Who Killed Jeffrey Epstein?

A short fiction blast from the past.

On Saturday, August 10, 2019 The Daily Beast ran a joint byline story titled With Jeffrey Epstein Dead, Conspiracist-In-Chief Can’t Quit the Killer Clinton FanFic from me and my friend Molly Jong-Fast on the raging conspiracy obsessions after the death of Jeffrey Epstein.

As with many stories, some fun parts get left on the cutting room floor. Here’s what originally led the piece but was cut in the interests of space…it was a fun sendup of the bonkers MAGA conspiracy theories of the moment, and even more amusing given today’s kickoff of the Epstein Summer 2025 Coverup Campaign.

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They never thought they’d run into each other in a Manhattan jail during a summer week when most of polite society was out of town.

She had missed Bill’s first two panicked phone calls; they’d gone straight to voicemail. It was easy to do so since the first came as she was in a free-fall HALO parachute jump over the Metropolitan Correction Center. She landed with a lithe, surprising grace for a woman of her age, rapidly gathering her chute and checking her gear. Her helmet of blond hair remained perfectly in place.

This was Hillary Clinton’s most dangerous mission. She had worried she was too old for this kind of parachute jump, but everything came back to her, the muscle memory of the world’s top political assassin unfailingly returning.

After all, everything was at stake.

Unless she reached Epstein before dawn he would spill everything. She didn’t love Bill anymore, or maybe she did but her need to protect him was bigger than that. Also, she was implicated. After all, the cloning tanks of sex slaves were her idea. The tunnels under the pizza restaurant leading to the torture rooms. Her special kitchen where she harvested the adrenochrome that kept her alive. All of it.

She cut through the access hatch on the roof and leaped to the elevator cables, sliding down 15 floors to the target level. Prying the elevator doors, she moved silently into the darkened corridor down the hall from Epstein’s room.

Her earpiece crackled again. “Cougar, this is Big Dog. Come in, Cougar.”

“Big Dog, I’m in. Start the clock…” she stopped abruptly. She heard soft, almost inaudible footsteps. She knew it was another professional, but who? Sliding her suppressed Sig Sauer P320 from its chest rig, she waited.

The figure rounded the corner and in a single, silent motion she whipped the Sig under the man’s chin.

“Move, and you’ll join the body count list. I’ve killed before and…”

The voice was soft, genteel, familiar. “Hillary, it’s me.”

“Jared, you’re covered with oil. What is wrong with you? Why are you always so slimy?” she hissed.

“This gimp suit is that clingy kind of vinyl, and I had to get through a 10” sewer pipe to get here. Luckily, I have the body of a teenage girl. Vanky says so,” whispered the First Son-In-Law.

Hillary waited a long beat. She knew why the First Son In Law was here. “Well, I think we’re both here for the same reason.”

Kushner’s pale face gleamed in the half light like an oily moon. “Maybe. I know why you and Bill would want him dead.”

She scoffed. “Like Don doesn’t have his reasons. His very young reasons.”

“He says I have to do it myself. I have to prove to him I can finish something, unlike the Middle East Peace plan and the NAFTA thing, the immigration thing, and…” Jared whispered, his voice rising a plaintive octave.

“We’ll do it together.”

They disabled the guards outside his room, Hillary taking hers with a tranquilizer dart and Jared using a cosh that looked suspiciously like a Japanese eggplant. Hillary arched an eyebrow, and Jared giggled shyly.

He jammed the video cameras with a portable EMP device and they made quick work of the locks outside Epstein’s cell. Epstein was, surprisingly, awake and alert. He was standing over the body of an old man with an obviously snapped neck.

Jared drew breath. Hillary’s eyes narrowed. “Jesus, Jeffrey. You killed Soros.” She leveled the Sig at his chest.

“He came at me, Hill. I know too much.”

“Jared, ziptie his hands,” she said, her voice like liquid nitrogen.

“I know some shibari knots…”

“No, Jared. Zipties.”

Soon, Epstein was kneeling, bound. He wept softly.

“Please. Hillary, tell Bill I never ratted. Jared, tell Don the nights we spent with those middle-school…uh, I mean…high school girls were the best of my life. Please. Make it quick.”

She nodded to Jared and watched him strangle Epstein. Fifteen minutes later, she’d managed to read a few policy papers on her phone and Epstein was still fully alive and conscious.

“Jesus, Jared, don’t you have ANY hand strength?”

She stepped forward, and in a single, powerful move broke Epstein’s neck.

She looked down at the body of the man who had known too much.

Jared had already fled, weeping.

She clicked her throat mic. “Big Dog, this is Cougar. Send in the chopper for exfil.

And call Don and tell him, ‘Never send a boy to do a woman’s job.’”