Black Nurse Disappeared in 1993 — 27 Years Later, What a Patient Said Left Police Frozen… | HO

For nearly three decades, the disappearance of 23-year-old nurse Claudine Oay haunted the small town of Mon, Georgia. She was last seen clocking out after a night shift at the county hospital in September 1993. Her car was found in the staff parking lot, purse and keys inside, doors locked. There were no signs of a struggle, no witnesses, and no suspects. Claudine simply vanished—leaving behind a family desperate for answers and a community that, over time, learned to look away.

But in 2020, the silence shattered. In a locked psychiatric unit at the same hospital, an elderly dementia patient began screaming a name that hadn’t echoed through those halls in years: “Don’t let him hurt Claudine again. She’s still down there!” The nurse on duty, Briana Torres, froze. The name wasn’t just a ghost from the past; it was a wound the hospital had buried for decades. What followed would unravel a story of whistleblowing, cover-ups, and systemic abuse—one that would finally force the truth into the light.

“She Was a Fighter”: The Last Days of Claudine Oay

Claudine Oay was young, ambitious, and newly licensed when she started at Mon Regional Hospital in late 1992. Her supervisors called her committed, her co-workers called her brave—some called her stubborn, others a troublemaker. But all agreed she was unafraid to speak up for vulnerable patients.

In the weeks leading up to her disappearance, Claudine had filed internal complaints about irregular sedation practices in the psychiatric wing. She noted that Black patients were being chemically restrained more often, sometimes without documentation. She was told to “stay in her lane,” but she persisted. Then, after a long night shift in September 1993, she was gone.

Police treated it as a missing person’s case. No evidence of foul play, no forced entry, no fingerprints but her own. Her father, Elijah Oay—a Gulf War veteran—called it a cover-up. “This was too perfect,” he said at the time. “My daughter was silenced.” But the case stalled. The hospital stonewalled, tips dried up, and life in Mon moved on.

A Patient’s Outburst Reopens Old Wounds

For 27 years, Claudine’s disappearance remained unsolved. That changed in 2020, when a 78-year-old patient with advanced dementia began screaming Claudine’s name during a late shift. “He dragged her,” the woman cried. “She was crying down the old hallway, the floor with the red lights. He kept her. He told me to forget.”

Nurse Briana Torres, new to the hospital, was shaken. The next morning, she Googled the name. When she found old news articles about the missing nurse, her hands shook. Knowing the dangers of asking the wrong questions, she reached out anonymously to a local activist group that investigated cold cases tied to race and law enforcement.

Within a week, a true crime blog in Atlanta ran the story. It might have faded into obscurity, but Claudine’s father saw it. Now 74, Elijah drove through the night back to Mon, determined to find answers.

The Security Guard Who Wasn’t Supposed to Exist

Elijah’s return to the hospital was met with stares and evasive answers. But a sympathetic staffer slipped him a name: Don Kelzer, a night security guard in 1993. Hospital administration denied Kelzer ever worked there. But Elijah still had his own complaint file from 1993, which included a shift log showing Kelzer on duty the night Claudine vanished.

Digging deeper, Elijah found that Kelzer had been a sheriff’s deputy until 1991—let go after a complaint for excessive force. He’d then worked private security for a shell company, Redback Security Services, which supplied guards to the hospital. A retired dispatcher recalled that Redback hired ex-cops with checkered pasts, men who’d lost their badges but not their power.

Then came a bombshell: a former hospital AV tech, Joseph Turner, contacted Elijah. He claimed to have seen surveillance footage from the night Claudine disappeared—footage that was erased days later. But Turner had made a backup. On the tape, Claudine is seen walking down a hallway, glancing over her shoulder. A tall man in plain clothes but with a badge follows. He grabs her, forces her into a room, and the footage ends.

Elijah brought the tape to the police. A young detective was shaken, but higher-ups questioned its authenticity, and the DA wavered. Frustrated, Elijah uploaded the tape online. It went viral, forcing the hospital to respond.

The Crawlspace and the Badge

With public pressure mounting, a judge granted a limited search warrant for the hospital’s sealed-off lower wing. Investigators found a closet that had been plastered over during renovations. Inside, a rusted vent led to a crawlspace, where they discovered a nurse’s uniform, a cracked ID badge, and, on a chain, a hospital security badge engraved: Don Kelzer.

The remains weren’t found—not yet—but the evidence was enough to prompt a criminal investigation. The hospital issued vague statements about “lessons learned.” Don Kelzer, it turned out, had died in 2018. No arrest would be made. But for Elijah, this was far from over.

The Hidden Folder: A Pattern of Abuse

The real break came when Briana Torres, the nurse who’d heard the patient’s outburst, found a locked drawer in the records office. Inside was a manila folder labeled “OCC Incident September 17, 1993”—Claudine’s missing report. It documented unauthorized sedations, racial disparities in restraints, and a draft letter to the hospital board.

The press exploded. Now, Claudine’s disappearance was linked to systemic abuse and a cover-up. The Georgia Attorney General launched a formal inquiry. Civil rights groups demanded investigations into other hospitals that had used Redback Security. A wrongful death lawsuit was filed on Claudine’s behalf. Under public pressure, the hospital agreed to a memorial plaque in her honor.

“If Something Happens to Me, Tell My Father to Look in the Floor.”

But Elijah wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to know why the hospital protected Kelzer, why records were destroyed, why so many staff had quietly resigned in 1993. He tracked down families of patients Claudine had flagged. One, Lorraine Benton, revealed her mother, Ruby, died suddenly after Claudine had intervened in her care. Ruby’s death, like others, was ruled “natural causes,” but Claudine’s notes suggested otherwise.

A construction worker then recalled pouring concrete over an area near the crawlspace in 1994, supposedly to fix an “uneven” floor. Investigators brought in cadaver dogs and ground-penetrating radar. When they broke the slab, they found human remains and a pair of wireframe glasses—just like the ones Elijah had given Claudine.

The Motive: Experimental Sedatives and a Dead Journalist

The missing piece was motive. Why kill a nurse instead of just firing her? The answer came from a retired pharmacist, Simon Eckers, who revealed that Redback Security was tied to a secret medical research group testing unapproved sedatives on psychiatric patients—mostly Black, many without family. Claudine had uncovered the trial, documented the deaths, and tried to blow the whistle.

She even mailed a copy of her report to a journalist, Carla Denning, who died in a house fire days later. The official story: faulty heater. But the timing was no coincidence.

Justice, Finally

With Claudine’s original report, the secret surveillance tape, and testimony from former staff, prosecutors indicted hospital executives and a pharmaceutical liaison for conspiracy and obstruction. Redback’s founder fled the country, but an international warrant was issued.

Georgia passed the Claudine Law, mandating transparency in psychiatric sedation and enhanced whistleblower protections. Across the country, hospitals launched internal audits. The new Claudine Oay Center for Patient Advocacy opened in Mon, dedicated to protecting patients and staff.

A Legacy That Refuses to Be Buried

Elijah Oay never stopped searching. He spent years tracking down staff, survivors, and families. Letters poured in from nurses and patients inspired by Claudine’s courage. Her story became a rallying cry for reform.

At the dedication of the new advocacy center, Elijah spoke softly: “She wasn’t just my daughter. She was a voice for the voiceless. They tried to erase her, but now her name is carved in every heartbeat this place saves.”

The mural in the hospital shows Claudine in profile, eyes fierce, a line beneath: “She chose the hard path so others could walk safely.”

Claudine Oay never got to tell her story. But by refusing to look away, she became the spark that brought justice to the shadows. Her voice, buried for decades, is now a beacon for those who refuse to be silent.