On a warm August night in Rehoboth, Massachusetts, the community gathered under a sky dotted with flickering candlelight and drifting balloons to remember Kylee Monteiro and her unborn child. The vigil, held on August 23, 2025, was a somber celebration of a life cut tragically short. Friends and family stood together, sharing tears, hugs, and prayers, hoping to find solace in each other's company after a heartbreak no one saw coming.
Monteiro, just 11 weeks pregnant, was reported missing on August 7. Her disappearance sent ripples of fear and confusion through the town. As days passed, hope faded and suspicion grew. The search for answers ended in horror when human remains, believed to be Monteiro’s, were discovered on her boyfriend's sprawling 25-acre property on County Street. According to the Bristol County District Attorney, the remains were found during a court-authorized search late on August 19, the same day Gregory Groom—Monteiro’s 22-year-old boyfriend—was arrested.
In court the following day, prosecutors revealed that Groom had confessed to killing Monteiro and burying her in a wooded area on his land. The details shocked the community. As reported by local news outlets, Groom had initially called police himself to report Monteiro's disappearance, a move that now seemed chilling in retrospect. The vigil, filled with sorrow and anger, echoed a collective demand for justice. “Kylee Monteiro’s time with us was brief. But her impact will echo for a lifetime,” one speaker told the gathered crowd. Another attendee, grappling with disbelief, remarked, “It’s so hard to believe that there are people out in the world that can do things like this.”
The tragedy of Monteiro’s death—and the loss of her unborn child—resonated far beyond Rehoboth. It is, heartbreakingly, not an isolated story. The violence that ended Monteiro’s life is part of a broader pattern, one that has played out in other communities with equally devastating consequences.
More than two decades earlier, on the other side of the country, a similar story unfolded in Hawthorne, California. As chronicled by Dateline, the murder of Crystal Taylor in 2001 remains one of the city’s darkest chapters. Taylor, 27 and more than halfway through her pregnancy, was gunned down in front of her apartment complex on September 25, 2001. She was carrying a son she had already named Jeremiah. The shooting, witnessed by several people, was anything but random. Investigators quickly determined it was a premeditated act—a murder-for-hire scheme orchestrated by someone Crystal knew intimately.
According to the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Office, Taylor’s boyfriend, Derek Paul Smyer, was the architect of the crime. Prosecutors argued that Smyer’s motive stemmed from Taylor’s refusal to terminate her pregnancy. Unable to persuade her, Smyer hired a friend, Skyler Jefferson Moore, to carry out the killing. The case, however, would not see arrests or convictions for many years. Detectives and prosecutors spent over a decade gathering the evidence needed to bring Moore and Smyer to justice. Witness affidavits, testimonies, and corroborating details eventually painted a clear picture of a conspiracy rooted in anger and control.
The trial, held in 2017—more than 16 years after Taylor’s murder—ended with convictions that brought a measure of closure to her family and the community. Smyer was found guilty of first-degree murder, second-degree murder, conspiracy, solicitation to murder, and the killing of an unborn child, with the jury also finding a special circumstance of financial gain. Moore, the gunman, was convicted of two counts of first-degree murder and conspiracy, exposing him to the possibility of the death penalty or life without parole. The court’s recognition of Taylor’s unborn child, Jeremiah Johnson Taylor, as a distinct victim was a significant moment, highlighting the evolving legal landscape regarding unborn victims in homicide cases.
The impact of Taylor’s death rippled through her family and the wider Hawthorne community. Her surviving son, Javonte Woods, spoke of the irreplaceable loss: his mother had been his best friend. The pain, both immediate and enduring, was compounded by the years it took to see justice served. As Dateline reported, the case became a touchstone for discussions about domestic violence, the vulnerability of pregnant women, and the relentless pursuit of justice by investigators and families alike.
Both the Monteiro and Taylor cases underscore a grim reality: violence against pregnant women, often perpetrated by partners or those closest to them, remains a persistent and deeply troubling problem. These stories are not just about individual loss; they are about communities grappling with grief, families struggling to heal, and a justice system striving to hold perpetrators accountable.
At Monteiro’s vigil, the community’s pain was palpable. Attendees spoke openly about their hopes for justice and their disbelief that such violence could strike so close to home. “Honestly I hope justice is served because she and her lovely baby honestly does not deserve any of this,” said one mourner. Another added, “It’s just such a sad tragic thing to happen to someone. It’s awful. [Groom] should pay for his consequences.” Monteiro’s family urged those present to focus on the good times they had shared with her, seeking comfort in cherished memories even as they mourned her loss.
Meanwhile, the Taylor case, as revisited by Dateline, continues to serve as a cautionary tale and a call to action. The persistence of investigators, the determination of Taylor’s family, and the eventual convictions of Smyer and Moore all highlight the importance of never giving up in the face of injustice. The legal recognition of unborn victims, as seen in Taylor’s case, has broader implications, prompting ongoing conversations about how the law protects the most vulnerable among us.
As communities in Massachusetts and California reflect on these tragedies, they are united by a shared sense of loss and a collective demand for justice. The stories of Kylee Monteiro and Crystal Taylor are reminders of the dangers that can lurk behind closed doors, the resilience of those left behind, and the enduring need to confront violence wherever it arises. Their memories, honored in vigils and courtrooms alike, continue to inspire calls for change—and for justice that truly serves all victims.
