In a victim impact letter that reads more like a eulogy written in rage, Suzanne Morrison — Matthew Perry‘s mother — directly accused his longtime assistant Kenneth Iwamasa of injecting her son with ketamine and failing the one job that mattered: keeping him alive. The letter, addressed to Iwamasa, draws on 25 years of misplaced trust and ends with a sentence that doesn’t leave room for ambiguity — ‘We trusted a man without a conscience, and my son paid the price.’
A Guardian Who Became the Threat
Morrison wrote that Iwamasa had been in their lives for 25 years — not just as an employee, but as someone Perry trusted unconditionally. His job, as she framed it, was singular: be her son’s ‘companion and guardian in his fight against addiction.’ She even noted that if Iwamasa ever felt pressured by outside forces, a single phone call to anyone in Perry’s circle would have brought help, with no professional consequences. He had every exit available to him.
Instead, according to Morrison’s letter and the broader criminal investigation, Iwamasa arranged multiple ketamine supply chains and personally injected Perry — despite having no medical qualifications — at least 27 times in the days leading up to his death on October 28, 2023. The prosecution’s case holds that Iwamasa’s hands were the last ones on the syringe. Morrison’s letter holds something colder: that the man she trusted to save her son accelerated his end, then stood at his funeral and clung to her while she privately believed he had k1lled him. Much like the broader conversation about the people closest to Matthew Perry and what they knew, this case forces a reckoning with how addiction intersects with codependency and complicity.
The Imagery Suzanne Morrison Could Not Unsee
There are sentences in Morrison’s letter that don’t read like legal testimony — they read like a mother who needed the world to picture exactly what she saw. She described finding her son ‘lying all but naked on the cold, damp grass of his backyard’ while helicopters circled overhead, reporters hunting for a photograph. She stood outside in the cold and begged for a blanket to cover him. ‘Impossible, of course,’ she wrote.
The next day, she went to the mortuary. He had been bathed and dressed, and she wrote that he ‘looked almost beautiful and somehow relieved.’ That detail — relief on a dead face — might be the most painful line in the whole letter, because it says something about how relentless his life had been. Perry had been fighting addiction for more than half his life, she noted, ‘fought and failed and came back to fight again.’ The letter doesn’t read like a woman who blamed her son. It reads like a woman who watched him lose a war that someone on his own side was sabotaging.
Morrison’s account of the funeral is where the letter turns hardest. Iwamasa, she wrote, insisted on speaking at the service and clung to her afterward — even as she stood there knowing, or believing, what he had done. That image of forced proximity to grief is what gives the letter its particular horror: the person you blame for your child’s death is the one handing you tissues.
- Suzanne Morrison’s full victim statement against Kenneth Iwamasa
