precinct. By the time he arrived, Bronson's meeting with Dent had already started, and the building hummed with tension. Dripping and reeking of sewer water, he climbed the stairs, each step a squeaking reminder of his state.

The third floor buzzed with hushed conversations. He spotted Johnson speaking with a group of sergeants but pressed on to the sixth, where forensics handled evidence. Bronson's office loomed at the far end, blinds drawn. Seated a few feet away was Nathan Lee.

Gordon stopped at Lee's desk. The forensic tech glanced up, nose wrinkling.

"You alright, Detective?"

"Fine." Gordon didn't elaborate, handing over the sweater now sealed in a plastic evidence bag. "I need this processed."

Lee took the bag with a nod. "Might take a bit, but I'll get on it." He hesitated. "Did you know any of the guys?"

Gordon blinked, mind still sluggish. "What?"

Lee filled him in on the arrests. Gordon nodded, expression unreadable, though his tired eyes gave away more than he'd like. He was unsurprised even apathetic to the news.

"Let me know as soon as you have something. Oh, and where do I get another?" He held up his pager.

"I'll get you a new one," Lee said as Gordon turned back to the stairs.

When he reached the homicide floor, the room was packed. Every shift's detectives stood clustered around Gillis, whose voice cut through the chatter.

"Holy fuck, Chicago, you smell like shit!"

Bullock's voice, loud as ever. A few chuckles rippled through the crowd as Gordon paused at the top of the stairs, water still dripping from his sleeves.

Gillis turned, eyes narrowing. "Gordon! I don't know how you handled things in Chicago, but when we page you for an emergency, you get your ass here ASAP."

"Yes, sir." Gordon's voice was flat but firm. Every eye in the room was on him.

Gillis didn't press, shifting back to business. "Alright, listen up. No one talks to the press. Night shift, head home, but this isn't business as usual. There will be changes."

Gordon pressed a hand to his head, barely listening as assignments were doled out. He tuned back in just in time to hear:

"And with Johnson helping Vice sort through the mess, Bullock and Chicago—you're paired together."

Before Bullock could protest, Gillis raised a hand. "I don't want to hear it, Harv."

Gordon straightened, still leaning against the stairwell. "Sir, I prefer to work alone."

"That's too bad. It's you and Harv from here on out," Gillis replied, finality in his tone.

Gordon shot Bullock a wary look.

"I'm not thrilled either, carrot top," Bullock grunted, arms crossed.

When Gillis dismissed the room, Gordon didn't linger. He turned, heading back down the stairs, ignoring Bullock's muttered complaints behind him.

Outside, the sunlight was harsher now, bouncing off rain-slicked streets. Gordon squinted, eyes raw and stinging. His car was parked two blocks away—a walk that felt like a mile in his waterlogged shoes. Passing a liquor store, he remembered the milk and ducked inside.

At the counter, he spotted a rack of Gothamist newspapers. He grabbed a copy along with the milk, tossing both onto the counter. As he dug for his wallet, damp bills clung together, drawing a muttered comment from the cashier. Gordon ignored it, eyes locking on a headline in the top left corner:

"The Dark Knight Strikes Again!" by Marion Perez.