Buried at Mount Olivet Catholic Cemetery on the Far South Side in a section for unidentified people are the remains of an elderly person with no memory who went by the self-proclaimed name Seven and died at a nursing home in 2015.
No one knew Seven’s real identity. The remains were marked at burial only by a cement cylinder deep in the ground labeled with a number: 04985.
But now, eight years later, investigators specializing in missing people and cold cases have discovered Seven’s identity in one of the most unusual investigations the Cook County sheriff’s office has pursued and one that could change state law.
Using post-mortem fingerprints, they’ve identified Seven as 75-year-old Reba C. Bailey, an Illinois veteran who’d been missing since the 1970s.
The breakthrough has brought a sense of closure to generations of relatives and friends.
But whether they knew the name or the numeral, the investigation also has unearthed more mysteries about how Bailey, a Women’s Army Corps veteran raised in a large family, became homeless with no memories, wanting to be identified as a man called Seven.
Though much is still unknown, public records, interviews, newspapers and police work have offered some insight about this person with two lives.
Investigators say the next step is to honor them with a new gravestone and military honors.
“That’s a horrible circumstance that someone could die and no one knows who they are,” says Cmdr. Jason Moran, who oversees the sheriff’s missing persons unit. “That’s why we pursue these cases so strongly, out of dignity. A person deserves a name.”
Sheriff Tom Dart’s office took on the case of Seven Doe — the name in some official records — last year. The office has gained attention for cold-case work, including identifying victims of serial killer John Wayne Gacy.
But Seven’s case, involving a person who was unidentified both in life and death, is rare.
“We never had anything like that before,” Dart said. “This one is different. And it just kept getting more different.”
Seven died from heart disease, with dementia and diabetes as contributing factors, according to the Cook County medical examiner’s autopsy findings in 2015.
Fingerprints taken at the time were run against police databases, but there was no match.
Eight years later, Cook County investigators took on the case. Since foul play was ruled out, they started with the postmortem fingerprints, running them across multiple databases, including military records.
This time, a match came up for Bailey, who enlisted in the Army in 1961.
While all of Bailey’s five siblings are dead, she has more than half a dozen nieces and nephews. Most never met her, but they had heard of her.
Rick Bailey, the son of Bailey’s late brother Richard, said he was “totally in shock” when he got a call from investigators about his long-lost aunt.
“My dad had searched for years to try and find his sister,” said Bailey, who is 65 and thinks his aunt’s siblings would have celebrated the news. “They would all be thrilled if they were here.”
Investigators were able to piece together parts of Bailey’s life. She was born in 1940, the daughter of a carpenter who often moved for work. At 10, she lost her mother in a car wreck in which she, her father and her brother suffered injuries.
About a decade later, she joined the military, serving in Alabama, Texas and California. Investigators learned that she was briefly married to a fellow veteran, John H. Bilberry, who died in 1989.
Military records show Bailey was honorably discharged in 1962 “due to marriage.”
Beyond that, what happened between returning from the military and showing up at a Chicago worker house with no memory remains a mystery.
Relatives heard stories about a fight between Bailey and her father, but there are different versions regarding what it was about. Some say it was about the decision to join the military. Others heard it was about sexual orientation.
They also don’t know what prompted the memory loss, the change in gender identity or the name Seven.
Many people who might have had insight have died or knew Bailey as Seven, a person with no past memories.
Denise Plunkett found Seven on a cold day in the late 1970s on the porch of St. Francis Catholic Worker House, a hospitality house on the North Side for people who are homeless and others who want to live in a community.
Plunkett said the person she found spoke of themselves in the third person, called themselves a man and didn’t answer personal questions.
Asked their name, they would often say “Mr. Seven.”
Before long, Seven became the house cook. When word of Seven’s hearty casseroles and rice and bean dishes spread, crowds started lining up for meals.
“Nobody could have done more to help the homeless,” Plunkett said of Seven.
Seven spent decades at the house before leaving in 2003 after a health scare. Seven passed out in the hallway, which doctors later said was due to diabetic shock, and was then moved to a nursing home for medical care.
Since Seven didn’t have a legal name or known family, the Chicago Police Department opened what proved to be an unsuccessful investigation.
Seven became a ward of the state and died in 2015.
Relatives who’ve learned more about Bailey’s later years said that’s brought them comfort.
“We know she was cared for,” said Amanda Ingram, who would have been Bailey’s great-niece. “That is the best that my grandfather could have ever asked for.”
Investigators have updated the entry for Seven Doe in a federal database of missing people, adding Reba Bailey’s name and photo. Their next step is a new gravestone and military honors in the spring.
As things turned out, the case could end up changing Illinois law. Dart wants to amend the state’s Missing Persons Identification Act to require that postmortem fingerprints be checked against all available state and federal databases to provide a fuller search at the time of death that might help identify people sooner.
In Bailey’s case, family members could have had the chance to plan funeral services.
Relatives considered moving Bailey’s remains closer to family. But moving the body would be expensive and complicated.
“We decided, as a family, not to disturb her,” Rick Bailey said. “At least, we know where she is now.”
