Following Alex’s death, Michael and Susan issued a statement expressing their grief and anger, responding to accusations from Trump administration officials, including White House Deputy Chief of Staff Stephen Miller, who called their son a “domestic terrorist,” according to NBC News.

“The government’s gun-wielding lies about our son are unacceptable and easily dismissed. Clearly, Alex was not holding a gun when he was killed by ICE and attacked by Trump assassins,” the statement said. “He was holding a phone in his right hand, and his left hand was raised high, trying to protect the woman ICE had just knocked down while spraying tear gas.”

The family concluded their message with a plea for transparency and accuracy: “Please tell the truth about our son. He was a good person. Thank you.”

In the close-knit apartment buildings of south Minneapolis, where long winters encourage residents to rely on one another, Alex Jeffrey Pretti stood out as a trusted and unassuming presence. At 37 years old, Pretti was an intensive care unit (ICU) nurse at the Minneapolis Veterans Affairs Health Care System, dedicating his professional life to caring for veterans in critical condition. Yet within his own building—a modest fourplex on Garfield Avenue—he was simply known as the reliable neighbor who noticed when something was wrong and acted without hesitation.

Pretti moved into the building about three years ago, living alone but far from isolated. Neighbors described him as quiet, warmhearted, and consistently friendly. Despite working demanding shifts that often stretched into long hours, he remained engaged with those around him. He welcomed friends over occasionally, shared in community moments, and contributed to the small but meaningful sense of security that defines good neighborly life.

One resident, Sue Gitar, who lived directly downstairs, painted a vivid picture of Pretti’s character. She called him a “wonderful person” with “a great heart,” emphasizing his gentle and dependable nature. Gitar recounted a specific incident that highlighted his willingness to help: when concerns arose about a possible gas leak in the building, Pretti did not hesitate or defer responsibility. He stepped in immediately, checking on others, ensuring everyone was safe, and addressing the issue calmly. In a moment of potential danger, his actions reassured the community and reinforced the trust they placed in him.

This episode was not an outlier. Neighbors recalled how Pretti was attuned to the building’s rhythms and the neighborhood’s needs. If something seemed suspicious or if anyone needed assistance—whether it was a minor concern or a more pressing matter—he was the one who noticed and responded. He was not loud or confrontational; instead, his quiet attentiveness made people feel safer simply by his presence. In an era where urban anonymity can prevail, Pretti embodied the opposite: a person who paid attention and acted with care.

Beyond his role in the apartment building, Pretti’s life reflected a broader commitment to helping others. As an ICU nurse, he dealt daily with life-and-death situations, providing compassionate care to those in vulnerable states. Colleagues and family described him as deeply empathetic, a trait that carried over into his personal life. He was an avid outdoorsman who loved mountain biking, competitive cycling, and exploring Minnesota’s natural beauty with his beloved Catahoula Leopard dog (who had passed away about a year earlier). He cherished his new Audi and maintained it meticulously, and he enjoyed simple pleasures like walking his dog through the neighborhood or participating in local events.

Pretti grew up in Green Bay, Wisconsin, where he attended Preble High School and participated in sports such as football, baseball, and track. Born in Illinois to parents Michael and Susan Pretti, he later moved to Colorado before settling in Minneapolis. His family emphasized his love for the country and the land, noting that he was troubled by environmental harm and injustice. He was a U.S. citizen with no significant criminal record—only minor parking tickets—and was known to own firearms for recreational use at a range, though neighbors stressed he was not someone who carried them casually or posed any threat.

Tragically, Alex Pretti’s life was cut short on January 24, 2026, during an immigration enforcement operation in Minneapolis. He was fatally shot by federal agents—reportedly Border Patrol—in an incident that has sparked widespread debate, protests, and conflicting accounts. Pretti had been active in demonstrations following the earlier death of Renee Good, another individual killed during an ICE-related encounter. Witnesses and family members have disputed official narratives, insisting he was attempting to help someone and was unarmed in the moment of confrontation. His parents released a statement expressing profound grief and anger, rejecting characterizations of their son as anything other than a good man who cared about people.

In the days following his death, neighbors gathered for vigils, lighting candles in the cold Minnesota air near his building and the site of the shooting. They mourned not a public figure or activist in the spotlight, but the everyday hero in their midst—the one who checked on gas leaks, offered reassurance, and made the building feel like a true community. Tributes poured in from coworkers at the VA hospital, fellow nurses, and those who shared his love of the outdoors. They remembered a man who danced with joy, raced bicycles with passion, and above all, helped without expecting recognition.

For those who lived alongside Alex Pretti, his legacy is not defined by the tragic circumstances of his passing or the national headlines that followed. It rests in the quiet dependability he brought to daily life: the neighbor who listened, who acted, and who left people feeling a little more secure. In a world often divided, Pretti reminded those around him of the power of simple human kindness—paying attention, stepping up, and caring for the people nearby. His neighbors continue to honor that memory, ensuring that the gentle, dependable man they knew is remembered not for how he died, but for how he lived.