Trump Acts Fast: Green Card Program Axed After Brown, MIT Murders

Paul Riverbank, 12/20/2025A homeless former student’s sharp eye—rather than cutting-edge surveillance—broke open a chilling university shooting case, revealing technology’s limits and sparking national debate on immigration, policing, and the unsung power of vigilant citizens.

At first, police seemed adrift. Hard facts were few; speculation ran in circles. Then, within days, MIT’s own corridors of prestige shook—one of their pillars, Professor Nuno F.G. Loureiro, found dead in his Brookline home. Two universities, two cities linked now by violence. The man police started looking for, Claudio Manuel Neves-Valente, had already melted away. Forty-eight, a Portuguese citizen, Neves-Valente had once been a Brown grad student. He slipped through the grid of security cameras and plate readers as if he’d studied their patterns.

Every newscast from Providence city hall felt the same: officials behind anxious podiums, fielding questions they barely had answers for. With digital eyes watching everywhere and nothing turning up, the mood shifted. Hope faded. But then—almost offhand, almost too late—something changed the tempo: a tip from a man named John.

John lived rough, in the drafty shadows beneath Brown’s Barus and Holley building—the very place where students bled. Before the shooting, he’d stumbled across Neves-Valente in a campus restroom. It’s hard to say what’s truly odd, but John noticed the wrong type of coat for the sharp December cold. He watched the man circle awkwardly, not heading toward his car—a gray Nissan with plates from Florida—but looping, pausing, returning, as if waiting to be noticed and yet not wanting to be seen.

“Your car’s back there—why are you circling?” John pressed, shivering on the stoop. Neves-Valente shrugged him off, asking in return why he was being hassled. The stand-off didn’t break, just drifted away. But John had a habit of not letting things go. He ducked into the chilly campus wi-fi and posted to Reddit, laying out his observations: the Nissan’s Florida tags, the driver’s anxious orbit, the fire of unease in his gut.

His message rippled outward. Redditors urged John—get off the screen, call the police. He did, repeating what he’d written. And then came the delay: police didn’t check their tip line until three days post-shooting, after the trail chilled. Yet when someone in the department finally listened, John’s details slotted into the investigation like a missing puzzle piece.

Suddenly, camera footage that seemed random snapped into focus. Detectives traced the Nissan through Providence, pieced together rental histories, and tied the suspect down. The Brown and MIT attacks weren’t disconnected flashes. This was one line of violence, stretching north to a storage unit in Salem, New Hampshire. By then, the suspect had ended his own story.

The aftermath was muddled—not just sorrow and relief, but bruised pride among officials. Their arsenal of AI tools and citywide sensor nets hadn’t provided the answer. Instead, it was John, forgotten beneath campus tiles, who offered up the path police followed. For a moment, floodlights turned to him. Some called him a hero—mayor Brett Smiley put it out at a press conference; Attorney General Peter Neronha, often stoic, admitted the case would’ve stalled without one ordinary man’s vigilance.

In an age staking so much on technology, like the ring of doorbell cams and instant alerts, it was small-scale human intuition—John silently watching, then persistently reporting—that mattered most. The city’s digital fog cleared because someone paid attention in the old-fashioned way.

As for why Neves-Valente acted, those threads frayed rather than tied. He and the MIT professor knew each other decades ago at Instituto Superior Técnico and crossed paths again at Brown. Whatever lingered between them, officials said publicly, remains buried. Brown distanced itself from its onetime student, but the aftermath settled over campus like a heavy quilt. A sense of safety, long taken for granted, was gone.

Of course, politics was never far behind. After Neves-Valente’s name came out, President Trump moved to end the green card lottery that had allowed him to stay, and Homeland Security’s Kristi Noem echoed with sharp words about vetting and borders. In past tragedies—remember the post-Boston Marathon fog of false Reddit tips—the online sleuths sometimes made things worse. This time, the internet was where the breakthrough started.

Perhaps the real story is neither about the cameras nor the politics, but about vigilance—about a man living on the margins who noticed what all the machines missed. Amid tragedy, John’s story reminds us: you never know which eyes are watching, or whose voice quietly clears the fog. Heroism, it turns out, might be standing next to you, wrapped in an old coat, heart beating with quiet purpose.

It began without warning, just after dusk had pressed in over Brown University. The silence of campus shattered—a handful of gunshots, sudden and raw, echoing through the winter air. When it stopped, two students wouldn’t stand again, and nearly a dozen others needed ambulances. What followed, though, was a mystery more tangled than anyone imagined.At first, police seemed adrift. Hard facts were few; speculation ran in circles. Then, within days, MIT’s own corridors of prestige shook—one of their pillars, Professor Nuno F.G. Loureiro, found dead in his Brookline home. Two universities, two cities linked now by violence. The man police started looking for, Claudio Manuel Neves-Valente, had already melted away. Forty-eight, a Portuguese citizen, Neves-Valente had once been a Brown grad student. He slipped through the grid of security cameras and plate readers as if he’d studied their patterns.Every newscast from Providence city hall felt the same: officials behind anxious podiums, fielding questions they barely had answers for. With digital eyes watching everywhere and nothing turning up, the mood shifted. Hope faded. But then—almost offhand, almost too late—something changed the tempo: a tip from a man named John.John lived rough, in the drafty shadows beneath Brown’s Barus and Holley building—the very place where students bled. Before the shooting, he’d stumbled across Neves-Valente in a campus restroom. It’s hard to say what’s truly odd, but John noticed the wrong type of coat for the sharp December cold. He watched the man circle awkwardly, not heading toward his car—a gray Nissan with plates from Florida—but looping, pausing, returning, as if waiting to be noticed and yet not wanting to be seen.“Your car’s back there—why are you circling?” John pressed, shivering on the stoop. Neves-Valente shrugged him off, asking in return why he was being hassled. The stand-off didn’t break, just drifted away. But John had a habit of not letting things go. He ducked into the chilly campus wi-fi and posted to Reddit, laying out his observations: the Nissan’s Florida tags, the driver’s anxious orbit, the fire of unease in his gut.His message rippled outward. Redditors urged John—get off the screen, call the police. He did, repeating what he’d written. And then came the delay: police didn’t check their tip line until three days post-shooting, after the trail chilled. Yet when someone in the department finally listened, John’s details slotted into the investigation like a missing puzzle piece.Suddenly, camera footage that seemed random snapped into focus. Detectives traced the Nissan through Providence, pieced together rental histories, and tied the suspect down. The Brown and MIT attacks weren’t disconnected flashes. This was one line of violence, stretching north to a storage unit in Salem, New Hampshire. By then, the suspect had ended his own story.The aftermath was muddled—not just sorrow and relief, but bruised pride among officials. Their arsenal of AI tools and citywide sensor nets hadn’t provided the answer. Instead, it was John, forgotten beneath campus tiles, who offered up the path police followed. For a moment, floodlights turned to him. Some called him a hero—mayor Brett Smiley put it out at a press conference; Attorney General Peter Neronha, often stoic, admitted the case would’ve stalled without one ordinary man’s vigilance.In an age staking so much on technology, like the ring of doorbell cams and instant alerts, it was small-scale human intuition—John silently watching, then persistently reporting—that mattered most. The city’s digital fog cleared because someone paid attention in the old-fashioned way.As for why Neves-Valente acted, those threads frayed rather than tied. He and the MIT professor knew each other decades ago at Instituto Superior Técnico and crossed paths again at Brown. Whatever lingered between them, officials said publicly, remains buried. Brown distanced itself from its onetime student, but the aftermath settled over campus like a heavy quilt. A sense of safety, long taken for granted, was gone.Of course, politics was never far behind. After Neves-Valente’s name came out, President Trump moved to end the green card lottery that had allowed him to stay, and Homeland Security’s Kristi Noem echoed with sharp words about vetting and borders. In past tragedies—remember the post-Boston Marathon fog of false Reddit tips—the online sleuths sometimes made things worse. This time, the internet was where the breakthrough started.Perhaps the real story is neither about the cameras nor the politics, but about vigilance—about a man living on the margins who noticed what all the machines missed. Amid tragedy, John’s story reminds us: you never know which eyes are watching, or whose voice quietly clears the fog. Heroism, it turns out, might be standing next to you, wrapped in an old coat, heart beating with quiet purpose.