As a writer, it is sometimes easy to slot oneself into a specific genre, whether it’s historical romance, historical fiction, true crime, science fiction, criminal suspense, fantasy, romantasy, you catch the drift. But what if the genre in which one chooses to write straddles two, maybe three, genres? What category does one list when one is doing the splits—as I seem to be doing in my latest two novels—between historical mystery and criminal suspense (murder mystery) fiction?

My latest novel, Wednesday Night Whites, begins at the end of the World War II with the death of Heinrich Himmler. It isn’t a prologue in the strictest sense of the word. I know prologuing is going the way of the Thwaites Doomsday Glacier, so I have tried to make sure the body of the novel—set in present day—earns the right to start in 1945 and travel forward.

Himmler believes he has paved the way for his white supremacist beliefs to snake their way to North America, ensuring the future of the Worldwide Organization of White Supremacists.

So, perhaps you’re thinking: “Ahah. It’s historical fiction.” But it’s not. It’s roots are in historical fiction, but the branches have grown into the present. “Okay. It’s historical mystery.” No, it’s not that either. It’s a mystery of sorts, but the mystery has leaves in the present. “Criminal suspense? A whodunnit?”

I’d be interested to know what you think, so I’m attaching the first chapter of Wednesday Night Whites for your kind consideration and thoughts.

Lüneburg, Germany. May 23, 1945

He’d been captured. Kept overnight in a cold cell. After cleverly manipulating and sidestepping the Fuhrer all these years, how could he have allowed himself to be taken captive by the Allies? The Supreme Reich Leader shook his head in disbelief.

He’d admitted everything, even his true identity, although he had fake identification in his pocket and could have told a convincing lie about who he really wasn’t, one Herr Hizinger. And the British boys who’d captured him didn’t look all that bright. What the fuck? he thought. Why was I so honest with them?

But those were fleeting thoughts. He straightened his shoulders and held his head high, for he knew exactly why he’d been so candid. I am a great man. Far smarter than Adolph. A chucklehead. A stoner. He scowled, still angry with the Fuhrer. That crazy fucker took the credit for everything I did. He was a jackass compared to me. I’m the one who created the master plan to save humanity from the scum. He rolled his eyes, ripping away the fake eye patch. The jews, the gypsies, the religious freaks, anyone who wasn’t pure Aryan. “I got rid of them!” he screamed, shredding the toe of his worn leather boot as he kicked the hand-hewn stone wall of his cell. They’d put him in a cellar for fuck’s sake. A dank, dirty cellar. He could see them through a book-sized window in the heavy wooden door that served to block his unauthorized departure. Jaw clenched, he curled his hands into knotted fists. “I deserve to be celebrated, not kept prisoner. You idiots should realize that!” he yelled through the window, watching the young soldiers huddle together, whispering frantically. One man stuck his hand down the front of his pants and scratched vigorously. Heinrich Himmler barked out a sharp laugh. “You’ve. Got. Crabs,” he jeered, banging three times on the door to punctuate his words. He knew from experience, getting laid wasn’t worth the price of the itch.

He’d known for some time the jig was up, they’d lost the war. That’s why he’d asked the Count to transmit his offer of surrender to the Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces last month. What was his name? Right. Eisenhower.

Eyes narrowed, he watched the young British imbeciles running around like roosters, trying to figure out what to do with this man who claimed to be Heinrich Himmler. “But Adolph, the low life fucker, found out, stripped me of my positions, and ordered my arrest. And then the coward killed himself. But not until he tried to destroy me first,” he snarled, his eyes fixed on the officer with the crabs.

His lip curled and he tasted sour bile in the back of his throat. “Get me out of this hole, goddamn it,” he shouted and watched the soldiers jump again. He laughed then, exultant in his sense of supremacy.

“You’d better jump when I laugh, or speak, or even sneeze, you morons,” he sneered. “You may think of me as an enemy, but I accomplished what no other human being ever has. I am the greatest man on the planet.” He watched as the tallest soldier put his hand on the front grip of his weapon—a short magazine Lee-Enfield rifle. It was for long-range not an up-close assassination. Heinrich wasn’t concerned. His ego knew no bounds. “You can’t hurt me, you stupid motherfuckers. I’m a god among mortals.”

Three soldiers stood muttering to the guy with the crabs. The hand he’d used to scratch his balls now clutched a rifle. Heinrich spat on the floor. He didn’t have a fucking clue what they were saying, except the one in charge was getting more agitated by the moment and kept pointing his gun in Heinrich’s direction, saying, “The jerry, the jerry.” He raised his eyebrows looking down his nose at them. I suppose that’s what they think my name really is, he thought. They’re really fucking stupid.

Heinrich jumped unexpectedly, the sound of a nearby detonation shaking the old cellar. The men were silent and then all started to jabber at the same time, three rushing towards the exit.  Heinrich pushed himself face-first against the door, craning his neck to watch them go.

Before they reached the entry, it swung open washing the space with momentary sunlight. The bulky silhouette of a large soldier filled the doorway. The other men stopped dead in their tracks and saluted the newcomer. Their voices were hushed, filled with seeming reverence. The hulk was clearly in charge and held the respect of the men. Which meant he was dangerous, Heinrich realized, sensing the change in mood, one that caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand at attention. He listened as the newcomer barked orders, and saw six of the soldiers snap to attention, hands on their weapons as they marched to his door. The key grated in the lock and his door juddered open. Four of the men grabbed him and he was propelled down a dark hallway and into a room, slightly larger than his cell, with a single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. He would have walked by himself, but they hadn’t given him the option.

A narrow, rusted metal cot, draped in a sheet stained with dried blood, tilted haphazardly against the far wall. 

A short thick man stood beside the cot wearing a soiled white lab coat. Two stethoscopes hung around his neck. A thatch of curly jet-black hair stuck to the man’s sweat-soaked skull, and his bulbous nose stuck out like a duck’s bill. A honker. Clearly a doctor, Heinrich surmised, his eyes narrowed. And then he froze, his body rigid with loathing. Revulsion. Not just a doctor.

A jew.

Heinrich tried to wrench himself from their grasp. It was a despicable thought, to have the jew touch him. Intolerable.

The doctor pointed at Heinrich’s shirt and one of the soldiers grabbed it, ripped it off. Another doctor, a woman with short brown hair, stood at the far end of the room holding a syringe. Tiny droplets of clear liquid dripped from the canula.

Heinrich scowled. He’d heard of experiments with various chemical compounds that caused a person to blather everything he knew and suddenly realized this was about to happen to him. They were going to inject him with a fucking so-called truth serum.

I’m nobody’s patsy, nobody’s prisoner, he thought. They’ll get nothing from me. I’m a goddamn fucking hero. And that fucking jew isn’t going to get his hands on me! He ripped his arm from their grasp and reached into his pants pocket, feeling frantically for the tiny object roughly sewn into the seam. He ripped it free with his thumbnail, then raised his thumb to his lips scraping the nail against his top two front teeth. They’d searched him already but hadn’t found the tiny glass vial, so cleverly hidden. He rolled his eyes. Stupid fucking idiots. He moved it to the back of his mouth where he bit down as hard as he could. It was covered in brown rubber to protect it from accidental breakage, so he had to grind his teeth really hard to release the concentrated solution of potassium cyanide.

It wouldn’t break, goddamn it. He bit harder. He knew it was a fast-acting poison. His heart would stop and he’d be dead within fifteen minutes. 

The doctor grabbed Heinrich’s arms, twisting them behind him, shouting to the woman doctor with the syringe. Too late. Heinrich tried to wrench his arms free. You’ve missed your chance to meet the real hero of this war, he thought. Imbeciles.

It felt like everything was happening in slow motion, and he watched as the woman doctor dropped the syringe, sprinting across the room. She grabbed a handgun from one of the soldiers and holding it by the barrel slammed the butt against Heinrich’s closed mouth, splintering his teeth. Tears sprung to his eyes and he felt the warmth of his own blood spill from his lips.

Still, Heinrich kept his mouth clamped shut, feeling the splinters that were once his teeth further decimate his gums. He bit down again, felt the rubber let go, the thin glass finally shatter, and felt himself go weak. Cyanide is a quick poison, he thought. But that wasn’t his last thought. Instead, he thought of Elke Marie, the little pure white, blonde beauty he’d last lain with a week ago. One of his Lebensborn breeders. His masterpiece. His masterplan. He’d been seeding her since the war began and his first set of twins were born on June 7, 1940. Little Aryan beauties whom he’d recently entrusted to the care of his friend, Josef Mengele, who’d sworn to get them safely out of Germany when they knew the cause was lost.

And then three months ago she birthed for him a son. Young Heinrich.

He’d left Mengele, and his beautiful Elke Marie, with instructions to get the children out of Germany while they still could. There was a place he had in mind where he knew they’d be safe. A small province in Canada, called Nova Scotia. And not just anywhere in Nova Scotia. Lunenburg county. Because Lunenburg county was awash in people of German descent. And there they’d fit in.

As Heinrich’s life flowed from him, he knew he’d left the world with the ultimate blueprint for the master race.