Page 25 of The Perfect Appearance

He shook his head, though she couldn’t tell if he was being truthful. While Gemma Britton’s murder seemed like a crime of passion, that didn’t mean the perpetrator couldn’t mask his intentions when needed.

“I’m going to tell you,” she said, making her tone as soothing as possible, hoping that creating some kind of rapport might get him to be more forthcoming, “as long as you promise not to try to run off again. It wouldn’t go well anyway.”

“I promise,” he said, even as his eyes bounced everywhere.

Jessie nodded at Grover, who looked dubious but nonetheless released his hand from Benes’s chest.

“My name is Jessie Hunt, and I’m a criminal profiler with the LAPD,” she told him, not mentioning that she was on leave or that she was not assigned to the case she was investigating. “I’m looking into the murder of Dr. Gemma Britton, who used to be your psychiatrist.”

Everything she said seemed to increase his anxiety level, but he didn’t say a word, so she continued.

“As you can imagine, once she was killed, authorities started looking into all her patients, past and present, to see who might have had reason to harm her.Now, do you know why we're here, Quentin?"

“So you’re not a cop,” he replied, not answering her question, “and he’s not a cop?”

Jessie found it odd that the man immediately went there rather than addressing the veiled allegation being leveled at him.

“No,” she told him, “but as I said, I work for the department. If you don’t want to talk to me, I’m more than happy to call the detectives handling this case, who might ask their questions in a more…forceful manner. Is that your preference? Because I can give them a ring right now.”

He looked uncertain as to how to answer, so she pressed on.

“I’m trying to keep this informal, Quentin,” she explained. “If you can answer my questions satisfactorily, then maybe I never even need to bring in the detectives. I’m actually trying to help you. If you aren’t responsible for what happened to Dr. Britton, it’s probably in your best interest to convince us of that before we make everything official. Official means handcuffs and interrogation rooms and defense lawyers—fun stuff like that. Or we can just talk. Of course, it's your decision."

He stared at her fearfully, then looked over at Grover, who seemed to make him even more scared. He returned his attention to her.

“I didn’t kill her,” he finally said.

“But you did threaten to,” Jessie noted. “Her own files say that you told her that she’d never get a chance to ruin anyone else’s life like she did yours. Her notes also indicate that you left her threatening voicemails and stalked her. That doesn’t sound great, Quentin.”

His face had frozen in horror as he listened to the accusations against him. Then, without warning, he crumpled to the ground, breaking down in tears. Jessie looked over at Grover in surprise. This was not the reaction she’d expected from a potential murder suspect.

“I didn’t mean any of that,” Quentin insisted weepily. “Dr. Britton said she couldn’t see me anymore because I wasn’t interested in making progress. She said that if I didn’t take tangible steps to control my anxiety, then sessions were a waste of both of our time. I got scared and lashed out. That’s why I said that stuff. That’s why I left those voicemails. But I never would have hurt her. I neverdidhurt her.”

“What about the stalking?” Grover demanded, apparently deciding to get into the investigation game too.

“That was later,” Benes explained through hiccupped gasps. “I just wanted to apologize to her, and I knew I couldn’t go to her office. So I tried to approach her in public, but she couldn't just close the door on me. Plus, I hoped that if she saw me out and about around other people, she'd know that I was trying to make progress."

“But you never talked to her?” Jessie asked.

He shook his head mournfully as he wiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand.

“When it came right down to it, I just couldn’t,” he admitted. “The thought of going up here in a public place with all those people around and trying to set things right—it was just too much for me. I tried multiple times but could never work up the courage to go up to her. I had no idea that she ever even saw me."

Jessie was starting to see why Britton hadn’t reported the stalking to the police. She must have come to the very conclusion that Quentin Benes was laying out for them: that he wasn’t a threat but just a guy who, despite his best efforts, couldn’t overcome his demons. He was just a scared little man trapped in his own disorder.

She must have thought that bringing in the authorities would only exacerbate things. The fact that she hadn’t noted any interaction with him in the year since the stalking had stopped also worked against the idea that he was their killer. Whoever did this, it felt like their anger at her was ripe. Benes’s wasn’t.

“Where were you on Friday between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m.?” she asked.

He paused for a second, then seemed to brighten ever so slightly.

“I was here,” he said. “My shift ends at five. Is that when she was killed?”

“So you wouldn’t have a problem with us confirming that with your employer?” she countered, ignoring his question.

“You can do that, or you can just check the customer phone records, “he told her. "Every call I receive is recorded. The log will show timestamps, and you can pull up the audio files. It's pretty comprehensive.”

"We just may do that," Jessie told him, hiding the sinking feeling in her gut. "You can go now, but I expect that if we have any more questions, you won't start running."

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