A suburban monster, he overpowered her from behind, dragging her into the backyard of her parents’ Scarborough home. There, he strangled her with an electrical cord, while viciously raping her for almost an hour.
He left her tied to a fence with her own belt like a dog.
The details in the press release were spare, stark. The victim was 19. I wasn’t much older.
I quickly typed up the brief and filed it to the senior cop reporter based at One Yonge, Toronto Star headquarters.
Reporters are observers. That is our blessing and our curse. We know we can’t help, but we’re uncertain what or how to feel, as though it were a professional liability.
Still, as I typed, I trembled, my mind dancing from the victim to the imagined rapist to the long hand hopping past six. Deadlines were very hard for me then, whether I was writing about a brutal sexual assault or a motion on garbage pick up at Scarborough city hall, which by then was my part-time beat in the Star’s east bureau.
My daily prednisone dose, at 5 mg (down from 80 mg), was finally below the replacement level for the cortisol the adrenal glands typically produce. And it was unclear if my adrenals, sitting atop the kidneys, had started producing cortisol again. The longer you are on prednisone, the higher the dose, the harder it is for the adrenals to bounce back. Continue reading