The Coroner

Prologue

The rain fell gently on the streets of Philadelphia. Although it was not a total downpour, it was a welcome relief to the sweltering town. The month of August had been brutally hot and humid; now, finally, sweet relief had quietly arrived. The rain fell on the skyscrapers of the central portion of the city. It fell on the cars parked outside people's homes and apartments in the city's residential areas. It fell on the homes of those people who worked in the city, but lived in the suburbs and commuted.

It fell on the man who watched over the city.

There had been no one to order the man to do this, and certainly no one had asked him to. Yet this man felt compelled to keep watch. Something deep inside him told him it was the right thing to do. This was a man who always tried to do the right thing...no matter the personal cost.

He listened as the rain fell softly onto the brim of the black wool hat he always wore: rain or shine. Though to be truthful, he only watched the city at night, so there was rarely any shine. As he listened to the rain he thought, Why do I do it? Night after night, why do I go out and do this.

The man pondered these thoughts as he walked one of Philadelphia's back alleys. He usually chose the back alleys as few people tread there at night and he generally preferred not to be seen...given the kind of work he did.

Not being seen was a fairly difficult task. This man stood six-and-a-half feet tall and was of a fairly large build. The rain pattered down on both his hat and his broad shoulders. This never bothered him, however, as he always wore a long, black overcoat. Beneath the coat was a black suit with a white shirt and black necktie. Black leather gloves and a large pair of black boots completed the outfit. If I were wearing sunglasses, I'd probably look like a twisted version of Elwood Blues... Instead of dark sunglasses, he wore a pair of plastic goggles, tinted black. The goggles were held to his head by a thick, elastic band. This way, when he went to work, his eyewear would stay in place. He carried a black bag on his back with a strap across his chest, containing some of his...tools.

The man smiled at this new thought. Yeah, either Elwood Blues or an interesting version of a Man in Black. Your first, last and only line of defense against the worse scum of the universe...his smile faded...or the worst scum of the city, at least.

His train of thought was interrupted by an all too familiar sound coming from the next alley over:

"Somebody help me! Please!"

The woman's scream was immediately followed by some also-familiar sounds:

"Shut up, bitch! Just give me your damn purse!"

"Yeah, do it and we won't have to hurt you!"

"Come on lady, give us the fucking bag!"

Here we go again, the man thought as he quickly moved out into the main street and headed towards where the noise was coming from. There are at least three of them, but it doesn't matter...It never matters.

He turned the corner heading into another alley and saw four figures standing under a light. They were standing outside a delicatessen and someone had forgotten to turn the light off over the delivery door. One of the four figures was a young woman. From what the man could see, she was short, slim, and looked to be about in her mid-twenties. She was wearing a leather jacket, a pink t-shirt exposing her navel, tight blue jeans and high heels. She was clutching a leather handbag and shaking. She had long, blond hair and her make-up had run, either from the rain or from the tears that were coming from her eyes. The look on her face was one of abject terror. "Please!" she screamed. "Please don't! It's a Prada bag! I got it as a gift!"

She was surrounded by three men. Actually, calling them men would be generous. They all had to have been in their late teens to early twenties. The one on the woman's right was an African American in jeans, black sneakers, and a denim jacket. He had several scars on the side of his face that was visible. On her left was a Hispanic, also in jeans, but wearing white sneakers and a leather jacket. His face might also have been scarred, but it was difficult to tell due to his acne. The boy in the center was white. Although the man could not see his face, the boy was wearing jeans and, in spite of the rain, a white t-shirt. The man could see his pale arms. They were thin, but strong with hands balled into fists.

"Just give us the fucking bag, lady," said the boy in the center repeated.

"Yeah!" said the Hispanic. "Just do it and we'll leave you alone!" He turned slightly and the man saw the flash of a knife in the boy's left hand.

Then man decided he had seen enough.

"Excuse me," he said in a calm, rasping voice, "but I would appreciate it if you left the young lady alone."

He started slowly walking towards the boys, his black coat flapping slightly. The boys whirled around to face the man. The woman just watched, still sobbing, but mouth agape.

"Who the hell are you, man?"

In this light, I guess they can't see my face. He continued to advance on the boys. Not that it would matter if they could.

"Who I am isn't important. What matters is that you're gong to leave that woman alone."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" said the black boy. "This is our turf."

"Yeah," agreed the white boy. "This bitch came into our territory, so she has to pay the toll. Now you're in our territory, so you gotta pay too!" Despite this bravado, the man could see some uncertainty in the eyes of all three of his would-be toll collectors. "If you think you're gonna do otherwise, you're gonna get hurt!"

Now the stranger stopped for a moment and looked at each of the three young men, eyes moving from the left to the right and back to the left again. He sighed audibly, I always offer then a way out, but they never take it.

The dark figure flashed a grin that frightened both the girl and her attackers.

"I think I'll take my chances."

"Okay, asshole! Kiss it goodbye!" the black boy screamed as he charged towards the intruder.

Being that the boy appeared to be unarmed, and that he was only about five feet away when he started his charge, the man simply grabbed him by his shirt and lifted him up over his head. He then turned around and threw the youth into some garbage cans. Some groans emanated from where the he landed, but there was no sign of movement. The only damage the man has sustained was the loss of his hat. The boy had managed to knock it off and it had landed somewhere in the darkness of the alley.

"Hey, this guy must work out!" said the white teen, a growing amount of fear in his voice. "He's pretty strong!"

"I don't care!" the Hispanic thug hysterically screamed. "I'm still gonna rip his fucking guts out!" and started charging towards the dark stranger, his right arm extended, intent on driving his knife right through his opponent.

Blackcoat's hands instinctively went under his overcoat to the holsters on his thighs. He unclipped the tops and pulled out two large, silver .45s, cocked them both, and pointed them directly at his charging attacker. The Hispanic boy saw the pistols gleaming in the dim streetlight, tried stop his forward motion and run the other way, but it was too late.

The man fired a shot from each of his guns simultaneously, sounding like a double-clap of thunder in the stormy night. The bullet from the left gun hit the boy in his right shoulder, causing him to drop his knife. It landed in front of the boy with a fairly loud clang. The shot fired from the right gun hit the boy in his forehead, just above and in between his eyebrows. To his victim-turned-attacker, he looked almost as if he had three eyes. Blood immediately began to flow from the hole, dispelling this illusion. His eyes vacant and slack-jawed, the boy continued to move forward on sheer momentum for a few more steps, and then dropped to the ground.

The remaining thug simply stood, eyes wide, mouth agape; his mind unable to reconcile what had just happened.

The man began to move forward, careful not to step on the boy's fallen friend, and stepped into the light. The man's face was now visible to the woman and her remaining assailant. He had dark brown hair of relatively short length and medium length sideburns. His hair framed a gaunt, pale face with high cheekbones and thin lips. The tinted goggles kept them from seeing his eyes, but that made the serious look on his face no less understood. This man meant to finish what he had started.

Recognition flashed across the boys face. "I know you! You're the one everyone talks about, aren't you? You-"

Another shot from the gun in the man's right hand silenced the boy forever.

"Yeah, I'm him."

The boy briefly looked down at the hole in his chest, looked up at the man, and then collapsed. The woman, still in shock, slowly backed out of the light and out of sight. Her savior holstered his pistols and was about to look for his hat when he felt a poke in the small of his back.

Apparently the black boy hadn't been hurt as badly as the man had thought, nor was he unarmed. The stranger cursed himself for this oversight. Now the kid stood with a small revolver in the man's back. He had him dead to rights. "Alright, cock-sucker, turn around slowly!"

The man did so, smiling within, but never changing the serious expression on his face. "I'm gonna blow you away for what you did to my friends!"

In the same calm, rasping voice that started the incident, the man replied, "Take your best shot."

The fact the boy fired was of no surprise to his victim. The boy's reaction to the fact that the bullet sank into the man's abdomen without the man even flinching was considerably greater.

The boy stumbled backward, unable to totally come to terms with what he had just witnessed, and fired the five remaining bullets in his gun at the man. Four of them hit various places in the man's torso and, along with the first shot, began to bleed. The final slug lodged itself in the man's right cheek. This caused him to turn his head to the right briefly, but he otherwise did not react. I've thoroughly scared him shitless, time to end it.

He reached out with his left hand grabbed the boy by his right wrist, the wrist of the hand holding the gun, and squeezed. An audible crunch could be heard and the boy screamed in both pain and fear. The boy dropped the gun, screamed, and cradled his shattered wrist with his good hand. He looked at the man with huge, horrified eyes.

"Who the hell are you, man? What the hell are you?"

The stranger paused and for a moment seemed to look right through the boy standing in front of him. His white shirt was now red and soaked with his own blood. Blood was also running down the right side of his face, staining his collar. "I'm just a man. No one you'll ever have to worry about ever again," the man smiled.

"Why is that?"

"Because I'm the last thing you'll ever see." He did not shout it, or laugh when he said it, but they both knew he was deadly serious. With that, the man reached out with his right hand and snapped the boy's neck. The boy slumped to the ground. The man removed his shoulder bag and began to rummage through it, looking for something. All of this over a Prada bag, he thought. What a waste...I wonder where-

"Excuse me."

The man whirled around, his hands instinctively flying to the guns on his thighs, pulled out his left pistol, and raised it only to see the girl who was being robbed standing there. She was holding his hat in her trembling hands. What was left of her make-up smeared her face. She couldn't have been more than four-and-a-half feet tall in her high heels and the man towered over her. "I-I just w-wanted to say th-th-thank you and give this b-back to you," she held out the hat to him.

He put the gun away, took the hat, and replaced it on his head. He then looked down at her. "Go home," he said. "It's late and these alleys aren't safe. Stay on the main streets." Again, like with the boy he just killed he didn't seem to be looking at her. It was almost as if he was looking through her. The girl nodded her agreement, turned around, and quickly walked away.

As she was leaving, the man touched his cheek and felt the hole in his face. He then reached into the hole with three of his gloved fingers, felt around and pulled out the slug. He looked at it, coated in his own flesh and blood, and dropped it on the ground. He then felt his cheek again, noticing the hole already seemed to be a little smaller. "The wound's healing already," he said aloud, "but that's going to itch for a couple of hours." The man then briefly felt the wounds in his chest and noticed that, they too, were also healing. "Too late to get the bullets out without reopening the wounds, I'll have to let my body digest them." He said this with a grimace. Although his body could break down bullets, and thus, keep him alive, he never got used to the idea.

He then realized he was talking out loud to himself and shook his head. It wouldn't do for people to think that Philadelphia's resident vigilante was crazy, would it? He smiled at this, then again, maybe they already think I'm crazy because I go out and do what I do. Lord knows I don't understand it.

The man started looking through his bag and quickly found what he was looking for; a hole-puncher, a pair of scissors, and a spool of triple-twist string. He placed them on the ground next to the body of the black thug. He picked up the remaining two boys and placed them all next to each other in under the light in the alley. He quickly did a search of the bodies and found their wallets. The man quickly removed their driver's licenses and replaced their wallets. Then, with great care, he punched a hole in the corner of each one, and ran a length of the string through each of them. He then tied the strings around each of the dead boys' necks, making sure the driver's license was face up on each of their chests.

It had stopped raining some time ago, the man had been too busy to notice until then, and the stars had become to come out. He looked up for a moment to admire them, smiled, then sighed and started to walk. For him the night was still young and he there was much more work to be done before another morning greeted the people of Philadelphia.