The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

Barbara and Junior had inherited his red locks and freckled skin—a family trait passed down through generations and, as Alice would say, laced with a stubborn streak. Gordon cradled his daughter as he carried her to the battered station wagon parked in their narrow driveway. She was still young enough to want his embrace, though not need it. He cherished these fleeting moments—her tiny hands clinging to his neck, her head nestled against his shoulder—while Junior bounded ahead, yanking the door open before darting to the far side of the back seat.

"Did you read it?" Barbara asked as Gordon fastened her seatbelt.

"No," he lied, though he had. He knew how much they loved reliving every detail.

Their eyes sparkled with excitement as they recounted Perez's latest story—grisly accounts of men pursued through shadowed streets, their bodies eerily suspended from streetlights. Gordon leaned against the car, a faint smile tugging at his lips as their chatter escalated into hyperbolic tales of brutal fistfights and spectral figures lurking in the dark.

"What about school?" he asked.

They shrugged, plunging back into their heroic fantasies. Gordon half-listened, his hand idly resting on the car, when a slow-moving patrol cruiser rolled by. Squinting, he recognized the officers inside—a subtle arch of his brow betraying a flicker of concern.

"What are you all talking about?" Alice's voice cut through his reverie. She stepped onto the porch, arms folded, her expression tight with disapproval.

Gordon glanced at her, but she avoided his eyes as she slid into the driver's seat. The kids eagerly filled her in.

"Please, don't," she snapped. "I don't want to hear any of that. He's a criminal—a violent one."

"He fights the bad guys!" Junior protested.

"Just like Daddy!" Barbara chimed in.

Alice shot Gordon a look—one full of something heavier than worry. Her jaw tensed as she turned the key in the ignition. "We'll see you later."

Gordon leaned through the window and pressed a brief kiss to her cheek. She didn't move. Cold. Distant.

"No more talk of shadows and fights," he murmured to the kids.

They barely acknowledged him. As the car pulled away and disappeared around the corner, he caught sight of the patrol car again, creeping down the street at a measured pace. Buxton bordered South B's eastern side, so their presence wasn't unusual, but still—his frown deepened momentarily. He let the thought go.

Back inside, his gaze landed on the package resting on the kitchen table. He grabbed his coffee from the counter, rummaged through a drawer for a pen, and settled at the cramped dining table beneath the low-hanging light. Tearing open the envelope, he withdrew a stack of papers.

On top of the pile lay a note—always typed, always in bold, sans-serif font:

Sources are certain. Saturdays—only Saturdays.

The note continued:

Blood analysis: No drugs detected. She was not a habitual drug user. However, there were traces of an unidentified toxin—awaiting further results.

Enclosed were Dr. Tran's notes and photographs. Gordon flipped through the report—fingerprints, autopsy photos—and felt no surprise. He'd seen enough manila envelopes to know the drill. Every document was meticulously compiled, though exactly how his partner managed to collect it all remained a mystery.

He scanned the first page, then took a long sip of coffee. A sketch of a generic human body featured Dr. Tran's handwritten observations—most of what he knew was here. Presence of trench foot. No bruising. Superficial lacerations on the palms—non-defensive. However, Tran had noted that the stomach contents contained bread and water.

At the bottom, his partner had scrawled a final note in sharp, deliberate handwriting:

The lack of injection sites indicates the toxin was administered orally or absorbed.

Gordon flipped through more pages, taking it section by section—trusting his partner's meticulous work. Nothing was ever done without purpose. When he finished the medical reports, he checked his watch, stood up, and refilled his cup. The drizzle outside had thickened into a steady patter. The yard was enclosed by a dilapidated wooden fence, and a small shed in the back held a few tools—a tight, confined space, like everything else these days.

Another sip. Another page. He retrieved the typed notes and continued:

Prints: No match.

N.C.I.C. search: No results.

Gotham's Vanished Persons Alliance (a nonprofit that collects missing persons reports across the city): Search yielded a match.

Gordon flipped to the next page. A missing person report. His eyes locked onto the black-and-white photo.

Pale face. Black hair. Thin features framed by dark, haunting eyes. He set the picture aside and read the details:

Name: Annh Le

Age: 19

Height: 5′1″

Hair: Black

Weight: 100 lbs

Address: 516 Durian, Little Saigon

Languages: English, Vietnamese

Born in 1961 in Hue, Vietnam, she'd arrived in Gotham at thirteen. She worked at a local tea shop called Loose Leaves and lived with her grandparents, Quan and Thao, along with her older sister, Cai Le. She was last seen on a Saturday night, wearing black shorts, a Killing Joke t-shirt, and a black hoodie.

Gordon paused. That t-shirt. He recalled seeing it in the coroner's office. Flipping through the photos, he found it—a stark black-and-white silhouette of children on a wall, the words Killing Joke scrawled in white.

He exhaled, then looked back at the notes where three scenarios were listed:

Scenario 1: After leaving the club, she chose not to return home due to family discord. She lived on the streets for a week, was knowingly or unknowingly given a drug which to her death. But the toxin in her system wasn't a known drug, suggesting something uncommon—not easily acquired by a girl with no history of drug use or criminal behavior.

Scenario 2: She encountered either a stranger or someone she knew. She remained with them for a week in a damp location, developed trench foot, and was later exposed to a toxin that likely caused her death. But this doesn't explain the bread and water in her stomach—minimal sustenance, suggesting controlled deprivation.

Scenario 3: She was held captive. The minimal food intake over a week supports this. The presence of trench foot suggests she had been unable to leave a damp, confined space. The unknown toxin implies specialty—something acquired with intent.

He leaned back, sipping his coffee. The volume of insight distilled from these sparse notes was precise. He grabbed a pen and jotted down his own observations from the night of his attack in the sewers—the rainwater outlet, the rocks lining the path, the sweater clinging to the ladder, the man who had come after him.

A final line at the bottom of the typed note caught his eye:

When you talk to the family, don't involve Saigon police. Little Saigon precincts double the neighborhood's dues and make false arrests to force families to pay for release.

Gordon exhaled slowly. He tapped his pen against the table, weighing his next steps.

She had come from the sewers. But where had she been prior?

His attacker had been involved. Maybe even the killer.

But if that were true, why had he spared Gordon's life?

The unsettling thoughts converged on a single word.

"Captive," he murmured.

He wanted the third scenario to be dismissed quickly, but he couldn't ignore the truth—it was the most likely.