In some sense, the entire webwork of space-time would dissolve into myriad unconnected points in the spaceless and timeless Void with no communication between them.

[…] at my farm I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail, Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls, And all things answerable to this portion.

Commorancy consists in usually lying there.

But in fact, the murders have been committed by an army of sickos, a phalanx of wild-eyed droolers led by a monster goon with a concrete jaw and a Neanderthal brow.