Cedric Cotton, a Black / African American man in his early thirties from Tulsa, Oklahoma, left home in the dark hours of August 29, 2018, heading with his girlfriend to a QuikTrip convenience store at East 11th Street and South Garnett Road. It was the kind of late-night stop thousands of people make without a second thought, the fluorescent lights spilling onto a parking lot that locals already knew as a magnet for trouble.
In the background of his life, funeral home and obituary records quietly marked his birth in December 1986 and his death on that August morning, while later case summaries would list him simply as another name on a ledger of violent deaths.
Inside the store, nothing seemed remarkable at first, but as the couple arrived they noticed a man sitting in an SUV outside who struck them as suspicious. Police later said that when Cedric and his girlfriend went into the QuikTrip, that man waited in the lot in a red Chevrolet Tahoe, and when the couple emerged a confrontation erupted almost immediately. Witnesses and investigators described an argument in the parking lot that escalated in seconds, the tension of harsh words turning into something far more dangerous as the man stepped from the SUV. In the middle of that brief and bitter exchange, the driver—identified by police as 47-year-old Terry Markham—pulled out a gun and fired a single shot into Cedric’s head before climbing back into the Tahoe and speeding away. Cedric’s girlfriend, who had been beside him just moments before, was not physically harmed but left standing in a scene that turned from routine to fatal almost instantly.
The shooting took place around 2:30 in the morning, a time when the city tends to be at its quietest, but the QuikTrip lot was soon crowded with flashing lights and crime-scene tape. Officers and medical responders rushed in; Cedric was transported to a hospital, where doctors fought to save him, but he died a few hours later. Neighbors who lived and stayed near that intersection spoke bluntly to reporters about what the area had become, describing open prostitution, constant drug dealing, and the ever-present possibility of violence. One man who stayed at a nearby motel said he returned from a casino to find the gas station ringed with patrol cars and yellow tape, another crime layered onto a part of East Tulsa police already regarded as a hotspot. Investigators would later say they believed the shooting to be likely gang- or drug-related, noting reports that the gunman wore a red bandana associated with gang activity and suggesting that the dynamics in the parking lot hinted at deeper tensions than a random encounter.
Even in those first hours, detectives felt they had a clear picture of who they were looking for. Surveillance, witness accounts, and the distinctive details of the vehicle pointed them toward Markham, whom officers publicly named as the suspect before the day was out. Police said he was last seen driving away in a red Tahoe and that, given the nature of the confrontation, it was reasonable to think he and Cedric knew each other. On local radio, his name went out alongside a street alias and a warning that he was armed, with officers urging the public to help track him down. A first-degree murder complaint was prepared as the manhunt widened beyond Tulsa, with detectives following the trail into neighboring counties while family and friends were left to grapple with the stark fact that a simple late-night errand had ended in a killing in front of a busy store.
The break came quickly. Within about a day of the shooting, authorities in Cherokee County reported that Markham had been found in Tahlequah. A U.S. Marshals Task Force moved in to arrest him, and officials at the Cherokee County Detention Center confirmed that the man wanted in connection with Cedric’s death was behind bars there. News outlets reported that he was being held on a one-million-dollar bond while Tulsa police made arrangements to bring him back to face the murder complaint tied to the QuikTrip parking lot. With the arrest, the frantic search ended, but public records and case summaries suggest little has been shared widely about what happened next in court, leaving the most visible legacy of the crime as a cluster of brief news stories, an entry on a gun violence memorial site, and the quiet markers at Crown Hill Cemetery where Cedric’s family laid him to rest.
