The Knitting Circle Rapist Annihilation Squad (7 page)

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 really 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.

Chuck says, “You know you loved it.”

The chief says, “You in back, shh. We're trying to figure out what to do about these knitting needle murderers. They've got our balls in a wringer, all right.”

Sandy says to the chief, “I have an idea.”

The chief says, “I wish someone had an idea.”

Sandy says, “I'll go in, Chief.”

The chief says, “I know it's a rough assignment, but doesn't even one of you who have the balls to act like a woman? Won't any of you volunteer?”

Sandy raises her hand. “I volunteer. I was the Regional Knitting Champion in high school, and later I won the Golden Needle, the Pulitzer Prize of the Fiber Arts world. I can fit in with them, no problem.”

The chief says, “It's going to cost so much to train one of you to knit. Don't any of you already know how?”

Another cop speaks up, “I saw Sandy knitting in the break room. Why don't we send her?”

The chief says, “That's a brilliant idea. I'll remember that when you're next up for promotion.”

This week the cheese is Ossau-Iraty, a rare cheese made only from the milk of black-faced Manech sheep, a cheese known for its luscious ivory color and its slightly acidic slightly hazelnut taste. As the women begin knitting, they are overcome by emotion at the beauty of the smell. Some close their eyes. Some stare into space. Some weep silently.

Sandy Dougher walks in. She sits down.

The knitters leave their reverie, slowly, regretfully, as if waking from a wondrous dream they know they will soon forget.

Sandy says to them, “I know you're not stupid. I'm a cop. I've been sent here to shut you down, but I'm really here for other reasons.”

Gina shakes her head slightly, to bring herself fully awake. Then she says to the group, “Today we are going to learn some of the Fair Isle knitting techniques.”

Sandy continues, “I also know you can't trust a cop unless you have good reason. Please just watch the news tomorrow.” She rises to leave and hands Gina a slip of paper. She says, “Listen for this name.”

Gina reads the name aloud to the group, “‘Lieutenant Chuck Kort.'” She turns to Sandy, says, “Who's this?”

Sandy responds, “Let's just say he fits the profile.”

The next evening, the television is on again. Franz Maihem no longer looks like Jesus, but more like Jeremiah, with overtones of Howard Beale, Lonesome Rhodes, Jimmy Swaggart, and an elderly Bela Lugosi, as depicted by Jimmy Stewart circa 1956. He stares into the camera, into the very souls of his flock, and says, mournfully, “Tragedy struck again this morning for our heroic men in blue. Lieutenant Chuck Kort was found in the precinct break room, pinned to a vending machine with a knitting needle to the throat. If these terrorists can strike in the hallowed halls of a police station, they can strike anywhere. Be afraid. Be very afraid.”

We are back in the war room. The chief is now reading
The Complete Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
He stops, looks around the room, and asks piercingly, “What do you hear?”

No one says anything for a moment, till Flint says, “Nothing, Chief.”

The chief looks at them, triumphant, and exclaims, “Exactly! And that is the clue we've been waiting for.” When no one responds, his look becomes as piercing as was his voice. He takes in each person, one by one. They are all wearing black armbands with their uniforms, except for Sandy, who is wearing bright pink. He says to her, “You are not showing proper respect
for our fallen brother.”