Is There a Map to Epstein's Buried Bodies Hidden in the Street Art Near Zorro Ranch?

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I don’t know how to write this piece. It scares me to write it. So let me lead by saying this: What I’m about to write is entirely conjecture, and could easily be nothing but the overactive imagination of a novelist. Please chalk this story up to flights of fancy and imagined plots, even though the images and facts are likely true. Do not let that bother you, because who gets to decide what’s true anymore anyway? Not me. That’s for the Ellisons to decide. Do not believe this story. They will tell you. I know nothing. I am no one.

A couple of days ago, I wrote this story right here. Click right here to see it. If you are too tired to click right here to see it, I will grudgingly summarize.

Zorro Ranch as the red girl-boy pin at left. Hidden Art pin shows up when you search for Zorro Ranch.

So, it’s like this, see. I was looking at some maps and satellite images of Zorro Ranch, and I noticed a place someone had geopinned on Google maps. The pin read “Hidden Art.” I like art. So I clicked the link.

It lead me to a stencil street artwork on and in an old abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere in central New Mexico, on US Highway 285 just a smidge north of New Mexico County Road 24C. In Santa Fe County. Five or six miles, give or take a step or two, to the east and (a little) south of Zorro Ranch, the 7500-acre compound that was never searched despite having been owned by convicted sex offender Jeffrey Epstein.

Never searched until now, I mean. Like this month. Never till now, despite survivors saying they were raped there as children. Despite survivors saying it was the worst of all Epstein’s properties. Despite witness accounts given to the FBI of allegedly witnessing two foreign girls murdered there and buried in the hills of Zorro Ranch.

Sorry. San Rafael Ranch, I mean. It’s called San Rafael Ranch now. Because Epstein died in 2019. His estate — whoever that was — held onto it till 2023, when it sold in secret (for a time) to Donald and Mary Catherine Huffines, MAGA millionaires from Dallas. They were outed by an intrepid reporter last month.

Donald Huffines is a former Texas state senator running for state comptroller of Texas now. He once took a secret trip to Rudsia to help Rand Paul hand deliver a letter from DJT to VP. Donald Trump endorsed Huffines’ comptroller candidacy on Truth Social, possibly while sitting on a gilded toilet. Russell Huffines, Donald and Mary Catherine’s son — well, the least handsome of their three sons, anyway — works in the Trump administration, managing cabinet affairs.

Because I am Just a Foolish Lady Novelist who Makes Much of Nothing, these things are probably all nothing but coincidence. Just like the artwork itself, in the middle of absolutely nowhere, coincidentally seems to invoke images and ideas from the Epstein files and Zorro Ranch.

When I first noticed the artwork, when I first wrote about it (a couple of days ago, as I said) I had not looked closely enough at it. I’ve since looked more closely, in part because readers suggested some ideas and coincidences — flights of female nonsensical fancy, if you like — that I hadn’t considered yet. I’ve considered them now. And I’d like you to consider them, too. Even if they are pure poppycock.

Let’s begin with the artist himself. Well, no. Let’s end with him instead.

I did not know who he was, when I stumbled across the gas station stencils. I wondered if the artist was Banksy.

At first, the ballet slippers stood out. But you can read all about that in the first article. Please read the first article.

It was other people who noticed that the convict figure on the right resembles Jeffrey Epstein. Like, a dozen of you noticed it. And I’ll be damned if you weren’t right. The jaw. The posture. The hands.

Which brings me to something else I didn’t notice when I wrote the first piece. That figure is holding something in his left hand. It is little, and black, and looks like a book. You know who else had a little black book? Jeffrey Epstein. A famous one. But that’s probably nothing but a coincidence. Just like the left pant leg pattern of recurring Zs, which I had not noticed before, is surely nothing at all. Just like the handle of the shovel he holds appears to have been crafted from three distinct black shapes, and those shapes are a whale, and two islands that look an awful lot like Little Saint James and Dog Island, in the US Virgin Islands.

You know what else I didn’t notice the first time, that is almost certainly nothing but a coincidence?

The wire draped over three nails above and to the side of the convict images, through the old words, STANDARD OIL PRODUCTS. It likely means nothing at all that this wire looks nothing like the other old wires on the building, which are not neatly draped in two dips of nearly equal size, affixed by recently hammered nails. And because I am an unreliable narrator, a sensationalist who is off her rocker, I am positive it means nothing at all that if you were to read these pinned letters from right to left, they would spell: D-T. Just like it’s meaningless that the wire drops down alongside the figure on the left, where it is arranged in the shape of another letter that doesn’t appear in the original words. And that letter is J.

Which makes me think there is nothing at all to see in that figure on the left, who is the tallest one. Who has a pot belly. Whose neck is wrinkled with age. Whose hat top appears as a bit of feathered floof that resembles the most famous hairdo on the planet. Whose shovel-holding hand wears a glove that is a normal man’s glove in size but it much too big for what must coincidentally be the teeny tiny hand inside. It means nothing at all that he’s holding a black book, too, and that his is bigger than the figure on the right’s. And it is pointless to even pretend it matters that he alone among the convicts appears to be wearing an adult diaper.

Which brings me to the fellow in the middle. He seems to be wearing glasses, like, I don’t know — let’s say someone like Alan Dershowitz. And his head is fat on the top, like, well, certainly not like anyone I just named because that would be crazy. His hat is wider than the others, but shaped like an ass. I’m sure this doesn’t mean he is an asshat. Or a smartass. Or a shithead. I’m sure this is totally unrelated to the fact that he doesn’t carry a black book, but instead has his free hand balled tightly in a fist, ready to beat the shit out of someone. Just as I’m sure it is merely coincidental that his shoe is visible and it is a very specific sort of athletic loafer hybrid that a certain lawyer in both the other’s men’s black books is famous for wearing in situations when every other self respecting attorney on earth would wear dress shoes — often with white socks.

Just like there is nothing to see here in the deep unusual fold on the left side of the figure’s face, the same kind Dershowitz has beside his mouth.

At first, I thought there was a fourth figure that had been sloppily redacted in gray paint that couldn’t even bother to match the other whitewashed areas. But I’m not so sure now, because me and my Weak Lady Brain and Drama Seeking realized that shape was eerily familiar. But it’s probably nothing but coincidence that the gray shape is almost a dead-ringer (pun intended, but I am unreliable like that) for the shape you get when you enter Zorro/San Rafael Ranch into the Santa Fe County Assessors parcel-finding tool, if you allow for the man on the right’s shovel to be the northeastern boundary, or slightly past it.

Which means it is also completely fiction I made up in my dumb head that the whitewashed portion on the right resembles the shape of land the same tool says belongs to parcels that belong to a bunch of people, including the King family — you know, Bruce and his sons, who sold Zorro to Epstein in the first place. The same family that continued to take campaign contributions from Epstein even after he was convicted of sex crimes with underaged victims, and served time for it, in Florida. It does not mean anything.

Nothing at all.

Which makes it stand to reason that the whitewashed part on the left corresponds precisely with the parcel of state-owned land Epstein was leasing from New Mexico, and which New Mexico continued to lease to Epstein even after his conviction. Land he was leasing under the guise of grazing cattle, even though he did not graze cattle there. You know. New Mexico, the state that didn’t make Epstein register as a sex offender like he had to everywhere else, back when it was under the rule of Governor Bill Richardson, who was named as an Epstein-pal rapist by Virginia Giuffre in her memoir, a charge he denied to his dying day.

Now, bear with me. Because my imagination is so crazy. Which is why I’m sure it means nothing that the snaking and straight thin lines that look like straps or laces on the uniforms but also along the handles of the shovels, when you superimpose the mural over the assessor’s map and satellite images, correspond with dirt roads on the ranches and public lands. I’m such a dork. That’s why you know it doesn’t actually mean anything that the pointy blackest tips of each of those shovels correspond precisely to places in the hills on the outskirts of Zorro Ranch, public lands next to it, or, strangely, the mammoth San Cristobal ranch just across the Highway. You know. Highway 41? The one that appears to be depicted perfectly by following the line of the left-most convict’s inner right (his right) thigh, through his tiny pubis, up his torso, and along his neckline. I’m also sure it’s total coincidence that he was sized just right, so the entrance to Zorro Ranch would land just about where that tiny little lemon-shaped penis might be.

But back to that San Cristobal Ranch. Because I just raced through it. (Silly discreditable girls do things like that.) It is the only property of the more than 1 million acres of New Mexico land the heirs of the late Henry Singleton chose to keep after he died. They sold most of it (checks watch) about a week after the Epstein files dropped in January 2026 — 937,000 acres sold to Stan Kroenke, the single largest landowner in the United States — including large parcels near Zorro Ranch.

It is probably just a coincidence that Kroenke was on the same short list of billionaire clients of Deutsche Bank private banker Rosemary Vrablic and her department, a list that also included Donald Trump, Jared Kushner and Jeffrey Epstein.

The only parcel husband-wife heirs Will and Cary Singleton chose to keep was the one directly adjacent to Zorro Ranch, San Cristobal Ranch; the part of the white/graywashed area where the shovel tip lands. That’s absolutely just a coincidence. Seriously. Stop getting all worked up. After all, they do not even live at the ranch, probably because they’re busy running the Singleton Foundation out of Pasadena, California, and the Singleton family has traditionally been based in Los Angeles and/or New York City.

I think it’s perfectly meaningless, too, and just a novelist’s overreactions to everything, that Henry Singleton acquired all that land through a vast fortune he accumulated as the co-founder of Teledyne, Inc., and serving as its CEO for three decades. What’s that? You’ve never heard of Teledyne? Well, I’m sure it doesn’t really matter what that company did — or does. It’s called Teledyne Technologies now, by the way. It started as an aerospace and defense company with deep governmental ties — work that old Henry came to honestly, having served in the OSS (the precursor to the CIA) during World War II, alongside — well, alongside a guy named Donald Barr. The OSS was a small and tightly-knit group in those days. Being the intelligence guys during a world war can really bring men together.

So can hiring them, which is what Donald Barr did years later, when he hired a college dropout named Jeffrey Epstein to teach at an exclusive prep school in Manhattan.

Totally does not matter, though! Sheesh. I’m just super happy that a news story dropped today, saying Teledyne Technologies stock “has emerged as a growth pick for investors, fueled by recent analyst price target increases and a prominent product demonstration at SATShow Week 2026.” War is really great for them, considering they are the world’s largest maker of unmanned war drones. The article describes the appeal of the company for investors this: “…Teledyne benefits directly from Pentagon budgets and NASA contracts. With US defense spending projected to rise, the stock offers a pure play on national security priorities without the volatility of pure defense contractors.” But what would a ridiculous imaginative novelist like me know about defense technologies, the Pentagon, or war? I just think it’s beautiful the way two old men can meet in intelligence operations during a war, and all these years later the protege of one of them and the son of the other ended up owning gorgeous enormous ranches here, side by side, in the poorest state in the nation. Lucky us!

We haven’t even talked about the ballerina yet, either. I talked about her a lot in the first article. What I didn’t know then is that it was well documented in the Epstein files that he used dance schools and conservatories as hunting grounds for girls to rape and give to his friends to rape, too. He had a thing for ballerinas. I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything at all that there is a stencil artwork depicting a dismembered exploded ballerina inside the abandoned gas station, just like no one should care at all — in fact, you should start rolling your eyes at me right this instant — that her front leg and foot, the one pointing straight into the ground, has ribbons wrapped to for the letter Z.

For the heck of it, I thought it would be great to know who the artist is, so I could ask them. My readers know I am too disconnected from reality to figure that out myself, so they kindly let me know. He is not Banksy.

Artist Robert James Harkness

He is Robert James Harkness, a superstar graduate of USC’s Roski School of Art and Design, where was in a fraternity, studies in Italy for a semester, graduated Magna Cum Laude with a Bachelor in Fina Arts and a Minor in Communication Design, and was so brilliant he was recruited out of college as an assistant art director for Playboy Magazine in Los Angeles, a job he held for three years before moving to Santa Fe to be the new art director for Outside Magazine, a glossy and respected publication about all things adventure and outdoors, owned at the time by its founder, a guy named Lawrence Burke, who, as it turns out, also owns a ranch, albeit a very small one that he lives on, in the same general area. After a year of this, Robert left to try being an artist all on his own, doing things like the street art I’ve been making up and bunch of nonsense about.

Wait. Hang on. I told you I am lame. Jeez. Sorry.

Did I say Robert Harkness is the artist?

I misspoke. He is not.

He was the artist. Because Robert Harkness is dead.

He died in 2023 at the age of 33, shortly after he affixed the stenciled street art of three convicts and a dismembered ballerina to an abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere. The same year Donald Huffines bought Zorro Ranch. Totally a coincidence.

The obituary Robert’s heartbroken parents wrote for him describes him as devoutly Catholic and deeply compassionate towards people struggling with trauma and addiction. He once donated bone marrow anonymously to someone who needed it. An art foundation he created describes his cause of death like this:

“Amongst these challenges, Robert remained a kind and empathetic soul, especially toward the marginalized of society. He anonymously donated bone marrow to a person who was a match, but whom he did not know. Though he struggled financially himself, he handed out money to people living on the street. He continued to be incredibly productive, generating hundreds of works of art. Like many of those struggling with such pain, Robert sought relief in whatever forms it might come. In March of 2023, Robert passed away due to fentanyl poisoning.”

I noticed they did not say overdose. But that probably doesn’t matter at all. I’m probably imagining that being poisoned is different from an overdose. Novelists are annoying like that, always using precise words. It probably doesn’t mean anything at all.

It’s probably just a coincidence.