What

The pounding on the door continued, louder, louder. It reminded Raymond of a castle siege: the great battering ram against the gate. Still, Raymond was calm and in control. He had knew this night would come, maybe, for a while now. He had put on his best clothes; a shirt, vest and tie, with the vest and tie being blue silk. He combed his hair, put on cologne. He was dressed up, prepared for a memorable night.
The door cracked, it's hinges groaning. The force pounding on it was making progress. Raymond took his seat at the head of his table, facing the living room and the door under siege. He picked up his knife and fork and speared a piece of meat on the nearby platter, still smoking from the oven, and put it on his plate. He proceeded to cut a piece and tasted it. Chewy, but delicious otherwise.
Finally, the door flew open with a bang. Wooden splinters were flying as the booted foot of a SWAT officer kicked it inwards. The other officers flooded into the room, guns raised, flashlights on. They swarmed around the table as their leading officer, approached.
"Raymond Hevela," he said, voice muffled by a mask which did not hide his authoritative tone. "You are under arrest. Resist and you will be killed."
The officer locked eyes with Raymond and visibly flinched. The mans lips were red, as if they were raw and blistered, almost. He was chewing on something. His shirt had splotches on it.
"I'll go, officer," said Raymond, chewing the meat. "Care for a bite?"
He gestured to the meat on the platter between them. It was cooked to be well done, like any good steak. But the officer felt sick. The meat was unmistakably the flank of a person.