As fresh accounts from neighbors, family friends, teachers, and former carers trickle out in the days following the Mosman Park horror, what was once viewed as a sudden, inexplicable family annihilation is now being reframed as a slow-burning catastrophe — a cascade of overlooked warning signs that built quietly behind the high walls of a luxury home until the unthinkable became inevitable.
The bodies of Jarrod Clune, 50, Maiwenna Goasdoue, 49, and their teenage sons Leon, 16, and Otis, 14, were discovered on Friday morning, January 30, 2026, inside their multimillion-dollar residence on Mott Close in Perth’s affluent Mosman Park suburb. Police arrived after a distressed carer — arriving for a scheduled visit — spotted a handwritten note taped to the front door: a grim directive not to enter and to call authorities immediately. Inside, a second, more revealing note allegedly outlined the parents’ tormented rationale, leading homicide detectives to classify the scene as a double murder-suicide. Three family pets lay dead alongside them, amplifying the sense of total, final despair.
The boys, both living with severe autism — Otis non-verbal and both requiring intensive, round-the-clock support — had been enrolled at the elite Peter Moyes Centre at Christ Church Grammar School before challenges mounted. Friends and former support workers describe a family stretched to breaking point: devoted parents who fought fiercely for their sons but were increasingly overwhelmed by the demands of high-needs care. Whispers of recent NDIS funding cuts have surfaced repeatedly — reductions in vital nursing, respite, or therapy hours that allegedly left the household teetering on the edge. One carer who knew the boys for over a decade called the system a complete failure: “They were their biggest, fiercest supporters, but they felt abandoned. No one should be pushed to that point.”
Yet the signs, in hindsight, scream from every corner. Neighbors recall the steady parade of support workers coming and going from the gated property — a constant reminder of the extraordinary pressures inside. One resident admitted to sensing “something off” in recent months: quieter interactions at the gate, fewer smiles from the parents during brief encounters, an air of exhaustion that went beyond typical fatigue. “We thought it was just a family needing something private,” the neighbor confessed. “We hesitated to knock, to intrude. Now we wonder if a simple check-in could have changed everything.”
From the school front, educators are grappling with piercing regret. One teacher vividly remembers a conversation in the final week before the tragedy: one of the boys posed a strangely weighted question about “long school absences” — phrased in an unusual, almost contemplative manner that felt off-key even then. At the time, it was dismissed as teenage curiosity or perhaps a reflection of ongoing health struggles. No one connected it to a deeper dread, a possible foreknowledge of permanent separation. “It’s just no one connected them,” the teacher lamented. Those disjointed moments — a probing question here, a withdrawn demeanor there — now form a mosaic of missed opportunities.
Friends paint a portrait of parents who masked their despair masterfully. Online profiles showed no overt cries for help; instead, snapshots of family life, school events, and quiet resilience. But behind the facade, the strain was relentless: coordinating complex care rotas, navigating bureaucratic battles for funding, managing behaviors that demanded constant vigilance, all while holding down lives of their own. A close friend described them as “in the trenches every single day,” battling not just their sons’ needs but a system that seemed to erode support at the worst possible moment. Reports of funding reductions — whether confirmed cuts or delays in approvals — fueled speculation that the family felt cornered, with no viable path forward.
The affluent enclave of Mosman Park, with its manicured streets and riverside views, has been plunged into collective shock and self-recrimination. Floral tributes pile against the Mott Close fence — cards inscribed with love, confusion, and guilt. “How did this happen here?” residents ask one another. The suburb’s annual Christmas block parties, community barbecues, and neighborly waves suddenly feel hollow against the backdrop of a home where despair festered undetected.
Political fallout has been swift and fierce. Federal Disability Minister Mark Butler branded it an “unspeakable tragedy” but sidestepped specifics on the family’s NDIS package amid mounting questions. WA Premier Roger Cook called the deaths “devastating” while resisting immediate calls for a coronial inquest. Disability advocates, meanwhile, are sounding alarms: this isn’t isolated. It’s a symptom of a system buckling under demand, where families with profound needs face razor-thin margins between coping and collapse. “The burden of disability should never justify violence,” Australia’s Disability Discrimination Commissioner warned, condemning any narrative that frames the boys’ conditions as the cause rather than the lack of adequate support.
As autopsies proceed and investigators piece together timelines, the nation’s gaze remains fixed on Mott Close. The warning signs — subtle withdrawals, odd questions, exhausted glances, funding battles — were scattered like breadcrumbs leading to catastrophe. But in the moment, they appeared disconnected, ordinary struggles in an otherwise picture-perfect life.
Now, the question haunts everyone: How many more families are silently unraveling behind closed doors? How many more signs will go unconnected until it’s too late? The tragedy in Mosman Park isn’t just about one family’s end — it’s a stark, agonizing wake-up call that even in the most privileged corners, when support fails, despair can consume everything.
Prayers and tributes continue to flow for Jarrod, Maiwenna, Leon, and Otis — a family whose love was profound, whose struggles were immense, and whose final act has left an indelible scar on a community desperate to learn the lessons before another home falls silent.
