Free Fanatics by Richard Hilary Weber Page B

panting to resolve.
    The auditorium, where Jimmy Padino’s DA debut with the media was scheduled, was too small for the pushing and shoving crowd that squeezed in. The room—noisy, airless, electric—stank of hyperstimulated bodies and rain-wet shoes.
    Since the new district attorney had yet to make his entrance, Flo Ott approached the lectern alone. The media mob exploded, a raucous barrage of questions blasting Flo with ballistic intensity. Ballz Busta this and Ballz Busta that and, perhaps thankfully, not a mention of Cecil King or his freshly anointed successor, Jimmy Padino.
    After fifteen years of investigating Brooklyn homicides, Flo was confronting her first media firestorm fueled by the morbid attractions of a celebrity corpse.
    Mere threats on an untried new senator’s life would be no competition for the fresh killing of such a glittering star in the show business firmament. A glamour murder—not unfulfilled threats—captured imaginations, sent circulations and Internet clicks soaring, Nielsen ratings skyrocketing into the entertainment stratosphere, and the ad money flooding in.
    For a moment, the media mob’s monomaniacal onslaught froze Flo’s blood. Then she felt forced to shout, “Please, one at a time. District Attorney Padino will be right here.”
    An agitated little man with a large mouth, Terence T. Dangler from the
New York Post,
pushed his way up front and center. “When was Ballz’s body found? Was he on drugs? Is this a gangland killing? Who have you arrested?”
    “We’ve arrested no one yet,” Flo said. “The victim’s body is at the lab. We’re waiting for a report from forensics.”
    Her answer failed to satisfy the baying mob, and seemed instead to only pour gasoline on the media firestorm and provoke explosion.
    “What’s the motive?”
    “Any suspects?”
    “Was he armed?”
    “You got a murder weapon?”
    “Was he robbed?”
    And into the heat of this inferno, DA Jimmy Padino entered. “Sorry I’m late. Now if you all calm down.” He pointed and grinned, that favorite meaningless gesture of politicians in front of cameras, and said, “Terence, my man, there you are. Great to see you. What’s that you’re saying? A little louder, Terry.”
    “It’s about time we got a district attorney we can talk to. Congratulations on your new appointment. So who you charging? What’s your trial strategy?”
    DA Padino turned to Flo. “Lieutenant, we got any suspects?”
    Flo answered, deadpan, “I just told them. So far, none.”
    This certainly didn’t stop Terence Dangler. He pushed even harder. “Mr. District Attorney, you have any confidence in our police force? What exactly are they doing with this extraordinary case?”
    “Terence,” the district attorney said, “I have full confidence in our police. So does the mayor. We all do. Lieutenant, can you give the media some more details, please?”
    Flo ignored the sarcasm dripping from “some more” and spoke calmly. “The body of Ballz Busta, a.k.a. Owen Smith, was discovered around five-thirty yesterday morning. By a bond trader on her way to work. The victim’s skull was crushed. No murder weapon has yet been found.”
    The herd roared.
    “Who’s the trader? She a suspect?”
    “What was Ballz wearing when he was killed? His gold cross or platinum? Was the cross stolen?”
    “What does his family think?”
    “You think one of his other women did it? A jealous lover?”
    District Attorney Padino intervened. “Terence, what’s your next question?”
    “Where are the corpse photos? Do we get police pictures? Or do we have to rely on amateur shots from the neighbors?”
    “Yo, Terry,” a voice from the rear shouted. “Sit down. You’re not the only one who can make money on this murder.”
    Again, the DA turned to Flo. “Lieutenant?”
    And Flo said, “Out of consideration for the victim’s family—”
    The herd howled.
    “Is his wife a suspect?”
    “What about the other women?”
    “When’s the