It was the week before Christmas in 1979, and snow had fallen heavily on the colonial streets of Woodbury, New Jersey. The crisp air whispered around the gables of the old Victorian houses, drawing thin plumes of breath from anyone brave enough to be outdoors. Inside the grand home on Delaware Street, eighty‑six‑year‑old Rose Twells piled layer upon layer of sweaters and blankets over her petite frame. The widow of a former mayor, she had lived alone since her husband’s death nine years earlier. Her house was her kingdom: a sprawling, three‑story manse built in the late nineteenth century, filled with antique tables, ornate lamps, stacks of old letters, and delicate china collected from a lifetime of travel and civic duty.
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| Rose Twells |
Although she was physically frail barely five feet tall and weighing little more than eighty‑five pounds Rose was fiercely independent. She tended her gardens in summer, shoveled snow from her stoop in winter and marched downtown each week to pay her bills in person. To neighbors she was a living relic, a direct link to Woodbury’s past, when local politicians walked to city hall and residents left their doors unlocked. To the children she had taught decades earlier at Mantua Grove School, she was the stooped lady with the quick wit and booming voice who could make even arithmetic feel like an adventure. To her extended family, she was Aunt Rose, the matriarch who yelled instructions to her hard‑of‑hearing husband and insisted that visitors eat something before they left.
On Tuesday, December eighteenth, Rose cancelled her usual Thursday shopping trip with her niece Celeste. "Let’s do dinner instead," she told Celeste. They agreed that Celeste’s husband, Charles, would pick Rose up two days later at five. When Charles knocked on the ornate front door just after five o’clock on Thursday, no one came. A freezing wind swept down Delaware Street, and the twilight turned blue. After waiting in vain, Charles returned to his own house, fetched a spare key from a neighbor and let himself into Rose’s home. The rooms were frigid, the thermostat turned down to the 40s, and Charles could see his breath as he pushed open the heavy wooden door. The house, usually filled with neatly arranged antiques, looked as if a tornado had touched down. Chairs were overturned, cabinets gaped open and drawers were pulled from sideboards and dumped onto the Persian rugs.
At the foot of the grand staircase lay a tiny form. Rose Twells was sprawled on the hardwood floor, her ankles tied with an electrical cord that had been looped around a stair rail. A pool of dark blood collected beneath her head. Charles would later tell police that the sight haunted him for decades. Rose’s glasses were askew, one lens cracked. She wore multiple layers of clothing to keep warm in the drafty house, and a blue nightdress peeped out from under her robe. Her face was bruised and battered, and the frail bones of her arms suggested she had tried to fight. Someone had beaten the life out of her with a blunt object, tied her like a piece of furniture and left her to die in the cold.
Police were called and a thick layer of snow hid any footprints outside. Investigators searched the home and found no sign of forced entry. Drawers and cabinets were rifled through, but because Rose kept so many possessions, it was difficult to tell exactly what was missing. A deputy medical examiner estimated that she had been killed fifteen to twenty hours earlier most likely on Tuesday evening. The house, kept near refrigerator temperatures because Rose feared her oil furnace might explode, preserved the scene more effectively than any police protocol could.
News of the murder spread quickly. Rose Twells wasn’t just any elderly widow; she had once been married to John Stokes Twells, who served as Woodbury’s mayor in the 1930s. Together they had attended every community event, taught Sunday school, hosted garden parties, and donated land to create a bird and wildlife sanctuary across the street from their home. They had no children of their own, but they doted on nieces and nephews, friends and neighbors. John was hard of hearing, and Rose was known to shout at him across the yard, but their devotion was obvious. After John’s death in 1970, Rose wore black for months and refused to leave her home, determined to keep alive the memories that filled the old mansion. Residents called her "the first lady of the community." Her murder shook the town’s sense of security.
Rose and John’s life together had been rooted in civic duty and mutual support. They met in the early 1930s at a teachers’ college, both drawn to education and public service. When John became mayor during the depths of the Great Depression, Rose stood beside him at every council meeting and civic function. She was known to repeat questions for him when his hearing failed, and to write thank‑you notes to constituents when their kindness touched them. Their home on Delaware Street became a social hub in its day, hosting charity dinners and political discussions. Built in the Victorian style with a mansard roof and wrap‑around porch, the house was filled with dark wood furniture, lace curtains and shelves of delicate china. Visitors remarked that entering the house felt like stepping back in time. The wide rooms were lined with photographs of family and community events, and the mantle displayed silver serving pieces polished to a gleam. In spring, Rose and John tended the gardens together, planting roses and irises in neat rows. In winter, she watched from the window as snow piled on the boxwood hedges and recalled the May Day bouquets her husband surprised her with each year.
By the late 1970s, the town around them was changing. Factories had closed, families were struggling, and an undercurrent of petty crime began to ripple through neighborhoods that had once been considered safe. Delaware Street remained a picture of past elegance, but just beyond the tree‑lined boulevard there were signs of decay. Teenagers loitered at the corner store, smoking and trading stories of minor thefts. The old guard tutted and locked their doors for the first time. Among the new generation were boys like Jeffrey Bayer. The son of the sitting mayor, he bristled against expectations and sought thrills wherever he could find them. He skipped school, smoked marijuana in the park and sold stolen goods for quick cash. His friends Mark English and Clifford Jeffrey came from humbler backgrounds, but they shared his restlessness. Mark was known for his charm and quick smile; Clifford for his willingness to follow along with schemes he did not fully understand. They were drawn together by boredom and a desire to carve their own path, even if that path led them into trouble. Rose, who had watched these boys grow up from her front porch, was generous enough to still call them "kids." The idea that they would later be linked to her murder would have been unthinkable to many in Woodbury but seeds of their discontent were visible long before the snow fell on her doorstep. Neighbors would later recall that there had been an unsettling feeling in town that winter: that a longstanding sense of trust was eroding and that a different, more dangerous era was dawning. That intangible change, unnoticed at first, created the conditions in which a simple burglary could morph into a tragedy and left the community grappling with the reality that not even their most revered matriarch was safe.
Her murder shook the town’s sense of security.
Local officers threw themselves into the case. Lieutenant Ralph Quidone, a veteran detective with a soft spot for old ladies, promised he would not rest until Rose’s killer was found. Captain Donald Layton of the Gloucester County Prosecutor’s Office believed it was a burglary gone wrong; criminals had probably expected to find cash or jewelry. Woodbury police chief F. Dean Kimmel, just two years from retirement, set up stakeouts and canvassed the neighborhood for anyone who had seen strangers in the area. Detectives from the FBI’s Criminal Personality Profiling Program were consulted. The case file ballooned to over a foot thick. Polygraph tests were administered to more than a dozen suspects. A $7,500 reward was offered. Neighbors were interviewed and re‑interviewed. But without forensic evidence, and with the snow erasing any tracks that might have led them to the assailant, investigators soon found themselves at a standstill.
Rumors swirled through Woodbury like winter smoke. The Twells family believed that the killer was someone Rose knew someone who had a key. Her nephew Thomas Twells told reporters he could not imagine that a stranger had overpowered Aunt Rose in her own home. He pointed to a bloodied jewelry box the family said they found after police cleared the house; he claimed a brooch had been stolen and later returned. The police dismissed this as misremembering, but whispers persisted that investigators had missed something obvious. Over the years, Celeste, Thomas and other relatives quietly speculated about a young man from a prominent Woodbury family, someone who had once called Rose "Auntie" and who might have coveted the diamond pendant she wore on special occasions. They kept their suspicions to themselves, waiting for law enforcement to gather more evidence.
Woodbury in the early 1980s was not the bustling commuter town of later decades but a sleepy seat of county government. Delaware Street, lined with Victorian houses, was one of the most desirable addresses. Yet even there, petty crimes began to creep into daily life. In the months before Rose’s death, there had been purse snatchings, muggings of elderly women and a couple of burglary attempts. One older neighbor had been mugged coming back from downtown. Police staked out the area for four days early in December, then decided things had calmed down and suspended the surveillance. Woodbury mayor Frederick "Fred" Bayer lamented the uptick in crime and reassured constituents that his administration would restore order. Unknown to him, his own teenage son had been spiraling into trouble.
Jeffrey Bayer, known as Jeff to friends, was seventeen in 1979 and had been kicked out of his parents’ house twice that year. He had stolen his mother’s silverware and sold it to buy drugs, pawned his father’s cufflinks and broken into a neighbor’s home. Local police knew him as a petty thief with a bad temper. Classmates described him as sullen and unpredictable; teachers said he had been bright but disinterested in school. His father’s position in town made Jeffrey’s misbehavior even more embarrassing. Fred Bayer had been friends with the Twells family for decades. He had run city council meetings while Rose sat in the front row and nodded along, and he had often visited her at her home to check on her well‑being. Rose, for her part, viewed Jeffrey as an overgrown child and called him "the boy next door."
No one thought a surly teenager would be capable of beating an elderly woman to death with an iron pot. When Jeffrey was brought in for questioning eight days after the murder, he took a lie detector test and passed. He seemed genuinely shaken by Rose’s death. Police could find no physical evidence linking him to the scene: no fingerprints, no blood, no hair, no shoe prints. They chalked him up as a troubled youth to be watched and moved on. Over the next year, Woodbury police ruled out forty suspects. They even explored unconventional means of solving the crime, including consulting psychics and hypnotists. But the case languished. As time passed, memories faded, leads dried up and other crimes took precedence.
Still, investigators kept the file open. They revisited the evidence periodically, hoping to catch something they had missed. They sifted through the piles of antiques and knickknacks in Rose’s house, trying to determine if any valuables were missing. One item remained unaccounted for: a two‑ to three‑carat diamond pendant on a white‑gold setting, valued at around $10,000. Some believed the thieves had mistaken the pendant for a ten‑carat ring or thought she kept large sums of cash hidden in the house. Others speculated that the killer was looking for documents perhaps a will or a deed though no such papers were ever reported missing. Whatever the motivation, it seemed to involve greed. Rose was wealthy on paper, although much of her wealth was tied up in her house and antique collection.
The Twells case remained cold for more than a decade. In 1990, after eleven years of frustration, the family publicly hinted that they believed they knew who the killer was. Newspaper reports described him as "a young man who is the son of a Woodbury family." The Twells relatives considered hiring a private investigator, ideally a former FBI agent, to dig into the case. Detective Quidone bristled at the insinuation that his department was sitting on its hands. He insisted his team had explored every lead. He also noted that even the medical examiner occasionally re‑examined the case file to see if something obvious had been missed. But there was no DNA, no witnesses and no confession.
Then, in 1991, a woman walked into the Woodbury police station and asked to speak with a detective. Luanne Waller was a petite woman with dark hair and anxious eyes. At first glance she looked like an average thirty‑year‑old, but her presence shook Detective Robert Atkisson. Luanne quietly revealed that she had been Jeffrey Bayer’s girlfriend back in 1979, and she said she knew what happened to Rose Twells. She wanted immunity from prosecution in exchange for her testimony. Atkisson, who had been a rookie officer when Rose’s body was found, listened in stunned silence as Luanne explained that she had acted as a lookout the night of the murder. She had waited outside while three teenage boys Jeffrey Bayer, Mark English and Clifford Jeffrey slipped into Rose’s house using a key. Luanne admitted that she had kept silent for years because Jeffrey had threatened to kill her if she went to the police.
Luanne’s conscience had been gnawing at her. Over the years she moved away and tried to rebuild her life, but she could not shake the image of Rose’s battered body at the bottom of the staircase. When she began dating a police cadet in the early 1990s, she learned that the Twells case remained unsolved. "I can’t forget about what happened," she told investigators. She was granted immunity after protracted negotiations and promised that her account would only be used to prosecute those directly involved in the murder. Still, because of legal complexities and the need to corroborate her story, it took more than a decade for charges to be filed.
Detectives set about corroborating Luanne’s claim. They dug into old police logs, tracked down people who had been teenagers in 1979 and looked for anyone who had heard whispers about the murder. They found Steve Forbes, a friend who had given Jeffrey Bayer and Mark English a ride to Philadelphia shortly after Rose’s death. He recalled that they had pawned jewelry. They found Shirley Logan, who had been Clifford Jeffrey’s girlfriend in 1979. Shirley remembered attending a party a week after the murder and hearing Jeffrey brag that he had been involved in Rose’s death. She also remembered an anonymous phone call warning her to keep quiet or risk being killed. They discovered that Bayer had boasted about the killing to several classmates at the time and later to fellow inmates when he served time for unrelated burglaries and drug offenses.
Piece by piece, detectives built a case. They learned that around the time of Rose’s murder, Mark English and Clifford Jeffrey were part of the same social circle as Jeffrey Bayer. English was charismatic and reckless, whereas Clifford was quieter but eager to impress. Both were juveniles in 1979. According to Luanne, the three boys believed Rose wore a ten‑carat diamond ring and kept cash in the house. Jeffrey also knew that his father, Mayor Fred Bayer, had a key to Rose’s home. He planned to steal the key and let himself and his friends in late at night. The plan was to snatch the jewelry and run, but as soon as they entered the house, things went terribly wrong. Rose, hearing noises, confronted her intruders. She recognized Jeffrey and threatened to call his father. In a panic, he grabbed an iron pot and bludgeoned her repeatedly. Clifford held her down as she screamed. Mark rummaged through drawers, looking for cash and valuables. When it was over, they tied her ankles with an electrical cord and left her at the bottom of the stairs.
The passage of time made the case both easier and more challenging to prosecute. On one hand, memories had faded and physical evidence was almost non‑existent. On the other hand, guilt had weighed heavily on those who knew about the murder. By 2002, investigators had enough corroborating statements to seek indictments. On June 21, 2003 nearly twenty‑four years after the crime Woodbury police arrested Jeffrey Bayer, Mark English and Clifford Jeffrey. Newspaper headlines blared: "Three charged in 23‑year‑old murder." Mugshots of the now middle‑aged men ran alongside pictures of Rose’s home and a grainy 1979 photograph of the crime scene. The Twells family finally had a measure of relief; the man they had long suspected was in custody.
The arrests were only the beginning of a new chapter. Because Bayer and English were juveniles at the time of the crime, their defense attorneys argued that they should be tried in juvenile court under 1979 laws. Prosecutors countered that their extensive criminal histories as adults Bayer’s record included burglary, theft and drug convictions warranted adult trials. After months of legal arguments, a judge ruled that both Bayer and Clifford Jeffrey would be tried as adults. English was also ordered to stand trial as an adult after being indicted on murder charges in October 2004.
Jeffrey Bayer’s trial began in April 2005. He refused to take a plea bargain, confident that the lack of physical evidence would secure his freedom. In opening statements, the prosecution acknowledged that the case hinged on witness testimony rather than forensic proof. They presented a timeline of events, describing how the teenagers planned the robbery, used a stolen key to gain entry and fled with jewelry after bludgeoning Rose. They called Luanne Waller to the stand. Visibly nervous, she recounted finishing her homework on December twentieth, meeting up with Jeffrey and his friends and waiting outside while they slipped into Rose’s darkened house. "I can’t forget about what happened," she testified, her voice trembling. She remembered Jeffrey calling her later that night to say that things had gone wrong, that Rose had caught them and that he had hit her in the head.
Steve Forbes testified that he had given Jeffrey and Mark English a ride to Philadelphia shortly after the murder. He said they wanted to pawn jewelry for quick cash. Justine Shenkus, who was thirteen at the time of the crime, told the court that Jeffrey had boasted to her that he killed Rose after she interrupted the burglary. Shirley Logan, who had dated Clifford, described overhearing Jeffrey brag about the murder at a party. Each witness admitted they had been afraid to come forward at the time because Jeffrey was volatile and had threatened to hurt anyone who talked. Over the years, guilt and maturity had spurred them to tell the truth.
Jeffrey Bayer took the stand in his own defense, a risky move. He admitted to using drugs and committing burglaries as a teenager but insisted he had nothing to do with Rose’s death. In a surprising claim, he said he barely knew Rose, Mark English or Clifford Jeffrey in 1979. His testimony contradicted the long‑standing relationships between the families. He painted himself as an innocent bystander, a scapegoat for people eager to close a decades‑old case. His defense attorney argued that the witnesses’ memories were unreliable after more than twenty‑five years and that their testimonies were tainted by drug use, fading recollections and possible ulterior motives. Without DNA or fingerprints, he said, the prosecution’s case was built on sand.
The jurors were skeptical. During jury selection they had been asked if they could convict someone of first‑degree murder without physical evidence. All fifteen prospective jurors said no. Yet as the trial unfolded, the weight of witness after witness recounting Jeffrey’s boasts about the murder and Waller’s firsthand account of the planning wore on them. In closing arguments, prosecutors reminded the jury that there was one simple truth tying the case together: four people had stepped forward, independently, and pointed their fingers at Jeffrey Bayer.
On May 27, 2005, after five days of testimony and less than three hours of deliberations, the jury returned its verdict. Jeffrey Bayer was found guilty of felony murder. Because the jurors could not unanimously determine beyond a reasonable doubt that he had delivered the fatal blows, they acquitted him of first‑degree murder. The distinction was significant: felony murder carries a lighter sentence than intentional murder. Under 1979 statutes, the sentencing guidelines were less severe than those enacted in the 1980s. The presiding judge sentenced Jeffrey to thirty years in prison, with eligibility for parole after fifteen years. Had he committed the crime a few years later, he would have faced at least a half‑century behind bars given his prior record.
Clifford Jeffrey, seeing the outcome of Bayer’s trial, pleaded guilty to felony murder in August 2005. He attempted to withdraw his plea after Mark English’s case ended in a mistrial in October 2005, but a judge refused to let him recant. In November, his plea was affirmed, and he received a twelve‑year prison sentence. Mark English went to trial in early 2006. Prosecutors presented the same witness testimony, but the jury found him not guilty of murder. He did plead guilty to assaulting a sheriff’s officer earlier in 2005. The mixed verdict left some observers perplexed. How could one man be convicted, another acquitted, and a third receive a plea bargain for the same crime? The answer lay partly in the passage of time and partly in the perception of each defendant’s involvement. The jury in English’s case believed the state had not proven beyond a reasonable doubt that he intended to kill anyone.
For the Twells family, Jeffrey Bayer’s conviction and Clifford Jeffrey’s plea were bittersweet victories. They had waited twenty‑six years to see someone held accountable for Aunt Rose’s murder. Tom Twells, now seventy, sat in court as the verdict was read. "I’d hate to have anybody take my blood pressure right now," he quipped to reporters afterward. "It’s through the roof, but it’s coming back down." He believed justice had been served, even if it felt incomplete. Celeste Edgecumbe, who had discovered Rose’s body with her husband, felt a sense of relief but also of lingering sadness. "Nothing will bring Aunt Rose back," she said quietly outside the courtroom.
Jeffrey Bayer appealed his conviction. His attorneys argued that jurors had overheard prejudicial information about him and that the court should have been severer about witnesses’ drug use. In 2008, a three‑judge appellate panel rejected his claims and upheld the conviction. The judges noted that although the case was largely built on testimony rather than forensic evidence, the jury had been properly instructed and had weighed the credibility of each witness. They also affirmed the thirty‑year sentence.
Inside New Jersey State Prison, Jeffrey Bayer stewed. He wrote letters proclaiming his innocence and insisted he had been railroaded because of his surname and his father’s role as mayor. He told anyone who would listen that he barely remembered the winter of 1979, that he had been too high on drugs to recall. He refused to participate in rehabilitation programs and filed multiple grievances over prison conditions. Clifford Jeffrey served his sentence quietly and was released after about a decade. Mark English returned to Florida and largely stayed out of the news.
For many in Woodbury, the Twells murder remained a cautionary tale. Parents pointed to the case when warning teenagers about the dangers of drugs and petty crime. The old Twells house, vacant for years after Rose’s death, was rezoned into professional offices. Some locals swore the building was haunted. Others simply avoided it, remembering the image of the small woman bound at the bottom of the stairs. In 2006, the local preservation society attempted to highlight the home’s architectural significance and the tragedy that had occurred there. They led walking tours that stopped outside the house, telling visitors about Rose’s generosity and the cruelty she suffered.
Time marched on. Woodbury changed. New houses were built, old ones were restored, and the population grew. The bird sanctuary Rose donated thrived, becoming a quiet oasis just steps from the main road. People walked their dogs along the paths and listened to cardinals chirping in the trees. Few newcomers knew that the land existed because of a woman whose life was violently ended in her home across the street. In June 2018, nearly forty years after Rose’s murder, Jeffrey Bayer was released from prison. He was sixty, his hair flecked with gray. He had served roughly twenty‑nine years fifteen before parole eligibility, plus additional time due to other convictions and the complexities of calculating credit for time served. The man who once smirked at law enforcement walked out of prison a shadow of his former self.
What, if anything, did his release mean to the Twells family? Tom Twells had died a few years earlier. Celeste was in her eighties. Their children and grandchildren had grown up hearing stories about Aunt Rose and the day the big house fell silent. For them, the end of Jeffrey’s incarceration was a footnote, not the closing chapter. They took solace in the fact that he had been held responsible, even if only one of the three men served significant time. They also took pride in knowing that Rose’s memory still lingered in Woodbury through the park that bore her husband’s name, through the charities she supported, and through the cautionary tale that parents continued to tell their children.
The Rose Twells case illustrates both the fragility and resilience of human memory. It underscores how quickly a crime can be forgotten by all but those directly affected, and how heavy a burden guilt can be. It reminds us that seemingly small details a missing pendant, an old key, a teenage brag can come together decades later to form a picture of justice. And it shows that sometimes, the law can reach back through the years and drag into the light those who believe they have evaded accountability.
When the snow fell that December in 1979, it covered footsteps and quieted voices. When the snow fell again, twenty‑six years later, it blanketed the steps of the courthouse where Jeffrey Bayer stood to face a jury. It fell outside the prison where he waited to be released, and on the headstones of John and Rose Twells in Eglington Cemetery. Those flakes melted, but the story of what happened inside that white house on Delaware Street endures in whispers, in court transcripts, and in the hearts of those who loved the woman who was once Woodbury’s first lady.
The story of Rose and John Twells was, in many ways, the story of Woodbury itself. Born at the turn of the twentieth century, Rose Kathrine Whitmyer had grown up in a time when cars were a novelty and telephones a luxury. Her family had deep roots in Gloucester County: ancestors who farmed the fertile soil, built churches and served in local militias. As a young woman Rose attended Trenton State Teachers College, where she studied to become an educator. It was there, according to family lore, that she met a tall, earnest student named John Stokes Twells. John was from a distinguished line of civic leaders. His father had served on the city council and his grandfather had owned a prominent general store. John and Rose were drawn to each other by a shared sense of duty and a love of books. They married in the early 1930s at the Presbyterian Church, exchanging vows beneath stained‑glass windows that depicted scenes from scripture and local history.
The Twells’ dedication to their community went beyond politics and horticulture. During World War II, Rose helped organize blood drives and knit socks for soldiers overseas. When the local Red Cross chapter needed volunteers, she was the first to sign up. She organized rummage sales to raise money for families affected by floods and fires. She served as president of the Woodbury Women’s Club and hosted teas to welcome new residents. It was said that Rose could meet a stranger in the morning and know their entire family history by evening. She had a keen memory for names and birthdays, and a habit of sending handwritten notes of congratulations or condolence. Some found her gregariousness overwhelming, but most recognized it as a deep well of empathy. Even as she aged and became less mobile, she still managed to deliver casseroles to neighbors in need. The independence she insisted on maintaining was not only about self‑sufficiency but also about continuing to give.
Jeff’s defense attorney, Jeffrey Winter, countered that none of this amounted to proof. He said the prosecution’s case was built on rumor and hearsay. He attacked the character of witnesses, noting that many were drug users or convicted criminals. He emphasized the absence of forensic evidence. He hired expert witnesses to testify about the unreliability of memory, especially after twenty‑five years. He pointed out that lie detector tests in 1979 had cleared Jeff. He suggested that the police had zeroed in on a convenient suspect because of his family’s prominence and because the case embarrassed them. He questioned why Luanne waited so long to come forward if she was truly wracked with guilt. He noted inconsistencies in her accounts and accused her of embellishing her story to get immunity. He told the jury that the state wanted them to convict a man on the basis of campfire tales told by unreliable people.
The judge presiding over the trial, noted for his meticulous approach to the law, reminded jurors that their task was not to decide whether Jeff was a good person but whether the evidence proved beyond a reasonable doubt that he had participated in the burglary that led to Rose’s death. He instructed them that under New Jersey law, anyone who participated in a felony that resulted in a death could be found guilty of felony murder, regardless of who struck the fatal blow. He also explained that because the crime had occurred in 1979, sentencing would be governed by the statutes in effect at that time.
The media covered the trial extensively. Local reporters filled the courtroom each day, jotting down testimony and describing Jeff’s demeanor. National outlets ran headlines like "Cold Case Heats Up" and "First Lady of Woodbury Justice at Last?" Television trucks parked outside the courthouse, their satellite dishes extended like giant insects. Commentators debated whether it was fair to prosecute a man for a decades‑old crime when there was no physical evidence. Some said the case was emblematic of how wealthy families could evade justice; others cautioned that convicting someone on witness testimony alone set a dangerous precedent. The Twells family kept a low profile, attending each day of the trial but avoiding interviews until the verdict was in.
Behind the scenes, the trial took its toll on everyone involved. Luanne Waller was vilified by some as a traitor and praised by others as a hero. She moved with security guards during the trial, fearing retaliation from Jeff or his supporters. She wept on the witness stand, describing her youthful naivete and her terror that night. Clifford’s family pleaded for leniency, arguing that he was a follower who had not intended harm. Mark English, who had built a life in Florida after the murder, trembled as he learned that his two former friends had implicated him. He insisted he had gone along only to watch and that he had never touched the old woman. His first trial ended in a hung jury, and his second trial resulted in an acquittal. The two words "Not guilty" brought tears to his mother’s eyes. She whispered, "Thank you, God" as he hugged her. For the Twells family, Mark’s acquittal was a bitter pill. They believed all three men bore responsibility and should face consequences. Yet the law had spoken.
After the sentencing, the judge allowed family members to make victim impact statements. Celeste stood and addressed the court. She recounted the day she found her aunt’s body, the weight of the phone in her hand as she called police, the smell of blood and the way her heart hammered in her chest. She described Rose’s joy at teaching children and her pride in her husband’s public service. "She loved this town," Celeste told the judge. "She gave to it at every opportunity. And what did she get in return? She was beaten to death in her own home by someone who knew her." She paused, swallowed and continued. "We have waited a long time for justice. We will never forgive what was done, but perhaps we can begin to heal." Her words hung in the air of the courtroom like incense. Reporters scribbled, jurors dabbed at their eyes and the judge nodded solemnly.
The appellate process was equally emotional. In New Jersey’s appellate courts, three judges sit as a panel to review cases. Jeffrey Bayer’s attorneys filed a lengthy brief arguing that the trial court had allowed prejudicial evidence, that jurors had been exposed to statements not admitted into evidence and that the statute of limitations should have barred the prosecution. The state responded that the defendant’s own words and the corroborated testimony provided a consistent story. In 2008, the appellate panel issued an opinion rejecting all of Jeff’s arguments. They noted that while the case rested heavily on witness testimony, each witness had been cross‑examined, and the jury had been properly instructed. They wrote that there was ample evidence for a rational jury to find Jeff guilty of felony murder. They also held that because murder has no statute of limitations in New Jersey, the case was properly brought. The opinion was unpublished, meaning it was not to serve as precedent, but it nevertheless marked a definitive end to Jeff’s hopes for reversal in state court.
Meanwhile, legal scholars studied the case. Professors at local law schools used it to explore issues such as the reliability of decades‑old testimony, the retroactive application of juvenile sentencing laws and the ethics of offering immunity to accomplices. At conferences, prosecutors and defenders debated the implications. Some argued that cases like Rose Twells’ highlighted the importance of never closing unsolved cases, because time can both erode and reveal evidence. Others worried about the fairness of convicting someone based on memory alone. The case also prompted discussions about the limitations of forensic science; had DNA testing been possible in 1979, perhaps the identity of the killer would have been clear immediately. The iron pot used to kill Rose was never found; it might have yielded fingerprints or blood spatter analysis that could have clarified events.
While the legal world debated, Woodbury slowly healed. The Twells house was eventually renovated and turned into law offices. The interior was stripped of its antiques and updated with fluorescent lights and cubicles. A plaque near the entrance quietly notes the building’s history. Schoolchildren sometimes tour the area as part of history units, and teachers tell them about the woman who taught their grandparents and the tragedy that befell her. They speak of kindness, community and the importance of standing up against wrongdoing. On quiet winter evenings, when snow blankets the sidewalks just as it did the night Rose was killed, some residents say they can almost hear the faint clinking of antique china and the echo of Rose’s laugh.
In the years after Jeffrey Bayer’s release, little is publicly known about his life. Those who have seen him say he works sporadic jobs and keeps a low profile. He has not returned to Woodbury. Clifford Jeffrey attempted to rebuild his life after prison, living quietly with family members and avoiding notoriety. Mark English, who was acquitted, has spoken briefly about the case, expressing relief at the verdict but declining to comment on his actions that night. Luanne Waller lives under a different name in another state. On rare occasions she has given interviews, saying she still thinks of Rose and hopes that telling the truth brought some peace to the family. She knows that some people will always view her as complicit, and she has learned to live with that.
The Rose Twells case has taken on a mythic quality in Woodbury. It is told alongside ghost stories and local legends. It has been the subject of books, podcasts and college theses. Retired detectives like Ralph Quidone and Robert Atkisson are invited to speak at conferences about cold cases. They recount the frustration of chasing dead ends and the exhilaration of finally making arrests. They emphasize the role of witness cooperation and community pressure. Quidone, now in his eighties, says the case taught him that justice can be delayed but still delivered. He keeps a photograph of Rose in his living room as a reminder of why he became a detective. Atkisson, who spent nearly his entire career with the Woodbury Police Department, says the case will always haunt him. "Every Christmas, I think of her," he admits. "I think of the snow, the staircase and the smell of that house. And I think of how long it took us to put the pieces together."
For the Twells family, the story is less about law and more about the person they lost. In family gatherings they tell stories about Rose’s laugh, her slightly improper jokes, her tendency to correct one’s grammar, and her generous nature. Younger relatives have grown up with the knowledge that a brutal act can shatter a family but that resilience can carry them forward. They visit the bird sanctuary across from the old house and feed the ducks, pointing out the engraved plaque that bears John’s name. They tidy the graves of John and Rose at Eglington Cemetery, clearing away dead leaves and placing fresh flowers. They tell their children, "She was a teacher; she taught us about life and death."
The case also serves as a cautionary tale about the consequences of juvenile crime and the importance of early intervention. In the late 1970s, programs for at‑risk youth were limited. Today, many communities invest in mentorship, addiction counseling and recreational activities to steer teenagers away from crime. Youth advocates cite the Twells case as evidence that a lack of support can lead young people down paths of theft and violence. They point out that if Jeff, Mark and Clifford had received guidance and treatment for substance abuse or had been held accountable for their early misdeeds, perhaps Rose would not have died. At the same time, they note that personal responsibility remains paramount; socioeconomic circumstances do not excuse taking a life.
Perhaps the most enduring lesson of the Rose Twells case is the power of conscience. For twenty‑six years, Luanne Waller lived with the knowledge that her silence protected a murderer. She feared for her life, but she also feared the weight of her complicity. When she finally spoke, she set in motion events that would lead to justice. Her decision highlights the difficult choices faced by witnesses and accomplices in criminal cases. It shows that guilt can fester and that courage can emerge after decades. It also underscores the importance of creating environments where witnesses feel safe to come forward. Detective Atkisson has said that without Luanne, the case might never have been solved. He credits her with giving Rose a voice from beyond the grave.
In the end, the story of Rose Twells is both heartbreaking and instructive. It reminds us that evil can lurk in familiar faces and that greed can drive desperate acts. It shows how communities rally around victims and how time can erode some evidence while strengthening resolve. It reveals the interplay between personal histories and public responsibilities, between memory and law. It demonstrates the limits of forensic science in the absence of physical evidence and the enduring value of witness testimony when accompanied by corroboration. It offers a portrait of a woman who lived for others, only to be betrayed by someone she trusted. And it asks us to consider what justice means decades after a crime: whether it can truly provide closure, or whether it simply allows the living to carry on with a sense that the scales have been balanced, however imperfectly.
