The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad Read online

“Menacing women. Some men, but primarily women.”

  “Menacing women they come in contact with. But violence is wrong.”

  Brigitte answers calmly, “The violence they perpetrate—”

  Marilyn waves her off. “I know what you’re going to say. Allowing them to be violent and not stopping them is the moral equivalent of being violent yourself.”

  Brigitte claps her hands once, not patronizingly at all, stands up, and says, “Precisely. You get it! Are we done?”

  “No!” Marilyn takes a deep breath, then continues, “I’m not saying you should just let rapists run around loose. I’m saying that vigilantism is bad for society. You can’t just take the law into your own hands.”

  Brigitte raises her eyebrows. “In whose hands would it be more effective? Cops and the court system? I couldn’t possibly do a worse job wielding the law than they do.”

  “But where does it end? Can just anyone decide what is a crime and what isn’t? Or who should be punished and who shouldn’t? You’re asking for social chaos.”

  “Marilyn, social chaos is when 25 percent of all women are raped and another 19 percent have to fend off rapes, and nothing is done about it. I don’t think it’s so hard to figure out that stopping rapists is going to solve that problem.”

  Marilyn cries, “But the knitting circle women can’t wantonly kill people!”

  For the first time Brigitte’s voice becomes the tiniest bit sharp, as she says, “Wanton? Who said anything about wanton?” She strides toward a huge book, open on a small desk.

  Marilyn whines, “Not the dictionary!”

  Brigitte looks at her. “Young lady! How will you ever advance in life without an estimable vocabulary?” Brigitte searches the dictionary, finds what she’s looking for, and reads, “wanton: lacking in moral restraint.” Brigitte smiles, then says, more or less to herself, “What do they teach young people in school these days?”

  Marilyn frowns.

  Brigitte continues, “I think we’re showing great restraint. We’re only going after rapists so far.”

  Marilyn’s eyes go wide. She gasps, “So far?”

  Brigitte says, “Of course. What about pornographers? What about Hollywood filmmakers who show a man forcing himself on a woman, and at the beginning of the scene she’s pushing him away, but by the end she’s wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close? And what about those awful advertisers who use our bodies to sell everything from beer to gum to automobiles? What about—”

  Marilyn interrupts: “You and your knitting circle can’t just kill people!”

  “I think we can. We’re doing a fine job, too.”

  “But there’s already a group that’s supposed to stop criminals. They’re called the police.”

  Brigitte snorts derisively.

  Marilyn continues, “Yes, the police. I’m not ashamed to say it. Why can’t you let them do their jobs, instead of taking it upon yourselves to commit horrible violence?”

  Brigitte once again becomes slightly sharp. “Marilyn. Do not insult our violence. It is not horrible. It’s very artistic, innovative, and skilled. You think it’s easy to create such masterful and righteous violence? You think the police could do that?”

  “The police don’t have to kill people! They could do this without violence. They could just put people in jail.”

  “You don’t think putting people in jail is violent?”

  “Of course it isn’t.”

  “Are you saying that if the police ask nicely, rapists will peacefully stroll into jail cells and volunteer to stay there?”

  “Well, no. Of course they have to be forced into the cells. And the cells have to be locked.”

  Brigitte asks, “In your experience, can anyone be forced to do anything without violence or the threat of violence?”

  “If you make them feel bad about themselves …”

  “If committing rape doesn’t make a man feel bad about himself, I think he’s a little beyond guilt-tripping, don’t you?”

  Marilyn thinks a moment. “Well, my mom is really good at making people feel guilty.”

  “True.”

  “But I guess even she would have a hard time with some of those guys.”

  Brigitte nods. “And if she can’t do it, no one can.”

  They smile at each other.

  CHAPTER 4

  The police war room looks precisely like what you would expect a police war room to look like. It has wanted posters, certificates of certification, Styrofoam cups of steaming coffee, half-filled boxes of pizza, a terrarium containing a garter snake, a softball trophy, a bowling trophy, an extensive library of police procedure manuals, including Forensics for the Overqualified, a copy of Les Miserables (described as a stirring tale of the brave and tragic Lestrade who refuses to give up on the world’s second most famous literary cold case; the most famous literary cold case is covered by the books: Who Really Killed Jesus? and, for a more academic and judicial perspective, in the You Be the Judge series of legal comic books, The Execution of Jesus, Volume 1: Death Penalty Gone Wrong, or Fry the Bastard and The Execution of Jesus, Volume 2: Would the Supreme Court Have Overturned the Decision?) a copy of The Trial, and three televisions: one tuned to ESPN, one tuned to Judge Judy, and the third showing endlessly repeating loops of Jack Bauer’s greatest hits.

  The chief stands at the front of the room. Cops sit in chairs, facing him. He says, “These serial killings are an embarrassment to the city and to our department. We must catch these perps as soon as possible.”

  One of the cops, a relentlessly ambitious, relentlessly handsome man—with a jaw of marble, steely blue eyes, coal-black hair, a hint of silver in his carefully trimmed mustache, bronzed skin, six-pack (aluminum can) abs, a rock-hard grip, a tin ear, and an ironclad alibi for anything anyone might accuse him of—is named Flint. He says, “We know these women are behind it. All we have to do is prove it.”

  Another cop, named Rico (a burly man, a man’s man, a man so manly that each matted hair on the backs of his hands oozes tiny drops of gleaming testosterone), asks, “How do we do that?”

  Flint smirks. “It’s a bunch of women. How hard can it be?”

  The chief makes his decision known: “We’ll send in an infiltrator. It’ll take about five minutes to crack this case.” He looks at Flint and says, “Stone, you’re volunteering.”

  Flint shows his pearly white teeth. “I can outsmart them, no problem. I’ll take them down.”

  The chief hands Flint some knitting needles and yarn. “Learn how to do this.”

  Flint pauses, then asks, “You want me … to learn how to knit?”

  The chief nods decisively. “Make them believe you’re one of them.”

  “But … knitting?”

  “You’ve had other tough assignments.”

  “C’mon, Chief. I’ve got a family and a reputation. Send me back undercover with the Slaughterio Crime Family drug operation. Anything but this.”

  “You volunteered. You’re going.”

  Today is Swiss cheese day at the factory, and the women keep thinking of ham sandwiches.

  After a spirited but inconclusive debate on the merits of yellow mustard versus Dijon, Brigitte asks, “Do you have the list of rapists we need to neutralize this week?”

  Suzie holds up a piece of paper. She says, “I was thinking Jasmine and I could handle A through F. Mary and Christine could take G through L.”

  Flint walks into the room and sits down. He starts knitting, slowly. His tongue protrudes in concentration. The women silently watch him. He continues knitting for a painfully long time. No one says a word.

  Brigitte catches Gina’s eye, motions her into a back room. Once out of hearing, Brigitte whispers, “Something about him isn’t right.”

  Gina nods vigorously, and whispers back, “I know! Did you notice how he always drops his last stitch?”

  Brigitte says, “We need to get rid of him.”

  “But how?”

  “Leave it
to me.”

  The two return to the main room and sit down.

  Brigitte asks the group, “So, has anyone seen that new shade of Revlon, Siren’s Kiss?”

  Jasmine catches on immediately. She squeals, “Oh. My. God! It’s divine! I was thinking of wearing it with Go to Bed Red polish on my fingernails, and Mad Lust on my toenails, which matches perfectly with these new strappy stilettos I got at the mall. Remember, Suzie? The ones I showed you?”

  Suzie squeals back, “Per!Fect! I love those shoes!” She gushes to the group, “They have really thin straps around the ankle, like a quarter-inch wide … no, like an eighth of an inch. Maybe a quarter. Jaz, was it a quarter or an eighth?”

  Jasmine says enthusiastically, “More like an eighth. They’re, like, thin and delicate and they cross twice over the foot before going up like this.” She pantomimes the straps going up her ankle.

  Christine says, “They sound darling! And they remind me of some shoes my granddaughter wanted me to buy her for her birthday. Can you imagine such a little girl wanting heels?”

  Flint sighs, packs up his knitting, and starts to leave.

  Mary says to him, “Oh, dearie, where are you going? The fun has barely even started.”

  Flint replies, “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  The police are meeting again in the war room. While they wait for Flint, the chief refreshes himself on techniques of detection by reading The Collected Works of Edgar Allen Poe. He stops, underlines a phrase, then looks up at Rico and says thoughtfully, “I just had an idea. Is it possible that the killer could be an Orang-Outang?”

  Before Rico can answer, in walks Flint.

  The chief says, “And?”

  Flint says, “I can’t take it, Chief. They’re brutal, monstrous.”

  The chief says, “Brutal, eh? Like an Orang-Outang?”

  Flint replies, “Worse, boss. Worse than you can imagine.”

  The chief dismisses Flint with a small gesture, then turns to Rico, says, “You’re in. Let’s see if you can fight some crime without sniveling like a little girl.”

  As the police file out of the room, they hear the chief give Rico one last piece of advice: “Make sure not to let them make a monkey out of you.”

  It’s cream cheese week, and the day is so hot you could use the sidewalk to fry bacon. It’s Thursday, and the Knitting Circle is meeting.

  In walks someone who looks like a man, a burly man, a manly man oozing testosterone from the matted hairs on the backs of his hands. His low V-necked sweater reveals what would normally be a décolletage, only with hair. Lots of it, as thick and matted as a 1970s shag carpet on which decades of beers have spilled and been left to dry into a yeasty crust. Beneath the sweater he wears a bra that is clearly full of something besides human flesh. And below his waist he wears a tastefully short plaid skirt that shows off his muscular, hairy legs. He is carrying a new copy of Camille Paglia’s Sexual Personae. He sits down.

  The women of the Knitting Circle look at him.

  The man says, “Ahem.”

  The women knit.

  The man says, “My name is Ric … Ric … Raquel, and I’m here to do some serious knittin’.”

  The women knit.

  Rico continues, “I’ve had it up to my tight sweet round ass with the Man, with Patriarchy. You know what I’m sayin’, girlfriends?”

  The women knit.

  Rico continues, “I’m tired of men groping me, tired of them lookin’ at me with their x-ray eyes, tired of them seein’ my secret treasures.”

  The women knit.

  Rico continues, “And I’m tired of stayin’ home, slavin’ all day at cookin’ and cleanin’, and then watchin’ soap operas and Oprah and Dr. Phil and Judge Judy, while my man sweats away his life to bring home a paycheck. And I’m tired of that filthy beastly man with eight hands wantin’ a piece of me.”

  The women knit.

  Rico notes, “He’s hung like a horse, by the way.”

  Brigitte stifles a laugh.

  Rico says, “I’m just sayin’.”

  The women knit.

  Rico says, “And I’m tired of goin’ through a divorce where the lousy biased judge only gives me half of the house that my ex-husband worked his fingers to the bone for, and I’m tired of takin’ only 50 percent of his salary for the rest of his miserable life as he continues to put his self on the line to keep the streets safe for all of us.”

  The women stop knitting, stare at Rico for a moment, then resume knitting.

  Rico says, “I’m ready to bring down the whole patriarchy. Let’s do some serious ass-kickin’, bra-burnin’ knittin’!”

  The women knit.

  Rico is by the moment becoming more comfortable in his role, and more excited. He moves toward crescendo: “And I know where there are some rapos ripe for some serious knittin’, if you get my drift. Who’s with me? Yee-haw! Let’s do it!”

  The women knit.

  Rico whoops, “Rock and Roll!”

  Suzie asks, casually, “Jasmine, how did those shoes look with that lipstick you got yesterday?”

  Jasmine responds, “Ohmygod, ohmygod, Oh my god! They looked so hot! I wore them to Club Xanadu. You know the one?”

  Suzie says, “Oh, the Xan? The club with the lights? And the music?”

  “You know the place!”

  “Girlygirlygirl, who doesn’t?”

  Jasmine, “And I met this really cute guy!”

  Mary asks, “What does he do for a living?”

  “He said he sells stocks and bonds, or maybe he’s a bail bondsman or something like that. You know, high finance. Oh, he mentioned selling blood. That’s it!”

  Mary nods. “That’s nice—he has a steady job.”

  Jasmine says, “But the best part is, he has this gorgeous smile.”

  Christine asks, “Good teeth?”

  Rico’s eyes flutter, and he seems to be having a hard time breathing.

  Jasmine says, “Great teeth! And he totally loved my shoes!”

  “Totally?” Suzie squeals.

  “Totally. I could tell. And he said I was foxy. Except he said it like, ‘fox-ay.’”

  “Fox-ay.”

  Rico pulls a tissue from his bra to wipe his sweaty forehead.

  Jasmine effuses, “He called me Foxy Lady.”

  Suzie follows up, “Only he said it ‘fox-ay’?”

  “Yes, he said it was from an old song by Hendrix.”

  Suzie says, “I love Johnny Hendrix!”

  Rico’s eyes flutter again. He can barely vocalize, “It’s Jimi.”

  Suzie barely looks at him, says, “Jimi, Johnny. Whatev. The important thing is he said she was fox-ay.”

  Christine adds, “And that he had good teeth.”

  Suzie continues, “And that he loved her shoes.”

  Gina asks, “Were they the ones with the really thin straps?”

  Jasmine squeals again, says, “Yes, like a quarter inch. Or maybe it’s an eighth. Suze?”

  Suzie answers, “Definitely an eighth.”

  Rico’s eyelids flutter, his eyes roll back in his head, and then he falls out of his chair and onto the floor, insensate.

  The police are in their war room. This time the chief is reading Agatha Christie. He stops reading, ponders, then says, “Do you think the rapists are killing each other one by one, and when there are only two left each will think the other is the murderer, so one rapist will kill the other, and then out of guilt and remorse hang himself? But then we will all discover that the real murderer was one of the earlier victims, who only faked his death. Yes, I think that’s right. Pretty damned ingenious of me to figure this out, I’d say. So, to solve the crime we only need discover which of the victims is not actually dead. Flint, can you handle that?”

  Flint responds, “Um, sir, all of the victims are dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “As dinosaurs, sir.”

  “Someone told me that dinosaurs evolved into chickens, so they’re rea
lly not dead. Maybe we should look into that.”

  “Look into chickens, sir?”

  “No, the victims!”

  “But the victims are all dead.”

  “Really? That’s damned inconvenient of them. Damn it all to hell. How will we solve the case if all the murder victims are actually dead?”

  “I’m not sure, sir.”

  An officer named Sandy Dougher sits in the back of the room. She is beautiful. As beautiful as the Mona Lisa. As beautiful as the sweeping boughs of a western red cedar. As beautiful as the delicate scent of frangipani on a cool breeze on a tropical evening. As beautiful as a ringing line drive into the gap in left-center field. As beautiful as a sharp kick to a rapist’s testicles.

  She sits near Lieutenant Chuck Kort. Some might think she detests him. Maybe it’s the daggered looks she gives him. Maybe it’s the way she otherwise will not look him in the face. Maybe it’s the way when not required to remain she leaves the room when he enters. Maybe it’s the telephone number block she’s installed on her landline. Maybe it’s the ID checkpoints her neighborhood watch helped her install to keep him away. Maybe it’s the pictures of Chuck Kort displayed prominently in the machine-gun turret her landlord helped her install on the corner of the apartment building.

  The chief says, “We’re doing something wrong. What could it be?”

  Sandy says, “Uh, Chief?”

  The chief speaks over her, “What should we do?”

  She answers, “What if we do our jobs and stop rapists?”

  The chief looks around the room, waiting for someone to respond to his question.

  Sandy says again, “What if we do our jobs and stop rapists?”

  The chief continues to look around the room, still waiting for someone to respond to his question.

  Chuck turns to Sandy and says, “If women don’t want it, why do they dress the way they do?”

  Sandy scowls in his general direction.

  Chuck continues, softly enough so only Sandy can hear, “Why do they parade around with hips and breasts, huh? Your body tells me you want it. You can say no, but your body always begs for it.”

  Sandy’s scowl turns even fiercer as she curls her body, which happens to be fully covered by her uniform, away from Chuck. “Don’t talk to me,” she hisses.