La Policia?

I was on the phone when Antonio, our landlord, came to our apartment to fix a light. I let him in and, after a brief salutation, went to my room to talk. I heard Antonio speaking in the kitchen; I assumed he was calling his son Francisco, who sometimes comes by to help Antonio fix things. A few minutes later I wandered into my living room to find two men in police outfits—black boots pulled up over black pants, black jackets with reflective vests, and “Policia” visors.
“La policia?” I exclaimed. There was a split-second when I tried to think of anything I might have possibly done wrong. After that moment of panic, the policemen turned to me, smiling.
“I’m his son,” one of them said to me, gesturing to Antonio.
That was comforting, but didn’t actually explain why they were in my apartment in full riot-gear. They provided no further explanation, but left soon thereafter.
“Antonio!” I said, after they were gone, “That was quite a surprise!”
“Oh yes,” he replied, “I have two sons.”