Raymundo Gutierrez Identified in Alex Pretti Shooting by ProPublica

Raymundo Gutierrez was never supposed to become well-known. Until this week, his identity lingered silently in official directories and personnel logs, known mainly to coworkers and superiors inside Customs and Border Protection. These days, that name is awkwardly at the center of a national dialogue that is characterized by the cost of secrecy, the boundaries of force, and public accountability.

On January 24, 2026, in a rapidly expanding enforcement campaign known as Operation Metro Surge, federal officers arrived on Minneapolis outfitted in black tactical gear and masks. The campaign, characterized as a comprehensive immigration sweep, was exceptionally aggressive—featuring checkpoints, vehicle stops, and street-level patrols in civilian-heavy areas. It was during one of such sweeps that Alex Pretti, a 37-year-old ICU nurse and Army veteran, was shot dead.

According to internal papers obtained by investigative journalists, Gutierrez—alongside fellow agent Jesus Ochoa—discharged his service pistol during the battle that terminated Pretti’s life. The agency’s public pronouncements remained remarkably imprecise in the days that followed. In order for ProPublica to verify Gutierrez’s identity and remove a layer of federal secrecy that has recently become common practice, increasing pressure and leaked papers were required.

Gutierrez joined CBP in 2014 and serves on a Special Response Team—a designation that implies sophisticated tactical training, high-risk deployment authority, and regular participation in coordinated raids. These teams function with a degree of insulation that often obscures individual accountability, particularly when situations grow.

Footage from that night, recorded by witnesses and later broadcast on national TV, depicted a chaotic altercation. Pretti intervened as a woman was pushed to the sidewalk while recording the agents’ movements with his phone. A moment later, he was hit in the face with pepper spray and detained by numerous agents before gunfire rang out.

The footage is startling not only because of what it reveals, but because of how familiar it feels. We’ve become accustomed to mobile phone film demonstrating what official pronouncements omit. And yet, this one lingered with me longer than most. I halted more than once, unsure whether I was watching law enforcement or a scenario distorted by theater and adrenaline.

Pretti was reportedly armed, though lawfully, and several cameras appear to show his handgun being seized from him moments before the shooting. The Justice Department, propelled by a combination of public protest and bipartisan pressure, has now begun a civil rights inquiry. But openness, as usual, trails far behind urgency.

Gutierrez hasn’t said anything in public. CBP has reluctant to address direct questions concerning his involvement. Both he and Ochoa remain on leave, their positions under review, their faces still unknown to majority of the public.

There is no clear framework for how to talk about Gutierrez. He is not a star or a defendant; he is not the creator of policy, nor merely a cog in a system. His activities dwell in that uneasy zone where personal agency meets institutional mandate. And that space demands closer attention, especially when deadly force is unleashed on American streets by operatives acting under veils—both literal and bureaucratic.

The agency’s handling of this shooting stands in sharp contrast to what we’ve seen from numerous local police agencies. By comparison, municipal authorities have grown substantially more active in recent years—releasing body camera footage fast, naming police within hours, and giving preliminary findings within days. CBP, on the other hand, has offered no footage, no timetable, and no direct explanation.

That silence has spawned something extremely dangerous: disinformation. Gutierrez has been accused of criminal offenses, including sexual assault, in viral posts. These accusations are completely untrue, but they have been magnified by a lack of information. This digital distortion represents how, when institutions fail to communicate honestly, the internet fills the silence with distrust.

Given the heightened federal presence in urban areas since early 2025, Operation Metro Surge seems remarkably unchecked. High-intensity raids, purportedly ordered by Border Patrol executive Gregory Bovino, have attracted criticism for raising tensions rather than providing safety. Since then, Bovino has been reassigned; CBP did not make this announcement or provide any background.

What makes Gutierrez’s case so problematic is that he, like many in tactical law enforcement, undoubtedly believed he was doing his job. But the public’s expectation of what that job should involve has dramatically evolved. A badge is no longer enough to justify aggressive action. Uniformed agents are now being held to expectations of restraint, clarity, and proportionate response. When those expectations aren’t satisfied, the question isn’t just “what happened?”—it’s “who decided this was the right way?”

For the moment, Gutierrez is an enigma—visible only through fragmented personnel data and the frantic few seconds in which lives altered. There may come a moment when he explains his side, or when comprehensive video proof is made accessible. Until then, the public record is obscured by institutional opacity, and we have a name and a role.

His narrative is not yet ended, and neither is the public’s desire of clarity. When implemented regularly, transparency is a very powerful deterrent against false information and mistrust in the community. And in Gutierrez’s situation, it may be the only thing capable of separating fact from supposition.

Gutierrez’s name will continue to be associated with an incident that sparked national reflection as local governments reevaluate the employment of masked federal officers on their streets. Whether that leads to reform or simply fades into bureaucratic lethargy remains to be seen. But responsibility, like justice, frequently begins with a name.