The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad Page 3

  Lenny, a young man who also works in the church, makes his way to the pulpit. He walks awkwardly, as though with every step closer to having to face the audience, he withdraws further inside of himself. His uncombed, slightly greasy hair falls a little more over his face with every step. By the time he gets to the pulpit his hair shields his eyes entirely. It would be easy to laugh at his eccentricities if it weren’t painfully clear they were a symptom of some trauma. Standing as far as possible from the microphone, he begins to softly sing—chant would be a better word, and whisper would be even better than that. Most of the mourners join him, though without much enthusiasm. Some continue to text. A few look around furtively, then stare all the more intently at their laptop screens. The deacon retreats again into a back room.

  Alone, he mutters to himself, “Where the hell is he? And where did he move the wine? If I’m going to be stuck leading this damn service, I’m sure as hell going to need a shot of the blood of Christ.”

  The deacon rummages around in cabinets, looking for the wine. At last he opens the largest cabinet of all. Out tumbles the body of the priest, pierced with a knitting needle.

  The voice of the deacon echoes throughout the church: “Holy fuck!”

  The priest’s funeral takes place several days later, and is even grander than the singer’s. The church is packed with flower arrangements, wreaths, mourners, and a small contingent of women wearing pink.

  The deacon is in the pulpit, and he intones somberly to the audience, to the air, and to God Himself, “Remember, Lord, those who have died, and especially remember Father Luke, whom You have called to You from this life. In baptism and holy orders he died with Christ; may he also share His resurrection.”

  The mourners respond, “Amen.”

  The deacon says, “Father Luke was a great man. We sure will miss him.”

  The mourners mumble, “Amen.”

  The deacon looks around, scratches the side of his head, and then says, “Oh, who are we kidding? He wasn’t great; he was a monster! No one’s going to miss him—it’s a day of great rejoicing! Let me hear a Hallelujah!”

  Lenny is the first to respond, “Hallelujah!”

  The audience roars, “Hallelujah!”

  The deacon says, “Thank you, Lord, for punishing Father Luke for all his filthy deeds! Thank you, Jesus!”

  The audience responds, “Hallelujah!”

  Lenny shakes his hair out of his face and pumps his fist in the air, his hallelujah soaring higher than any other.

  Later, many call it the best funeral they’ve ever attended, and a YouTube video of it goes viral, getting more hits even than “Chipmunks Gone Wild,” “The 100 Greatest Movie Insults of All Time,” “Dance Your Way to Hot, Sexy Abs,” and the previous number one all-time blockbuster hit, “Skateboarder Hits His Nuts on a Pole.”

  Picture a television. The frame is slim, but the screen is wide and tall, and it covers the entire corner where it lives, where it dispenses wisdom, where, like the ancient elders, it gathers the young to tell them stories that teach them how to be human beings (or in this case, how not to be human beings). But that corner of the room is more than just a gathering place to receive profound lessons and guidance. It is a place of worship, where this digital god receives its due, its daily offerings of time and attention, where it accepts the gladly given souls of its supplicants, and gives them in return Lars and the Real Girl, Paris Hilton’s British Best Friend, Hostel, Everybody Loves Raymond, and the Evening News.

  The television is on. Like the computer, like the omniscient and all-wise God it is and has become to so many, it never sleeps. And like a good neighbor it is always there. But to many it is more than a neighbor. It is their family and friend and lover and priest and therapist and lullaby singer and dreamweaver. It is their mother’s breast and father’s shoulder, their lover’s body and confessor’s ear. And always—always—it speaks to them, tells them how and what to think, tells them what is wisdom and what is folly, tells them whom to trust—trust me, it says, put your trust in me—and tells them whom to fear.

  The television is on. It shows its supplicants fast-moving computer graphics with higher definition than the human eye can perceive. Some of its acolytes say it shows higher definition than life itself. Blasphemers say this is nonsense, that life isn’t digital; it’s infinitely complex. Members of the techno-television priesthood reply, “Your lips move, but I can’t hear what you are saying.”

  The television is on. Images of knitting needles fly rapidly back and forth across the screen. Red letters dripping blood flash like an alarm. They read, “The Hunt is on for the Knitting Needle Killer.” A single chord in a minor key clues the viewers to feel terror, fear, anxiety, discomfort, or failing all of those, at least some minor indigestion. Then, mood set, the graphics dissolve to show Franz Maihem, a tall, slender man, messianic, looking almost exactly like Jesus the Christ, except that he’s Germanic and not Semitic, shaven instead of bearded, short-blond-haired instead of long-black-haired, and he’s neither hanging on a cross nor handing out loaves and fishes, but rather striding purposefully down an office hallway. But in all other ways he does look very messianic, in a television drama sort of way.

  He stops, faces the camera, and says laconically, “It all began with that most trusted of figures, a high school counselor. Who would want to do him harm? What sort of monster would pierce the heart of such an innocent man?”

  A searching glance lets members of his congregation know that they, too, should ask the question: Who could do such an awful thing?

  “Next came a police officer. A protector. A knight in shining blue armor. Who will protect us when our protectors cannot be protected?”

  Another searching glance. Among the faithful, spines shiver and hair stands on end.

  “Then an old man wearing a tuxedo. Who could be more benign than that? If this killer will harm an old man in a tuxedo, an old man listening to Neil Sedaka, who can be safe?”

  This time, hairs shiver and spines stand on end.

  “Then an entertainer, and now a priest. This killer has shown that nothing is sacred to him, not even country and western music.”

  A pregnant pause, which Franz knows precisely when to abort. He opens a door in the hallway. The scene shifts to show a man sitting behind a desk. He looks almost exactly like Franz, except that he is tall instead of short, slender instead of plump, bald instead of blonde, and brown instead of pink.

  Franz says, “With us in Catastrophe Studios is FBI agent Chet Stirling, here to shed light on what sort of monster could commit the horrible murders of so many innocent victims. Chet?”

  Chet speaks. His voice is precisely like that of Jesus, except that we don’t really know what Jesus sounded like. And Chet speaks English instead of Aramaic. But he does sound very messianic, in a technician-Christ sort of way. He says, “Thank you, Franz. Using the most advanced scientific methods and our decades of experience, we’ve put together a profile of the killer.”

  Chet holds up a drawing of a generic face: a circle with dots for eyes and a straight line for a mouth. He continues, “We’re probably dealing with a white male in his thirties, who, while slightly antisocial, remains a good neighbor, except that there might be reports in the area of the occasional disappearing cat. He may work as a postal carrier or a circus clown. We suspect his mother was a scary bitch who beat him with knitting needles. His victims, ranging from a country singer to a police officer to a priest, are clearly random …”

  The women of the knitting circle gather for their regular meeting at the cheese factory. Today is provolone.

  Gina says to the group, “We’ve got a problem.”

  Christine asks, “Oh, are you still having those dreams where you have to roll a great round of Muenster cheese up a steep hill of scalloped potatoes?”

  “No. The problem is way worse. Did you see the news last night? They’re clearly not getting the message.”

  Brigitte responds, “Yes, I did see! They
gave credit to a man!”

  Mary answers, “No surprise there. When don’t they?”

  “And they said it was random!” Brigitte is outraged.

  Gina says, “We can’t stop rape if no one knows why these guys were killed. We have to make the message simple so it can be absorbed by their simple little minds.” She pulls disposable rubber gloves from her purse (she always keeps disposable rubber gloves in her purse; don’t you?), puts them on, and picks a piece of paper from the middle of a stack. She writes in big black letters: “Stop rape or face the wrath of the Knitting Circle.”

  The television is on. Franz is back, still messianic though still looking like nothing so much as a television news host. He asks Chet for the latest updates on the investigation of these horrifying crimes.

  Chet tells him, and tells all of the worshipers, “The FBI has received a so-called communiqué claiming credit for the murders. It’s from a group called The Insane Terrorist Bitches Knitting Circle.”

  Franz is aghast (or at least feigns aghastment): “They actually call themselves that?”

  “I’m sure you understand that for security reasons we cannot discuss that particular topic.”

  Franz recovers from his feigned aghastedness enough to ask, “Has this group made any demands, or are the killings as senseless as they seem?”

  “We feel it prudent to not reveal the content of this message.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Our expert analysis shows that these are impersonators trying to steal the glory of the real murderer. We have no wish to reward these lonely women with the attention they so clearly crave.”

  Gina’s kitchen looks precisely how you would expect the kitchen of someone who is both sensible (would her friend Brigitte say “drab”? Certainly not out loud) and germ-phobic to look. She doesn’t go so far as to have a paper towel dispenser—this would be germ-phobic but not environmentally sensible—but nor do dirty dishes last longer than a minute—to leave them just a teensy bit longer might sometimes be sensible but would certainly not be germ-phobic. The hand- and dishtowels (sensible cloth in dowdy tans and blues) are washed frequently—maybe less often than linen at five-star hotels, though she hopes more often than linen at Big Al’s Buy the Hour Motel.

  Gina sits with her husband Lawrence at their sensible tan wood kitchen table drinking weak tea. She takes his hand in hers and says, “I have something to tell you.”

  Lawrence looks up mildly. “What is it, dear?”

  “It’s very serious.”

  “Oh no. You’re not ill, are you?”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “It’s not Marilyn, is it? Is she sick?”

  “Our daughter’s fine.”

  “Your mother?”

  “No.”

  “Your sister?”

  “No.”

  “Your—”

  “Nobody’s sick, Lawrence.”

  “What a relief!” He withdraws his hand from hers and picks up his cup.

  There is silence for a moment before Gina says, “Somebody’s dead.”

  Lawrence puts his cup back down. “Oh, no! Marilyn?”

  “I said she’s fine.”

  “Your mother?”

  “No.”

  “Your sister?”

  “No.”

  “Your—”

  “No,” she says. “Someone we don’t personally know.”

  “Oh, well, whew. That’s good, isn’t it? Or bad. Or … wait. How does this relate to us?”

  “I killed someone.”

  “Oh my god, what happened? A car wreck? Are you okay?”

  “It wasn’t an accident. I murdered someone.”

  “Are you serious? What? Who?”

  “No one I knew. No one important.”

  Lawrence, the sensible husband of his sensible wife, sensibly asks, “Why?”

  “He was a rapist. He raped a friend of mine.”

  Lawrence is silent for a while before he says, “Oh. Hmm. Well. That’s all right then.” He pauses a moment before asking the next sensible question: “You didn’t leave any fingerprints or other evidence, did you?”

  Chet is on the TV again, wearing the look of certainty that signals ironclad job security. He reports, “We now believe several copycat killers have begun emulating the knitting needle killer. According to our FBI expert profiler—”

  Franz interjects, “That’s you, right?”

  Chet nods humbly, then continues, “The copycat killers are most likely white males in their thirties, slightly antisocial …”

  It’s artichoke-flavored cheese week at the cheese factory, and Brigitte is steaming. She pounds her fist on the table in the center of the room. “It’s an outrage how serial killers are constantly stereotyped in the media!”

  Christine shakes her head. “Tsk. Antisocial white men indeed. Of all the nerve.”

  Gina comments, sensibly, “The media always distort the truth.”

  Suzie responds, “I guess we’ll have to take our message straight to the people.”

  “How do we do that?” Jasmine asks.

  “We’ll have to be direct,” suggests Gina.

  “Yet sneaky,” adds Brigitte.

  Gina’s walk-in closet in the bedroom she shares with Lawrence looks as you would expect: clothes neatly organized by color, and within color by shade. But there’s an additional layer of organization, too, with fabrics sorted by their “friendliness with germs,” as Gina puts it. Those most friendly are kept in back for use only when circumstances demand, and the fabrics who don’t so much like germs are at the ready for everyday use.

  Gina stands in the closet’s doorway. She says to herself, “Sneaky?” A moment’s pause, then, “Sneaky.”

  She walks briskly into the closet and finds the appropriate articles of clothing. A few minutes later she emerges wearing a black scarf, hat, sunglasses, hooded jacket, and a burglar’s mask.

  She looks in a mirror. She says to her reflection, “Too much?”

  The reflection says back, “Too much.”

  When she next exits the closet she is wearing simple yet elegant black pants, a black turtleneck, and a knitted black cap.

  The doorbell rings.

  Gina bustles down the stairs and opens the door.

  Brigitte is standing outside wearing an all-black burglar’s outfit with sunglasses and a mask. The only thing missing is a black bag labeled Swag.

  Marilyn, who is at this point sixteen years old, walks from the living room into the entry way. She looks at her mother and Brigitte, then curls her lip in a way that evolution has made possible only for teenagers.

  “What the hell?” she asks in a tone of appalled scorn.

  Gina asks, “What?”

  “Why are you dressed like that?”

  Gina says, “Funeral.”

  Brigitte talks over her, “Costume party.”

  Gina corrects herself. “Costume party.”

  Brigitte talks over her, “Funeral.”

  Marilyn, sensible daughter of her sensible mother, says, “You’re up to something. I can tell. Something weird.”

  Gina looks her daughter straight in the face and says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Brigitte grabs Gina’s arm to pull her out the door. “Come on, Gina, we’re late for the poetry reading.”

  Marilyn looks at them suspiciously. “I thought you said it was a funeral.”

  To which Brigitte responds, “You ever been to a poetry reading?”

  Marilyn stalks back into the living room and confronts her father. “Mom’s writing poetry now?” she wails, deeply upset.

  “Welllllll …”

  Marilyn softens and puts her hand on his shoulder sympathetically. “I’ve heard that every marriage has rough spots. You guys love each other. Poetry doesn’t have to mean the end. Do you think she’d agree to counseling?”

  “Umm …”

  Marilyn says, “Dad, you need to insist.”

  The members
of the knitting circle meet at a dark, deserted parking lot behind a boarded-up factory. Because none of these women were until recently routine breakers of the law, they all wear the ridiculously overdone burglar outfits of amateurs, with black berets and ski masks, sunglasses, black scarves, and black gloves. Jasmine even wears black mittens (which she knitted herself). When the other women look askance at them, she cries, “They were all I had!”

  Suzie smiles and says, “And look how well they match her shoes!”

  Christine passes each woman a stack of leaflets. The women split into pairs, return to their vehicles, and drive to prearranged target areas to post their leaflets, which bear a simple message in black ink printed on red paper: “STOP RAPE OR FACE THE WRATH OF THE KNITTING CIRCLE.”

  Gina and Brigitte drive to a residential district and park in a shadowed space two blocks from a supermarket. They skulk to the edge of the supermarket’s parking lot, where Gina staples a leaflet onto a telephone pole.

  Brigitte stage whispers to her, “You can’t put that there!”

  Gina responds, “We’ve killed people, and you’re worried about telephone company regulations?”

  Brigitte says, “It’s not that.” She rips off the flyer and points to the one underneath. “You were going to cover up a poster about a lost puppy. People will think we’re heartless and cruel.”

  “They already think we’re insane terrorist bitches.”

  “But what about the puppy?”

  Gina searches for a better spot. The telephone pole is covered with other flyers announcing a lost kitten, a lost ferret, a lost pig, and a lost scorpion who “answers to the name Hank.”

  Brigitte points to an advertisement for a diet plan. “Here. Cover this one up.”

  Gina looks at it. “Diet plans. Ugh. Self-hatred in a box.”

  “Plus the meals taste like crap.”

  “And the servings are too small.”

  The television is on. Chet speaks with the certainty of one who knows that being an expert is like being a bank executive, in that it means you never have to say you’re sorry: “Eyewitness tips combined with our careful analysis indicates that the so-called ‘Knitting Needle Killers’ may not be knitters after all, but may instead be using knitting needles as a clever ruse to throw law enforcement off track. Our latest theory is that these serial killers are actually bad poets.