Vincent Smothers thought that it would be a job like any other. In the summer of 2007, he told me, his friend Marzell Black asked him for a gun for his mother’s boyfriend. Smothers didn’t sell guns, and he told him so. A few months later, Marzell amended his request, saying, “That dude who was looking for a gun? He asked me how much he would have to pay to kill somebody.” A murder Smothers could handle. “Marzell wasn’t the killing type,” he said. “I told him, ‘That’s not something for you to do. I’ll talk to him and see what this is all about.’ ”

Smothers drove Marzell in his black Jeep Commander to a gas station on Detroit’s East Side, the rougher part of a rough city. As they waited in the parking lot, a bald black man opened the rear passenger-side door and got in. It was the boyfriend, whom Smothers knew only as Dave. Staring intently at the back of the seat, he explained that the target was his wife; he was leaving her and didn’t want her to be alone. “Who says that?” Smothers asked me, his reedy voice rising with indignation. We were in a visiting room at the Michigan Reformatory, a prison in Ionia. “Tell me she’s fucking the neighbor or that she killed your baby five years ago. But don’t tell me you don’t think she can be alone.”

Smothers is six feet one, with caramel-colored skin and wavy black hair. He has sixteen tattoos on his upper body. Among them are three in memory of loved ones; his nickname, Vito, emblazoned in red on his back; a rebus that spells out “I never hesitate”; and, in Gothic letters, “LOST SOUL.” By the age of twenty-six, he had killed at least a dozen people, most of them drug dealers. As he saw it, he was simply hastening an inevitable conclusion. “When you grow up in the hood, you learn: if you sell drugs, you’re going to end up one of two things—in jail or dead,” he said. “Those are the results of that life.” As for women who got in the line of fire, he reasoned, they’d benefitted from the trade. “When you flock to the ballers”—the nouveau riche of the hood—“you get what they get when it’s your turn.” But he had never set out to kill a woman, much less a civilian with no connection to the trade.

Smothers wasn’t sure he should take the job. A year earlier, he’d fallen in love with Cecily Blok, a nursing student with a two-year-old daughter, and they were about to get married. She knew what he did for a living, and she wanted him to find a different line of work. The truth was, he was tempted to kill Dave, on principle. “Somebody that think like that don’t deserve to live,” he said. But the job was easy and the money good.

When Smothers met with Dave again, the day after Christmas, he hadn’t decided what to do. As he waited in his Jeep in a parking lot, with a .40-calibre pistol held under his right thigh, Dave walked up from behind, in Smothers’s blind spot, and sat in the rear passenger seat. Smothers noted his stealthy approach and thought, Cop trick. He tightened his grip on the pistol. In the back seat, Dave said that he would call that evening and pretend to place an order for takeout, then take his wife to a CVS pharmacy nearby. “When I’m going in, you go in and kill her,” he said. He handed Smothers gloves and protective sleeves to keep the gunpowder residue off his arms, telling him to throw them away after the murder. He warned him to get rid of the gun and told him that if he was caught he would gain nothing by snitching. By the time Dave left, Smothers felt sure that the job was legitimate—and that Dave was a cop. Now that Dave knew who Smothers was, he couldn’t say no.

Smothers waited in his Jeep at the CVS until the call came, just before 9 P.M. A few minutes later, Dave drove up with his wife and walked into the store, nodding slightly. Smothers walked over to the car, broke the passenger window with a tire iron, and, to give the impression of a robbery, demanded the woman’s purse. She screamed and reached for something—her seat belt, Smothers guessed. “She was screaming and fidgeting, doing what, I wasn’t sure,” he said. “I didn’t wait to find out.” He shot her in the head, four times, and she slumped over the middle console. “Even before I pulled the trigger, it was different,” he said. “I thought about how wrong it was, and I was fighting myself about whether to do it.”

Later that night, Smothers felt compelled to return to the scene, by then crowded with police cars and news vans. A cop pulled him over, and Smothers produced a fake I.D. and papers showing that the Jeep belonged to Cecily’s father. The officer explained that a witness to the crime had seen a similar Jeep, and then waved him on. At home, Smothers learned from the news that Dave was Sergeant David Cobb, of the Detroit Police Department. His wife’s name was Rose.

For the first time, he felt that he’d killed an innocent. “I crossed a line I had been saying I wouldn’t,” he said. When he started out as a hit man, he didn’t care whether he lived or died. But now he had a wife, and a stepdaughter who looked up to him. When he told Cecily, she was furious; she had thought that he wouldn’t kill a woman. As she later said to the police, she was “mad that Vincent did it, mad that Vincent told me, and mad that I knew.” Smothers wasn’t sure that she would ever forgive him. But he knew that he wanted out.

Smothers grew up in a tight-knit family on Detroit’s East Side. The fifth of eight siblings, he was close to his father, Willie Frank, a black man from Mississippi who preferred to be called Sonny, even by his children. Sonny scrambled to make a living; at times in his youth he had reportedly resorted to pimping. During Smothers’s childhood, he specialized in home repairs. He had met Smothers’s mother, Mary, a twenty-one-year-old nurse’s aide of Polish descent, on a blind date in 1971. Mary wanted to get away from home, so when Sonny proposed she said yes. At first, Sonny’s mother had misgivings about the relationship; she and her husband had fled Mississippi after Emmett Till was killed for flirting with a white woman. But they allowed the young couple to move into a three-bedroom house they owned on Vinton Street. Sonny built a high wooden fence around its large yard, and tended a garden full of tomatoes, corn, and strawberries, which shared space with car parts and broken-down machinery that he was fixing.

When the Smothers family moved to the block, there were about twenty houses on Vinton Street. Now only four are standing. For the past few decades, people with means in Detroit have moved in one direction: north of 8 Mile, the road that divides the predominantly black city from the affluent, mostly white suburbs. Between 2000 and 2010, the population south of 8 Mile fell by a quarter, to 713,000; eighty-three per cent of those who remain are African-American. Among the decent homes in Smothers’s neighborhood are others so burned-through that they are mere outlines—a wooden beam suggesting a structure, a pile of rocks that might have been a porch. A row of tires marks the edge of an overgrown field, where the Smothers home once stood, and a yellow handwritten sign in an empty lot across the street asks, “Will the last person to leave Detroit kindly turn out the lights?”