>>510411021
In the rooms that once hosted Manhattan’s elite—from Mort Zuckerman to Google cofounder Sergey Brin, magician David Blaine, Donald Trump, Chelsea Handler, Harvey Weinstein, former Clinton presidential aide George Stephanopoulos, Charlie Rose, and journalist Katie Couric—security cameras peered out from every nook and cranny.

Tucked deep inside the house, a dark room was stacked with monitors recording every moment. Close at hand was a printer.

In another hidden room among the seven stories, a massive professional-grade printer loomed in the shadows. On the walls in that hideaway were blown-up photographs of female bodies—their heads and faces cropped out of the frame. Deep in one dark hallway hung a giant blown-up photo of a grinning Epstein carrying a blonde four- or five-year-old girl on his shoulders. He had no children or nieces.

The same day as the New York raid, hundreds of miles away, agents swarmed Epstein’s Caribbean island, Little St. James—Little St. Jeff, to locals—and found more chilling relics. Through the window, we saw dozens of orange evidence bags stacked and ready for analysis. More photos of topless girls covered the walls. His mysterious temple—painted in the colors of the Israeli flag—at last, was breached. (Oddly, investigators found buckets of paint, ladders, and scaffolding inside, as if it had been recently renovated.) Still more files were recovered; dozens of secret cameras, discovered.

As fossilized bones sketch the outlines of prehistoric beasts, so too do these remnants of one man’s life spin out into fearsome forms upon contemplation.

What purpose would it serve Jeffrey Epstein—a man who had everything—to record and curate the most private moments of others?

The evidence points overwhelmingly to one possibility: blackmail.