Who is Megan Livingstone

by Mr. David R. Dorrycott

“See you Monday buddy, don’t stay late” the sharp dressed wolverine yelled as he passed his buddies office door. Senior Agent Andrew ‘Chase’ Hardwicke barely looked up, the wolf giving his old comrade in arms a half hearted salute. His current case had sent him way off the beaten path. Something, and Hardwicke hated to admit this, something he’d expect that old cult television show from his childhood to come up with. Turning back to his handwritten reports first page, he again studied the picture pinned to it.

An average, if somewhat pretty, feline stared back at him. Supposable the picture had been taken last month, just after the federal building bombing. Not a suspect, but the one witness who had aimed his efforts toward the introverted weasel who’d planned and carried out the attack. “Okay, Otter then” he whispered as his own mind corrected him. Otter, weasel, same difference in this case. They’d had nothing, nothing but nearly two hundred dead men, women and... It still hurt, those tiny bodies being carried out past him as he’d arrived, late to work because of a traffic accident. Five minutes later and he’d have been walking in, he’d have been one of the dead.

So who was she? His own records claimed she was a two bit medium living hand to mouth, who lived in the cities college ghetto area. Yet her voice was cultured. She’d given no nonsense, straight to the point data that had galvanized the investigation. They had caught their man just before he could enter a militia compound almost completely due to her information. Once there he would have vanished of course, sprinted off to Canada probably.

How had she known? It just didn’t make any sense. Every avenue he’d followed was a dead end. No relationship, no shared interest or friends, neither even frequented the same areas of town. She was, as he’d proved with his own legwork, a medium.

“Then explain this damn picture from Kent State” he growled to himself, his fur beginning to stand on end. Megan Livingstone, of New England, had been standing next to a handsome young fox. A fox who had been gunned down by national guardsmen armed with live rounds, against all standing orders. Megan Livingstone should be, he checked the copy of the student identity papers he’d found. Sixty seven years old. She should be white furred, a grandmother or more. Flipping the page brought another picture into view. Taken the day he’d interviewed her it showed the same face, same odd antique glasses, same knowing look.

“Forty plus years you don’t stay the same. Not unless you found the fountain of youth” he told his office walls. “And that’s the tip of the damn iceberg.” Picking up his portable voice recorder he clicked it to record. “Subject has been tracked to Kent State University in the 1960's” he said, knowing he’d burn the tape later. This was only his way of collecting his thoughts. “Photo evidence and records place her in New York city during World War Two, working as a volunteer nurse. Before that she lived in England, was an artist of some following. Fingerprints from her student records and Nurse’s papers match perfectly. Subject should be at least....” he ran the numbers in his head. “One hundred and ten years old, yet appears no more than thirty.”

Shutting off his recorder he ran fingers through hair badly in need of combing. This wasn’t a case for the FBI, this was a case for those two weirdo’s on television. Or a priest. Picking up his records he carefully locked them away. A priest, yes that was who he needed to talk too.