Reggie Carroll, 52, fatally shot in Mississippi while on Katt Williams tour

A rising night on tour ends in gunfire

Reggie Carroll, a Baltimore comic with national credits and a big, room-filling grin, was shot and killed in Southaven, Mississippi, on August 20, 2025. He was 52. Police say the shooting happened inside a building on Burton Lane tied to tour merchandise for comedian Katt Williams, whose Heaven on Earth tour Carroll had been traveling with. Carroll was rushed to a hospital in nearby Memphis, where he died despite emergency efforts.

Southaven Police later announced the arrest of 38-year-old Tranell Marquise Williams in connection with the killing. Officials said Williams had been working as a security guard on the tour. He faces a murder charge, according to police. As with any criminal case, the charge is an allegation; Williams is presumed innocent unless and until proven guilty in court.

The shooting unfolded at a property that houses Onyxx Owll LLC, a business that promotes itself as the official hub for Katt Williams merchandise. After the incident, Southaven Police posted a 14-day notice to quit on the building, citing criminal activity. Notices like that are typically used by local authorities to address properties tied to disruptive or violent incidents, though final enforcement runs through separate civil processes.

Here’s what police and colleagues say about the case so far:

Date and time: August 20, 2025. Officers found Carroll suffering from gunshot wounds inside a Burton Lane building.
Medical response: Life-saving efforts began on scene; Carroll was transported across the state line to Memphis, where he died.
Arrest: Police arrested Tranell Marquise Williams, 38, and announced a murder charge.
Location context: The site is linked to tour merchandise operations for Katt Williams.
Property action: Police posted a 14-day notice to vacate citing criminal activity.

Southaven, a suburb just south of Memphis, has become a frequent stop for touring shows that use the area’s venues, warehouses, and logistics hubs. That proximity brought the shooting across jurisdictional lines: the crime scene in Mississippi, the hospital in Tennessee, and an investigation that now touches touring security, venue operations, and the tight-knit world of stand-up.

Investigators have not publicly discussed a motive or released a fuller narrative of what led up to the gunfire. They also have not said whether surveillance footage, ballistics, or phone records are part of the case file. Court filings, if and when they become public, will provide a clearer picture of the moments before the shooting.

A career that stuck with audiences—and comics

Carroll made his name the way a lot of working comics do: club by club, city by city, stacking late nights into momentum. He built his reputation in Baltimore rooms and along the East Coast, then took that voice to bigger stages. He hosted and produced a stand-up special that branded him “The Knockout King of Comedy,” a nod to the punchy style that regulars say defined his set. Television followed: an appearance on Showtime at the Apollo, a spot on the UPN sitcom The Parkers, and a stretch of acting, producing, and hosting credits that broadened his profile.

On tour, comics notice the intangibles. The way someone carries a green room. The way they treat the staff. Comedian Ray Diva, who knew Carroll for roughly three decades, said the news “hit hard,” calling him “a brother” from before his first open mic. Jamar Taylor remembered the look on Carroll’s face when he saw friends: “When you walk into a room and you saw Reggie smile, you would have thought he saw a million bucks.” Those memories say as much about his presence as any TV credit ever could.

Mo’Nique, the Oscar-winning comic and actress, shared a tribute on Instagram, calling Carroll her “brother in comedy” and thinking back on the miles they logged together on the road. She used the moment to ask fans and fellow comics to be gentle with one another: you never know if you’ll get another chance to talk, laugh, or fix something that went sideways.

Back home, Baltimore’s Mobtown Comedy group thanked Carroll for years of support and called him one of the city’s great talents. That line—“support”—kept popping up as comics posted memories. The big show credits matter, sure. But in stand-up, what sticks is who gives you a ride, who shares a tough crowd story, who tells you to keep working that closer because there’s something there if you trim the setup.

Carroll’s path also captures how modern comedy careers actually work. Not everyone is chasing a Netflix hour out of the gate. Plenty of comics build real careers touring as openers or features for arena-level headliners, anchoring their income with steady road work and side projects. Carroll fit that mold: a veteran with enough miles to be trusted on the big nights, and enough humility to stay present in the small rooms where he started.

The Heaven on Earth tour exposed him to huge crowds and complex production. Tours that size often run like rolling cities—drivers, stage techs, merch crews, and security. That scale can blur lines between personal and professional space. Work meetings happen in back hallways. Jokes get punched up in loading docks. Arguments, when they happen, break out in the same tight quarters. None of that explains what happened in Southaven, but it does say something about the world Carroll was living in when he died: a fast-moving traveling show where everyone relies on everyone else to keep the night on track.

As the case moves forward, there are open questions. If investigators believe the shooting was targeted or impulsive, they haven’t said. If they’ve recovered a weapon or tracked the movements of those inside the building just before the gunfire, that’s not public either. In homicide cases like this, prosecutors typically submit evidence to a grand jury, and court calendars then shape how quickly charges are tested in hearings or at trial.

For fans, the details may matter less than the loss they feel when someone who made them laugh is suddenly gone. Carroll’s draw was simple: he made people feel seen. That shows up in old flyers from Baltimore bar shows, in road photos snapped at gas stations at 2 a.m., and in the way peers describe his energy. He hosted, he produced, he performed—any role that kept the lights on and the crowd warm, he was game.

In the days after the shooting, comics shared clips from his “Knockout King” set and TV bits from The Parkers-era sitcom boom, a reminder of the early-2000s pipeline that launched a lot of working comics into syndication-era guest spots. Carroll turned those moments into steady work and—maybe more importantly—community. Younger comics say he answered calls, gave notes without ego, and stayed late to watch their sets.

The Southaven Police Department says the investigation is ongoing. Anyone who was in or around the Burton Lane building on August 20 and hasn’t spoken to detectives yet may hold details that help. These cases often hinge on tiny things—a text timestamp, a security camera angled just right, a fragment of audio caught on a phone. The next public update will likely come through court records or a formal police release.

What remains for now are the stories. The colleague who says Carroll cracked a joke right before a brutal crowd and then flipped the room in ten minutes. The friend who remembers him calling after a bad set to say, “Run it again tomorrow.” The fans who met him at the merch table and found him exactly as kind as he seemed on stage. For a lot of people who move from club to club, that’s the whole point: leave the night lighter than you found it. Carroll did that, night after night, until the lights came up for good in Southaven.