The drive to Baltimore felt longer than it was, my mind racing with the contents of Marcus’s flash drive. The records confirmed Julian’s intent, but I still needed the smoking gun for his core lie.
Dr. Harold Bernstein’s retirement community was quiet, nestled among old oak trees. A polite nurse led me to his sitting room. He was a frail man, his hands trembling slightly as he held a teacup. His eyes, though, were still sharp behind thick spectacles.
“Ms. Driscoll,” he said, his voice raspy. “It’s been a long time.”
“Dr. Bernstein,” I replied, sitting opposite him. “I appreciate you seeing me.”
He gestured for me to continue.
“I’m here about Julian De Witt,” I began. “Specifically, a procedure you performed eight years ago.”
His gaze shifted, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He put his teacup down with a soft clink. “Mr. De Witt asked for a… private matter to be handled discreetly.”
“He claimed he needed it for a fertility issue,” I said, testing the waters. “But the procedure was a bilateral vasectomy.” Twist 6.
He closed his eyes for a moment, a deep sigh escaping his lips. “Yes,” he confirmed. “He told me he and his partner at the time were certain they didn’t want children. He explicitly asked for it to be permanent. We discussed all the implications at length.”
“He was informed of his permanent sterility?” I pressed.
Dr. Bernstein nodded, opening his eyes. “Absolutely. We had several follow-up consultations. He signed every form. I made it clear it was irreversible.”
A wave of relief washed over me, cold and clear. The biological impossibility of Julian’s “secret heir” was now concrete. This wasn’t just my word against his.
“He also made me sign a strict non-disclosure agreement,” Dr. Bernstein added, his voice tinged with old resentment. “He was a rising star even then. Very protective of his image. Threatened to ruin my career if I ever spoke of it.”
“Why are you telling me this now?” I asked.
He looked out the window, at the neatly manicured lawn. “Guilt, I suppose. He started making noise in the news recently about some secret child. It didn’t sit right. I’m old, Ms. Driscoll. Retirement has a way of clearing the conscience.”
He rose slowly and shuffled over to an old wooden filing cabinet in the corner of the room. He pulled out a worn, red binder. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light.
From within the binder, he carefully extracted a yellowed folder. He handed it to me.
“Here,” he said, his voice stronger now, almost defiant. “Original lab work. Signed consent forms. My personal notes from the consultations. All of it.”
My fingers trembled as I took the folder. The paper felt thin and delicate. Inside, there were clear, indisputable records: Julian De Witt’s name, the date of the procedure, the confirmation of bilateral vasectomy, and the post-op lab results showing zero sperm count. He had signed his name on the “informed consent” line, his confident signature unmistakable.
“Will you sign an affidavit?” I asked, my voice tight.
He looked at me, a flicker of something like peace settling over his face. “I’ll do more than that, Ms. Driscoll. I’ll personally attest to it under oath, if need be. It’s time someone put a stop to his deceptions.”
I had the biological proof. Now, I needed to know who Julian was stealing from.
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