What we know about the shooting
The comedy world is grieving the loss of Reggie Carroll, the Baltimore-born stand-up known for his quick grin, warm crowd work, and decades of hustle on the road. Carroll, 52, was shot in South Haven, Mississippi, on Wednesday, August 20, 2025, and later died at a hospital in Memphis, according to police.
Officers with the South Haven Police Department said they were called to Burton Lane for reports of a shooting and found Carroll with gunshot wounds. They performed life-saving measures until medical crews arrived. Despite those efforts, Carroll did not survive.
Investigators arrested 38-year-old Tranell Marquise Williams and charged him in connection with the killing. Authorities did not release further details about a possible motive or what led up to the gunfire. As of Thursday morning, police had not shared additional information about the circumstances surrounding the arrest.
Carroll was reportedly on tour with Katt Williams at the time. For a veteran road comic, touring is the grind—late flights, long drives, and the wire-to-wire focus that comes with doing a different room every night. Friends said Carroll thrived in that rhythm, treating crews, openers, and venue staff with the same respect he showed headliners.
South Haven sits just across the state line from Memphis, which helps explain why Carroll was transported there for emergency care. The proximity between the two cities often turns Memphis hospitals into the trauma centers for serious cases in northern Mississippi.
A career built on hustle—and lifting others
Carroll carved out a steady national profile without leaving behind the Baltimore scene that raised him. He headlined rooms across the country, built a following through his series Knockout Kings of Comedy, and popped up on TV staples like Showtime at the Apollo and The Parkers. He didn’t just take the mic—he produced shows, hosted, and pulled up other comics who needed a shot.
People in Baltimore’s comedy circles describe a performer who understood rooms right away—blue-collar clubs, college crowds, black-box theaters, Sunday night bar shows. He could stretch a bit without losing the audience, bail out a shaky lineup, or warm up a cold room when a headliner was running late. That reliability is rare, and bookers notice.
Ray Diva, a fellow Baltimore comedian who knew Carroll for roughly three decades, said the news hit like a punch to the gut. She remembered him as a brother figure long before she made it to the stage, a constant at cookouts, open mics, and fundraisers—someone who showed up when it mattered and stayed until the last handshake.
Mo’Nique, who shared stages and long stretches of highway with Carroll, posted a remembrance that looked back on life on the road—the van laughs, the late-night meals, the way he made the hard parts of touring feel lighter. Her message echoed what many have said since: he wasn’t just funny; he was kind.
Mobtown Comedy, a production group that books rooms in and around Baltimore, thanked Carroll publicly for years of support and guidance. In their words, the city lost one of its great talents. For young comics, seeing their names on a flyer next to his meant they were on the right track.
Comedian Jamar Taylor pointed to something simple that keeps coming up: the smile. Walk into a green room and see Carroll’s grin, he said, and it felt like good news had just arrived. That kind of energy sets the tone before a single joke lands.
Carroll’s path followed the familiar arc of working comics who build careers outside Hollywood’s center—club residencies, regional tours, TV spots that turn into more dates, then producing and curating shows to keep stages alive for the next wave. He understood that scenes don’t stay healthy by accident. Someone has to call the venue, print the flyers, wrangle the lineup, and take the risk on a Wednesday night.
His credits weren’t just resume lines. Knockout Kings of Comedy gave audiences a reason to come back and gave up-and-comers a chance to learn the pace of a structured showcase. Appearances on Showtime at the Apollo and The Parkers proved he could scale that energy to television and keep it authentic.
By late Wednesday, tributes were pouring in from Baltimore and beyond—club owners sharing show posters, comics posting grainy phone clips from his sets, and fans talking about the first time they saw him close a room. That collective memory—the night you laughed so hard you forgot what started the joke—is how comics live on.
Police have not said when Williams will appear in court. As the investigation continues, colleagues are focusing on Carroll’s family and the Baltimore community he championed. Memorial plans were not immediately announced.
For now, the thread running through every remembrance is the same: a sharp writer, a nimble host, and a steady hand who made the work feel joyful. In a business where the next gig is never guaranteed, Carroll made the most of every one he got—and made room for others to get theirs, too.
