Within days, Murray assembled a photo array of possible suspects and went back to the hospital, back to Downs' bedside. When Murray held up a photo of Lockhart, the detective noticed something different in Downs, a fire in his eyes.

"That's him," Downs said.

A few days after Lawrence Downs was shot, Michael Lockhart began fielding phone calls that unsettled him.

Several acquaintances told him that Hassan Williams — one of the guys Michael had framed for the theft of Jerry "Boog" Brooks' guns — was telling others that Michael was one of the gunmen.

He needed to tamp this talk down, and quick. On the one hand, he'd been eager to participate in the shooting; it boosted his standing with Brooks and his underlings, who now referred to him by his father's old nickname: "MG," for Major Gangster. But Michael didn't want the word to spread too far.

In addition to his volunteer work with the anti-violence nonprofit Philadelphia CeaseFire and newfound role as a cold-blooded triggerman with Brooks' gang, Michael had another side hustle. He was, incredibly, working for the federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives in a discreet role that would have made his friends in the gang furious.

Even from a young age, his fate seemed grim. His male role models had nearly all followed paths that led to prison. One uncle was doing life for murder, and another was locked up for 11 years for assaulting a police officer.

And then there was Michael's father. He stood only 5-foot-3, but he cut a towering figure in his son's imagination. Michael was in kindergarten when he saw his father selling drugs for the first time. He had little contact other than his father's occasional prison phone calls, and birthday cards with a $20 bill.

"He helped a lot of people, but he hurt a lot of people, too," Michael once said, suggesting that his father's good and bad traits somehow balanced out in the end.

But the truth was uglier. "My dad killed people," he said. "I knew from hearing stories from my uncles, his friends, my stepmom. My dad shot seven people because they shot at a neighbor's house, thinking it was ours."

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When he was a boy of 5 or 6, Michael discovered a handgun tucked under his father's bed. Instead of scaring him, the weapon cast a spell on him. Sneaking into the bedroom to touch the gun became a thrilling daily routine, a temptation he couldn't resist.

He remembered dodging bullets when someone shot up his home in North Philly because an uncle had stolen from a local drug dealer. A family friend had lain on top of Michael to shield him from the gunshots.

These experiences were emotional and psychological quicksand; he was up to his neck in influences that were dragging him toward a life of violence and pain. His mother once said she didn't expect him to live past 12. And Michael freely admitted that he found it difficult to walk around his neighborhood without a gun.

"Guns get you money. If you have money, a gun will keep you safe," he once said. "It protects people who can't fight."

Years later, people outside of Michael's family tried to help, starting with a then-assistant U.S. Attorney named Robert Reed. He had heard Michael deliver a speech at a forum on youth-violence prevention in 2012 and was struck by Michael's eloquence and openness. Reed introduced himself.

Michael was just 16, young enough to avoid repeating all of his father's sins.

"Guns get you money. If you have money, a gun will keep you safe. It protects people who can’t fight."

Reed got him involved with a juvenile sports program run by the U.S. Attorney's Office, and connected him with Philadelphia CeaseFire. The city gave him a part-time job as a landscaper. These were meant to be his first steps on the road to a healthier life, one that wouldn't require him to break the law to make money.

Michael warmed to these positive influences, and spoke about changing his life with a sincerity that convinced even the most skeptical adults. The further he got from his first teenage arrest, the more people thought he'd actually be able to beat the odds. "I saw a young man who suffered from childhood trauma, but who was trying to be an outreach worker," Colwin Williams, who worked with Michael at CeaseFire, would later remark. "No one grows up saying, 'I want to be a murderer, I want to be on death row.' "

But in quieter moments, Michael would tell Reed that he felt torn. It was hard to resist the magnetic pull of the streets, even though he knew they would only lead to a steady progression of courtrooms and jail cells.

Michael even tried to avoid temptation by moving in with a relative in Harrisburg in 2013, putting 100 miles between himself and Philly — but only for a few months. "At that time, I was doing real good," he'd later say. "I left Philly, but then I came back. I'm really not sure what happened. I got sucked back in."

When Reed heard him speak at a Don't Fall Down in the Hood event not long afterward, he was troubled by what he heard. Michael discussed his criminal past, but not with his well-practiced deep regret. He almost seemed excited to relive it all.

On Aug. 21, as rumors continued to swirl about Michael's involvement in Downs' shooting, he decided to call the man he believed to be spreading them: Hassan Williams.

The two had been so close, they considered each other family. Like Michael, Williams, 21, was allowed to hang around Jerry Brooks' gang because some of its older members had been friends with his father. Williams was also tight with Lawrence Downs; the two often went to clubs and the movies together.

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Michael mentioned the rumors he'd heard. Williams insisted that he hadn't said anything about Michael shooting Lawrence Downs. They went back and forth for a little while, and then Michael ended the call by telling his friend that he loved him.

That same day, Brooks put out the word. "Make sure MG get down here," he said. "We got to take care of something."

Brooks still wanted retribution for the stolen guns.