The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

The black pager vibrated faintly in Gordon's hand, its tiny screen casting a green glare across his glasses. He thumbed the button, the dim digits flickering back at him. With a sigh, he clipped it to his belt and watched as Bullock's Plymouth rumbled past.

He noticed them watching him. In this city, someone was always watching. Tonight, the feeling dug deeper, like a splinter he couldn't ignore. He pulled the slip of paper from his pocket, rereading it before starting the engine.

The rain thickened, streaking the windshield in restless rivulets as Gordon drove through South Burnley, or South B., as the precinct cops called it. The back streets stretched long and dark, a labyrinth of pavement and shadow where streetlights waged a losing battle with the night.

Elm Street ran south, its cracked asphalt cutting through West Uptown like a scar dividing two worlds. Clinging to the edge of the Hills was the Narrows—defiant and decrepit in equal measure. To the west sprawled the Burnleys, North and South, like tarnished halves of a coin—one rusting, the other rusted through.

"The Southie side of Elm means South Burnley side of Elm Street," Gordon muttered, his voice lost in the hum of the engine. "But what the hell is 'the Turn'?"

The question lingered as the rain drummed harder on the car roof. The streets blurred past, alive with nocturnal rituals. In the Narrows, working girls prowled the corners, their sharp voices slicing through the downpour. Across the street, South B.'s homeless huddled beneath sagging awnings, their bodies pressed against cold walls, clinging to what little dry patches of sidewalk they could find.

At a red light, Gordon watched a man wheel himself across the intersection, his bare hands gripping the wheels of a battered chair. A black trash bag sat across his lap, its contents hidden. Homeless, Gordon guessed. The question from earlier nagged at him, heavier now.

His gaze drifted to the steering wheel, the memory of that night sharpening in his mind. The strobe of red and white ambulance lights glistening off the slick street. A man lay strapped to a stretcher, rain soaking into bloodied jeans. The clank of metal as he was wheeled into the back. The ambulance doors slammed shut. A blaring horn yanked Gordon back to the present—the light had turned green.

At Elm's dead end, a small crowd had gathered near an alley cordoned off with bright yellow tape. Gordon parked and stepped out, pulling his trench coat tighter against the chill.

Pollack stood at the edge of the tape, his scowl enough to stop traffic. Nearby, his partner Fritz lingered, his movements both rigid and uncertain. Fresh out of the academy, Fritz still had the look of a rookie flipping through a mental playbook. Pollack, by contrast, was pure Gotham—grizzled and unflinching, with a cynicism that clung to him like a second skin. He eyed Gordon's approach with the same guarded suspicion as always.

"Evening, officers," Gordon said with a nod.

Pollack flipped open a notepad, his fingers stiff from the cold. "Anonymous tip from that payphone." He jerked his thumb toward a rusted booth across the street. "Male caller said there's a body in the dumpster. We rolled up twenty minutes later and found her after checking a few alleys."

"Witnesses?" Gordon asked.

Pollack's laugh was a dry rasp. "This side of Uptown? Nobody's seen a damn thing. We talked to some of the girls on the north end and the fellas in the south—nothing. Even if they had, they'd chew their tongues off before talking to us. Forensics is working the scene. Coroner's on the way."

Gordon nodded, then ducked under the tape. Beneath a makeshift tarp, Nathan Lee, a forensic tech, snapped a loud picture of the body inside the dumpster. His white jumpsuit shone unnaturally under the streetlights.

"Evening, Lee," Gordon said.

"Detective Gordon," Lee replied, offering a faint smile. It felt incongruous here, like a cheerful tune played at a funeral.

Lee gestured to the tarp. "I covered the bin to take photos. The surface is too wet and slick for prints, but I'll bag and tag anything inside that looks promising."

Gordon lifted the tarp and took a quick glance. The woman sat tucked into the corner, her arms hugging her knees like a frightened child. She wore frayed black shorts and a T-shirt that clung to her petite frame. One hand rested near her feet; the other stretched outward, fingers curling toward nothing.

"She could've O.D.'d," Lee offered hesitantly.

"Maybe," Gordon muttered, his eyes narrowing on her outstretched arm. The skin was smooth and clean of imperfections. His eyes snagged on a black mark near her wrist.

He stepped onto a nearby soda crate, the wood groaning under his weight. He leaned in closer. Lee held the tarp steady as Gordon fished a small flashlight from his pocket. The beam illuminated the mark on her wrist—a trident with its tines pointing toward her palm. The ink had bled in the rain, its edges smudged and uneven. It wasn't a tattoo.

Against her pale skin, the symbol seemed unnaturally dark, blacker than the night. The light shifted, catching a faint gleam around her neck. A thin strand of black beads hung there, dull and plastic-like, their sheen muted.

Lee's voice broke through Gordon's focus. "Is that...a tattoo?" he asked, craning his neck for a better look.

"No," Gordon murmured. Tucking the flashlight beneath his chin, he pulled out his notepad and sketched the symbol, his hands steady despite the chill. "Maybe some kind of entry stamp," he said thoughtfully.

The crate wobbled as he stepped down, his gaze drifting toward the overpass that loomed above. Beneath its hulking structure, the shadows seemed to shift and breathe, alive in a way that set his teeth on edge.

"Is that 'the Turn'?" he asked.

"Stanley Turnpike," Lee confirmed. "Locals call it 'the Turn.' It took me a while to get used to the names here."

"I thought you were from Gotham."

"Upper East Side," Lee said with a wry grin. "Uptown's a whole other beast."

"It is," Gordon said absently, his eyes settling on the payphone.

He ducked back under the tape and crossed the street. The booth's cracked glass was smeared with grime and graffiti, its faded metal frame rusting at the connecting edges. He dropped a quarter into the slot and dialed the number on his pager. The line buzzed, then connected.

"Hello?" Alice's voice was soft and distant.

"Alice, it's me. You paged?"

"Yeah. Can you bring some milk in the morning?"

"Sure," Gordon said, his eyes scanning the rain-slicked street.

"How's it going tonight?" she asked.

"Quiet. Which is good," he replied, though the words felt hollow. Gotham was never quiet. Not really.

"They say parts of Uptown have been calmer since the arrests, have they?" Alice said, curiosity lacing her tone.

"A bit," said Gordon.

"Odd, isn't it? One guy turned them all in?" said Alice.

Gordon paused. The question burned into his mind again, his grip tightening on the receiver. "That's the story," he said carefully.

"Jim, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he said, forcing the words. "I'll bring the milk tomorrow. Go to sleep."

They said their goodbyes as the coroner's van pulled up, its headlights slicing through the rain. Gordon stepped back, his gaze drawn again to the overpass. Beneath it, the shadows rippled like something massive shifted just out of sight.

Something was wrong. He could feel it. He just didn't know what. Not yet.