T. S. Eliot had it all wrong about April. Cruel, my ass. Clearly the dude had never tried riding a motorcycle round trip from Manhattan to New Haven in the month of January. Or February, for that matter.
The deepest into winter I can usually still ride my bike is December, and that’s only if I catch a week early on before the mercury truly plummets. Even then I have to layer up like the kid from A Christmas Story.
“Is that a ’62 or a ’63?” came a voice over my shoulder. I was standing in the parking lot near Ingalls Rink, affectionately known as the Whale, about to strap on my helmet after climbing into my insulated clutch pants.
“Actually, it’s a ’61,” I said, before fully turning around to see who was doing the asking.
Not that looking at him told me much. The man standing before me was wearing a black full-length cashmere coat and a Vineyard Vines baseball cap pulled down tight just above the eyes, which were covered by oversized sunglasses. Whoever he was, he was lying low.
“A 1961 Triumph TR6,” he said. “I don’t actually own one of those. Good for you.”
There was so much to unpack with that line I didn’t know where to begin. I don’t actually own one of those? And that condescending tack-on in light of the fact that I did? Good for you? As if the natural order of the universe had somehow been upended by my owning something that this guy didn’t?
Only that’s what tipped me off as to who he was, the connotation of immense wealth combined with the strong sense that I’d heard his voice somewhere before. This was Carter von Oehson’s father, in the flesh. He wasn’t talking to the press in the wake of Carter’s suicide, but they’d shown news clips of past interviews.
He stepped toward me. “I’m Mathias von Oehson,” he said, making it official.
I removed my riding gloves so we could shake hands. “Dylan Reinhart,” I said.
“Yes, I know.”
I know you know. This is hardly an accidental meeting, is it? Not a chance in the world.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” I said.
“Thank you. I appreciate that. Actually, that’s what brings me to campus, albeit incognito,” he said. “I was hoping you and I could speak privately for a few minutes.”
I glanced around. There wasn’t another human being within a hundred yards. Far be it from me to point that out, though. Not to Mathias von Oehson. He was the genius, the Nostradamus, the Mad Hungarian of Wall Street, according to the litany of articles and features extolling his mastery of the financial markets. The man was the titan of all hedge funds. In other words, Mathias von Oehson didn’t just manage risk. He controlled it.
“Shall we head back to my office?” I asked.
No need. Von Oehson quickly signaled with his hand. All the privacy we could ever want came rolling up to us from behind a row of parked cars. A black stretch limousine.
Except this was no ordinary prom-night limo. This was a Mercedes-Maybach Pullman, the ultimate ride for the chauffeured set. I’d never seen one in person. In fact, I could’ve sworn I’d read they weren’t even available for sale in the United States. A brilliant US marketing strategy, if there ever was one.
The driver stepped out, but his boss waved him off. Von Oehson opened the door for me, then walked around to get in from the other side. And like that we were sitting side by side in roughly seven hundred thousand dollars’ worth of comfort. So why don’t I feel the least bit comfortable?
The reason was as clear as the stress and anguish etched on von Oehson’s face, even behind the cap and sunglasses. He was about to ask me a question that I couldn’t answer. He was a father on a mission. It was only natural. Carter’s suicide post on Instagram was short on specifics. Very short. Von Oehson was now talking to anyone and everyone on the Yale campus who could possibly help him understand why his son would take his own life. Friends and acquaintances, professors and administrators. I was simply next on his list.
Or maybe not.
Von Oehson turned to me, removed his sunglasses, and got right down to it. “My son didn’t kill himself,” he said.